First let me say that I am possibly the flakiest blogger in the world. Soooo long between posts.... are you ready for a little rambling?
(In my head I just did a little "Let's get ready to Raaammble!!!" like that wrestling or boxing or whatever announcer. I am as lame as I am flaky.)
Okay- so I started this class last week to become a Pharmacy Technician. I have pretty much zero marketable skills when it comes to the job world, unless you count upselling from regular fries to cheese fries or convincing someone that Ketel One vodka is really better than the well shit (it is, by the way). And yes, I know that I have a job (thank you, Dad) but there are a few things up in the air with that. This just seemed like a good idea to do and I need job(s) to pay the bills until I can write the Great American Novel. At this stage of my life I am not allowed to say to people "I am a Writer and and Artist. I cannot be bothered with mundane things like dinner."
Unless, of course, I want to get all artsy-fartsy with some spaghetti and meatballs. Maybe throw a noodle scene in my story. Or make a sculpture. "On Top of Spaghetti: A commentary on the materialistic nature of Man".
Anyway, I started this class. And it is HARD. I should not be surprised, and I am not really. I mean its pharmacology (like my fancy new vocabulary?) shit and that stuff is not easy. Its only a 50 hour class and the sheer volume of information is slightly overwhelming. But when it is all over I get to add some letters to the end of my name. Sharon (legal last name here), CPhT. Impressive, right? The super funny thing is that I did this job when I was 16- waaay before there was this pesky licensing requirement. I am pretty sure that me at 16 doing this job was pure comedy gold.
I worked for this little neighborhood pharmacist, Mr. D., who still called his helpers his "girls" and kept Coke syrup in his stockroom. Once I had a little tummy ache and he gave me some. Yum. I worked after school and on Saturday mornings counting out pills to fill prescription requirements and stocking shelves with things like sunscreen and support stockings. But the most harrowing part of the job was doing deliveries....
Mr. D had a ninety-something-year-old father who was in a nursing home. Mr. D. filled all of his prescriptions every month and then had one of his "girls" drive them to the nursing home. In his delivery car. This huge whale-y boat of a vehicle with no power steering or fancy ABS system. It was white with a maroon velour interior and a shiny tan steering wheel. It was both terrifying and embarrassing to drive, especially for the newly-minted driver that I was. It was long, long, long and I hit curbs every time I tried to make a turn. I quickly learned the purpose of pumping brakes. The front seat didn't move forward and I am kind of a shorty- so being "on the edge of my seat" was a literal thing for me in that car. Did I mention that I worked there over the winter? Scary, I know. I prayed every time I went into work that there were no deliveries that day. I begged to be allowed to drive my own car, to no avail.
I still cringe when I think of that delivery system. Cringe with me, will you?
I learned a lot at that job. I learned how to pay attention to details, how to be respectful and courteous in the face of cranky customers, and how to properly ask for time off from your job (it is NOT "Hey, I won't be here tomorrow." I pass that little life lesson on to all of you. You are welcome.).
But most importantly, I think, I learned how to keep a car from fishtailing on an icy road.