Wednesday 31 August 2011
Tuesday 30 August 2011
"I'm Parked Illegally"
Parking space is a rare beast in certain parts of Montreal. Sometimes, you'll get lucky and nab a space in the four seconds before someone else comes along, and other times you need to use more creative measures.
"I parked in the alley. Is that okay?" Probably not okay, but as long as the man giving out parking tickets isn't around, no one really cares. However, the parking ticket men know what areas to patrol for illegal parking, and are never too far from the pharmacy, where they have managed to make a few pretty pennies by ticketing multiple cars.
This forces people to be fast when they run in to the pharmacy and are parked illegally outside. The parking ticket man might not be fast enough to stop them if they manage to run in, grab what they need and run out of the store before you have the chance to blink.
It's pretty easy to tell who is illegally parked. They usually run in, don't stop to talk to anyone, and have a pained expression on their face that implies either they are about to get a parking ticket, or they desperately need to take a dump.
The client then pays for their item, without making eye contact and then proceed to drum their fingers impatiently on the counter while the debit machine processes their card. Of course, when a person is in a rush, the machine takes forever to process the transaction, and the end result is divots left in the counter from the nails of an impatient client.
The client then runs back outside, either to the safety of their parked car, or to scream at the man who is writing up a ticket. If a television show ever pops up about parking ticket men, I am certain that some of the fights I have witnessed in front of the pharmacy would be the show's highlights. It has everything that a great show needs: drama, anger, extravagant hand gestures (and some not-so-extravagant ones), and lots of swearing to be censored before the show hits the air.
"I parked in the alley. Is that okay?" Probably not okay, but as long as the man giving out parking tickets isn't around, no one really cares. However, the parking ticket men know what areas to patrol for illegal parking, and are never too far from the pharmacy, where they have managed to make a few pretty pennies by ticketing multiple cars.
This forces people to be fast when they run in to the pharmacy and are parked illegally outside. The parking ticket man might not be fast enough to stop them if they manage to run in, grab what they need and run out of the store before you have the chance to blink.
It's pretty easy to tell who is illegally parked. They usually run in, don't stop to talk to anyone, and have a pained expression on their face that implies either they are about to get a parking ticket, or they desperately need to take a dump.
The client then pays for their item, without making eye contact and then proceed to drum their fingers impatiently on the counter while the debit machine processes their card. Of course, when a person is in a rush, the machine takes forever to process the transaction, and the end result is divots left in the counter from the nails of an impatient client.
The client then runs back outside, either to the safety of their parked car, or to scream at the man who is writing up a ticket. If a television show ever pops up about parking ticket men, I am certain that some of the fights I have witnessed in front of the pharmacy would be the show's highlights. It has everything that a great show needs: drama, anger, extravagant hand gestures (and some not-so-extravagant ones), and lots of swearing to be censored before the show hits the air.
Monday 29 August 2011
Sunday 28 August 2011
"I Don't Need A Vacuum Cleaner!"
It's not only clients, or potential clients, that wander in to a pharmacy. On a regular basis, we see maintenance men, building security, and computer technicians. Unfortunately, sometimes we get the lemon of the bunch.
One day, a computer technician was called in to take a look at our computer tower. This tower had been generating enough heat to melt the polar ice caps, and had rendered the pharmacy's air conditioner completely useless. The technician said that he would clean out the tower, which should take care of the problem.
This computer is old. The tower is bigger than modern computer towers, and it had been a very long time since it was last cleaned. There is a lot of dust that accumulates in a computer tower, and when he removed the cover for the tower, it looked as though dust bunnies had been furiously copulating and reproducing in the tower.
The technician takes out his one cleaning device: one of those spray cans with the tiny nozzle at the end. This device is great for cleaning out the tiny spaces in keyboards, as it propels the dust out of the tiny cracks, instead of a vacuum cleaner, which would be unable to get the dust out of small spaces.
However, this device forces dust outwards, but the dust is then free to fly out in any direction it pleases. This is fine for small appliances that are not producing dust bunnies at an alarming rate, but when you can only see dust, and are completely unable to distinguish any of the mechanical parts of the computer beneath, it's a whole different story.
The technician sprays right into the heart of the computer tower, creating a cloud of dust that could rival a sandstorm. My colleague proffers the pharmacy's handheld vacuum cleaner, which would at least take care of the large chunks of dust, then the spray can could be used to clean out the smaller spaces.
