Friday, July 1, 2016

Stop Feeding Me Cough Medicine!!

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I think nerdy kids carry grudges. 

They don't just grow up to be rocket scientists and heads of international labs and finding cures for cancer.  It is not enough that they earn a truckload of money more than the loser football star and the cheerleader who both ended up living in a trailer park and practicing variables of alcohol and drug insertion (some needle play possibly included).   Nope, these dudes and dudettes are exacting revenge.

Once there was a time when all medicine was a powder that had to be mixed in water and swallowed.  Or, it came in a brown bottle and had to be forced down the patients unwilling throat.  I know, the people out there trolling the internet to pick nits out of every sentence are already busy typing away, "how do I know the throats were unwilling?"  I will tell you.  Because the human attached to said throat has arms and legs that are flailing around, smacking outwardly at the other person trying to pour the medicine down it and then the teeth of that same human are clenched and possibly trying to bite people and then the mouth and tongue are spitting the medicine out.  THAT is an unwilling throat.  Duh.

But now, we have capsules and coated pills that slide easily down the throat without any taste transference and we have happy throats that are swallowing and co-operating with the healing process.  These methods have been with us for quite some time, brought on by a huge movement when the kids that were spoon-fed cod liver oil grew up and made money and gained power and position and lobbied government and killed a few people to make sure that they put that crap in a freaking capsule and stop trying to kill children in order to make them healthy.

Of course, it did have a residual impact on Hollywood.  Many a great career was created by playing the left for dead, tough cowboy, being cared for by the fair maiden who use to be the town saloon girl, who gives him the medicine the doctor left.  They get to emote "yucky" in intense, award-winning ways because the taste is worse than being shot with 65 Indian arrows, 82 bullets, having 5 snake bites and left in the desert sun for 43 days.

Those old westerns were realism at their finest.  No ambiguity.  Just black and white.  The good guys wore white and the bad guys wore black.  The yucky medicine came in a brown ugly bottle.  People were honest that it was going to taste horrible.  And it did.

But now, no, we don't want truth in anything.  We like lies and misrepresentation and to shout catchy phrases like "buyer beware."  We put yucky things in pretty packages with dancing dinosaurs and fluffy kitties on them.  We put the crap next to the medicine that tastes like candy because anyone with a brain knows that, given the choice between taking a cute bunny shaped, pretty coloured candy or some brown stinky, awful tasting spoonful of something … a kid anyone is going to choose the bunny.

But still, there is a room where the aforementioned geeky bastards nurse their butt-hurt over their junior high experience and mix chemicals with one goal in mind.  They take that which controls coughs and sniffles and add the taste of rotten eggs, skunk, road kill and whatever else makes one's throat automatically gag as soon as it is reached.

And then some idiot who has a momentary stroke of conscience, adds some of that cherry flavour, which alone makes most of us want to puke.

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I have been blessed with a hubby that heads straight for the yuckiest bottled medicine whenever I ask him to pick something up at the pharmacy because I am getting a cold.  I curse my failing memory.  I curse ageing.  He comes back with his bag full of groceries and proudly calls me in for the unveiling - the medicine he picked up . . . In a brown bottle with cute little animals dancing on the label.

I hate the way he suddenly becomes a human clock that jumps into action the minute we hit 4 hours and the way he races for the medicine.  He skips down the hall towards my office door where he manages to pick the lock and climbs over the barricade I constructed, consisting of a bed, bookcases, my desk, unpainted bottles, half- finished afghans and other stitching efforts, and lots of sharpened pencil crayons. 

He picks the wool out of his teeth with my brilliant blue pencil and smiles as he announces it is time for another dose.  While I hurl out words like "Get the hell away from me," he professes his profound love for me and deep concern for my health and pours me a shot glass filled to the absolute fullest level it can be without breaking the tension and flowing over the side.  He doesn't spill a drop as he moves it to my mouth and tells me to open up.  I look at him and he at me.  He smiles and pushes the last piece of rocky road towards me … a reward for taking my medicine,  something to wash down the taste.

I have tried reporting him for domestic abuse.

They hung up on me.

I am a prisoner of love.


I may die here.

PS.  Please tell me why someone has felt the need to add the instructions to the side of the box stating"  Do not exceed more than the recommended doses in a 24 hour period.  Seriously???  WHO, in their right freaking mind would even try to take more than what is absolutely forced down their unwilling throat?

Bite me internet trollers.


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