Of course, the computer technician ignores it.
The technician continues spraying directly in to the tower, producing cloud after cloud of dust. The volume of dust is beginning to resemble a mushroom cloud, and we're all choking and sneezing. The vacuum is nearby, and we've even told him that it might be a better idea to vacuum at least a bit before spraying, but he continues to ignore us. After all, what would we know about cleaning dust?
The lab is nothing but a dense, grey cloud. It's in our eyes, our mouths, and all over our clothes. Chunks of dust are flying out now, landing on every surface it finds.
The vacuum cleaner is propped up next to the technician, who ignores it like a child who has gained possession of a lollipop, and is being offered broccoli to replace it.
Our polite smile are all that we have to mask our annoyance and anger, and even that is fading as the urge to shove the spray can down the technician's throat grows with every spray in to the computer tower.
Finally, the technician steps back from the computer tower, looking proudly at the tower as though it is his finest accomplishment. He, too, is sneezing and choking on the tornado of dust that has yet to fully settle. He is grey from the dust, like the Pillsbury doughboy after rolling in piles of soot. The floor matches him perfectly, and the pattern in the carpet has been completely hidden by the chunks of dust that have made their home in its fibers. We're trying our best not to throttle him, as he packs up his equipment, satisfied that it is a job well done.
"There was a lot of dust in there," he says, as though we hadn't noticed the clouds of dense grey dust that has yet to settle somewhere on the floor. I'm still choking and sneezing, while he saunters out of the pharmacy, hopefully never to return.
One day, a computer technician was called in to take a look at our computer tower. This tower had been generating enough heat to melt the polar ice caps, and had rendered the pharmacy's air conditioner completely useless. The technician said that he would clean out the tower, which should take care of the problem.
This computer is old. The tower is bigger than modern computer towers, and it had been a very long time since it was last cleaned. There is a lot of dust that accumulates in a computer tower, and when he removed the cover for the tower, it looked as though dust bunnies had been furiously copulating and reproducing in the tower.
The technician takes out his one cleaning device: one of those spray cans with the tiny nozzle at the end. This device is great for cleaning out the tiny spaces in keyboards, as it propels the dust out of the tiny cracks, instead of a vacuum cleaner, which would be unable to get the dust out of small spaces.
However, this device forces dust outwards, but the dust is then free to fly out in any direction it pleases. This is fine for small appliances that are not producing dust bunnies at an alarming rate, but when you can only see dust, and are completely unable to distinguish any of the mechanical parts of the computer beneath, it's a whole different story.
The technician sprays right into the heart of the computer tower, creating a cloud of dust that could rival a sandstorm. My colleague proffers the pharmacy's handheld vacuum cleaner, which would at least take care of the large chunks of dust, then the spray can could be used to clean out the smaller spaces.
Of course, the computer technician ignores it.
The technician continues spraying directly in to the tower, producing cloud after cloud of dust. The volume of dust is beginning to resemble a mushroom cloud, and we're all choking and sneezing. The vacuum is nearby, and we've even told him that it might be a better idea to vacuum at least a bit before spraying, but he continues to ignore us. After all, what would we know about cleaning dust?
The lab is nothing but a dense, grey cloud. It's in our eyes, our mouths, and all over our clothes. Chunks of dust are flying out now, landing on every surface it finds.
The vacuum cleaner is propped up next to the technician, who ignores it like a child who has gained possession of a lollipop, and is being offered broccoli to replace it.
Our polite smile are all that we have to mask our annoyance and anger, and even that is fading as the urge to shove the spray can down the technician's throat grows with every spray in to the computer tower.
Finally, the technician steps back from the computer tower, looking proudly at the tower as though it is his finest accomplishment. He, too, is sneezing and choking on the tornado of dust that has yet to fully settle. He is grey from the dust, like the Pillsbury doughboy after rolling in piles of soot. The floor matches him perfectly, and the pattern in the carpet has been completely hidden by the chunks of dust that have made their home in its fibers. We're trying our best not to throttle him, as he packs up his equipment, satisfied that it is a job well done.
"There was a lot of dust in there," he says, as though we hadn't noticed the clouds of dense grey dust that has yet to settle somewhere on the floor. I'm still choking and sneezing, while he saunters out of the pharmacy, hopefully never to return.
Saturday 27 August 2011
Friday 26 August 2011
Thursday 25 August 2011
"What Do You Have For Head Lice?"
In the course of working in a pharmacy, I've encountered some strange people and their stranger questions. But nothing quite compares to one man I had the misfortune of encountering last summer.
It was the end of the summer, with lots of tourists doing their frenzied travelling before returning to their normal lives. A man wandered in to the pharmacy, and begins going up and down all of the aisles, scratching his head and looking extremely perplexed.
"Can I help you?" I asked, after noting that this man was staring at the vitamin wall in the same way one would likely regard an alien life form. Except that this man was scratching his head more than I assume most people would.
"Yes. I need something for head lice." Scratch, scratch. Now it makes sense.
Since the head lice shampoos are kept behind the lab counter, the man approached the counter, which happens to be dark wood.
"Which one of these is better?" Scratch, scratch, scratch.
I explain the difference between the products, and he reads the back of all of the boxes thoroughly, scratching his head the whole time. I've been standing as far away as possible, hoping that no little lice would jump in my direction. I was surprised that his scalp hadn't started bleeding yet, as he hadn't let up with his constant scratching.
Then I notice something unusual: a small, but distinct flurry of dust. I'm willing to give the man the benefit of the doubt and blame the drop ceiling for crumbling, but the dust is distinctly coming from the man, and landing in small, white flakes on the dark wood counter.
I'm trying very hard to not look disgusted, but it's taking all of my resolve to not tie his hands behind his back and push him out the door. Hell, he can have the lice shampoo for free! I'd have even thrown in a free bottle of dandruff shampoo, if it got him out the door and never to return!
"Yeah, I got these nasty buggers from the hotel I'm staying at," he says, as he continues to scratch his head. The small flury on the counter is becoming a storm.
"Oh, really? Which hotel?" I ask, so I can memorize the name of a hotel to never, ever stay at. He names one of the big hotels in the area, and I make a mental note to tell everyone I know to stay far, far away.
"Yeah, I checked in at noontime. What a dump." Scratch, scratch, scratch.
Noontime? Unless he spent the last couple of hours sleeping or rolling around on the floor, he likely didn't catch lice there. I try to politely smile and laugh, but it comes out as that awkward laugh that really means, "God, are you stupid."
He selects a lice shampoo and begins walking towards the cash, still scratching his head. Then he decides that he has a few more things to pick up, and then admires the toothpaste selection as his dandruff flies in every direction. He then stops at the front and chats with the cashier, likely about the hotel that gave him head lice. I'm waiting for him to leave so I can disinfect the counter and everything I saw him touch, but he dawdles, looking at sunscreens and chocolate bars. I almost wish I could pull the fire alarm, just to get him out of the store. His flurry of dandruff is flying everywhere, and he only let up with the head scratching long enough to count his cash.
He finally leaves, and I pull out bottles of disinfectant. The cashier comes to the back, and asks me why I'm cleaning the counter so thoroughly.
"Didn't he tell you all about his head lice?" I ask.
"No, he told me that he's going right from here to a restaurant. I hope he stops scratching his head, or he's going to get something extra in his food!"
It was the end of the summer, with lots of tourists doing their frenzied travelling before returning to their normal lives. A man wandered in to the pharmacy, and begins going up and down all of the aisles, scratching his head and looking extremely perplexed.
"Can I help you?" I asked, after noting that this man was staring at the vitamin wall in the same way one would likely regard an alien life form. Except that this man was scratching his head more than I assume most people would.
"Yes. I need something for head lice." Scratch, scratch. Now it makes sense.
Since the head lice shampoos are kept behind the lab counter, the man approached the counter, which happens to be dark wood.
"Which one of these is better?" Scratch, scratch, scratch.
I explain the difference between the products, and he reads the back of all of the boxes thoroughly, scratching his head the whole time. I've been standing as far away as possible, hoping that no little lice would jump in my direction. I was surprised that his scalp hadn't started bleeding yet, as he hadn't let up with his constant scratching.
Then I notice something unusual: a small, but distinct flurry of dust. I'm willing to give the man the benefit of the doubt and blame the drop ceiling for crumbling, but the dust is distinctly coming from the man, and landing in small, white flakes on the dark wood counter.
I'm trying very hard to not look disgusted, but it's taking all of my resolve to not tie his hands behind his back and push him out the door. Hell, he can have the lice shampoo for free! I'd have even thrown in a free bottle of dandruff shampoo, if it got him out the door and never to return!
"Yeah, I got these nasty buggers from the hotel I'm staying at," he says, as he continues to scratch his head. The small flury on the counter is becoming a storm.
"Oh, really? Which hotel?" I ask, so I can memorize the name of a hotel to never, ever stay at. He names one of the big hotels in the area, and I make a mental note to tell everyone I know to stay far, far away.
"Yeah, I checked in at noontime. What a dump." Scratch, scratch, scratch.
Noontime? Unless he spent the last couple of hours sleeping or rolling around on the floor, he likely didn't catch lice there. I try to politely smile and laugh, but it comes out as that awkward laugh that really means, "God, are you stupid."
He selects a lice shampoo and begins walking towards the cash, still scratching his head. Then he decides that he has a few more things to pick up, and then admires the toothpaste selection as his dandruff flies in every direction. He then stops at the front and chats with the cashier, likely about the hotel that gave him head lice. I'm waiting for him to leave so I can disinfect the counter and everything I saw him touch, but he dawdles, looking at sunscreens and chocolate bars. I almost wish I could pull the fire alarm, just to get him out of the store. His flurry of dandruff is flying everywhere, and he only let up with the head scratching long enough to count his cash.
He finally leaves, and I pull out bottles of disinfectant. The cashier comes to the back, and asks me why I'm cleaning the counter so thoroughly.
"Didn't he tell you all about his head lice?" I ask.
"No, he told me that he's going right from here to a restaurant. I hope he stops scratching his head, or he's going to get something extra in his food!"
Wednesday 24 August 2011
Tuesday 23 August 2011
Monday 22 August 2011
All The World's A Stage- But You Look Like An Idiot When You Treat It Like One
I'm in the pharmacy lab, counting pills when I hear a terrible screech assaulting my ears. It sounds like an angry cat yelping as you throw it at a chalkboard and hear its claws scrape as it slowly slides down the board. I wonder where the fire alarm in the building went off when I see you. Walking down the aisle, whistling like its your last day left to wander up and down pharmacy aisles before being shipped back to Purgatory.
There's a song playing on the radio, but you don't bother to whistle along to it. In fact, the song you're whistling doesn't resemble any song I've ever heard in my life. It sounds more like the most accurate imitation of a train colliding with a Mack truck. You don't notice though, as you whistle and admire the selection of multivitamins.
The tune shifts slightly when you hit the cold medication section. It then sounds more like the long whine of a boiling kettle, tuneless and painful, but you're completely oblivious to the fact that you've gotten dirty looks from every employee and client in the store.
"Can I help you with anything?" I politely ask, hoping that any conversation will diffuse the wail of your own mouth wanting to rebel from your brain.
"No, thanks." And like that, you continue to slowly saunter. And whistle. Always with that annoying whistling noise.
You whistle as you admire every drink in the fridge, every box of toothpaste, every bottle of shampoo. You whistle as you stop to tie your shoe. I am almost certain that I see you hop a little, dancing to the tuneless song that plays in your head as that wail continues. On and on.
You whistle as you select your merchandise, then throughout the entire transaction at the cash. Whistle like an ambulance siren, in tune with the buttons that you press to enter your PIN for your debit card. You then nod, grab your bag, and whistle your way out of the store.
Then, there is nothing but calmness. The trainwreck is over. Serenity has descended on the pharmacy, and the nameless pop song bubbles up again on the radio. It's the calm after the storm, the eerie peace after a tornado has whipped through a village.
Then you return to buy some gum, and repeat the process. All. Over. Again.
There's a song playing on the radio, but you don't bother to whistle along to it. In fact, the song you're whistling doesn't resemble any song I've ever heard in my life. It sounds more like the most accurate imitation of a train colliding with a Mack truck. You don't notice though, as you whistle and admire the selection of multivitamins.
The tune shifts slightly when you hit the cold medication section. It then sounds more like the long whine of a boiling kettle, tuneless and painful, but you're completely oblivious to the fact that you've gotten dirty looks from every employee and client in the store.
"Can I help you with anything?" I politely ask, hoping that any conversation will diffuse the wail of your own mouth wanting to rebel from your brain.
"No, thanks." And like that, you continue to slowly saunter. And whistle. Always with that annoying whistling noise.
You whistle as you admire every drink in the fridge, every box of toothpaste, every bottle of shampoo. You whistle as you stop to tie your shoe. I am almost certain that I see you hop a little, dancing to the tuneless song that plays in your head as that wail continues. On and on.
You whistle as you select your merchandise, then throughout the entire transaction at the cash. Whistle like an ambulance siren, in tune with the buttons that you press to enter your PIN for your debit card. You then nod, grab your bag, and whistle your way out of the store.
Then, there is nothing but calmness. The trainwreck is over. Serenity has descended on the pharmacy, and the nameless pop song bubbles up again on the radio. It's the calm after the storm, the eerie peace after a tornado has whipped through a village.
Then you return to buy some gum, and repeat the process. All. Over. Again.
Quote Of The Day!
"This is Canada! Polar bears are supposed to be running around rampant in the streets!"
Sunday 21 August 2011
Saturday 20 August 2011
"What Are The Ingredients In This Product?!"
Montreal is a very multicultural city, and attracts tourists from the world over. Sometimes, they wander in to pharmacies, and marvel at the items that may or may not actually be available in their home country. Or, sometimes, they end up looking at products that have them extremely confused.
While at work one day, a woman with a strong French-from-France accent (their accent is very different from the Quebec French accent, so it is important to note) comes over to me, waving a bottle of castor oil and shouting in French, "What is this product made of?" The look on her face was one of complete confusion and more-than-minimal distress, the kind of look one sees on the face of someone when they're about to shit their pants and know they cannot stop it.
I've never seen such a passionate response to castor oil. This must really be a life-or-death situation! I could imagine doctors in a hospital, trying to resuscitate someone, yelling out, "We need 5 cc's of castor oil! STAT!" Since I don't know the answer off the top of my head, I turn to my good friend Wikipedia to find out what castor oil is made of.
"It's made from castor beans." I respond, in hopes that this is all that she needs to know before rushing off to save the day for someone else.
"Are you sure? Check again!" she screams. She looks horrified, as though the castor oil has transformed itself into Freddy Krueger and will slaughter her in her sleep. Wow, this castor oil must mean a lot to someone. Out there in the world, someone is in dire need of this product. So I check another website, that assures me that castor oil is indeed composed of castor beans. I break the news to the woman, who then shouts in such an overblown way that it would put Vincent Price's overly hammy acting to shame,
"What is this used for?"
Castor oil has many uses, including weight loss, constipation, a laxative, and to help regrow hair. I can't quite see why this is so important, but the woman looks so distraught, so it must really be a lifesaver somehow. Maybe someone out there is just really, really constipated?
The client looks a bit more relaxed, now that she knows the uses for castor oil and that it is made of castor beans. She can now assuredly administrate the oil to someone in need, thereby saving them from a life of constipation and hair loss.
The woman walks down the aisle, and to my complete amazement, puts the castor oil back on the shelf and walks out of the store.
I can't believe it! What is her constipated friend going to do now? What happened to the life or death situation? Now I'm the confused one, who can't understand why someone would look so distraught over the contents of castor oil. I'm ready to chalk that one up to the woman being completely insane when it dawns on me.
The language barrier in Quebec goes both ways, especially in Montreal. French people can't understand what is written in English, and vice versa. The revelation hits me, and puts all of the pieces of that conversation into place.
In English, the word "castor" refers to the bean. In French, the word "castor" is used for something entirely different. "Castor" in French means "beaver." Therefore, the woman wasn't looking to save someone's life, she was simply horrified at the idea that this oil could have been made from beavers. The image of the woman thinking that this castor oil is made from mashed-up beavers, and how horrified and distressed she was at the idea, is an image that I will remember forever.
You can find some strange things in pharmacies, but I am pretty sure that mashed-up beaver oil isn't one of them. At least, I sincerely hope not!
While at work one day, a woman with a strong French-from-France accent (their accent is very different from the Quebec French accent, so it is important to note) comes over to me, waving a bottle of castor oil and shouting in French, "What is this product made of?" The look on her face was one of complete confusion and more-than-minimal distress, the kind of look one sees on the face of someone when they're about to shit their pants and know they cannot stop it.
I've never seen such a passionate response to castor oil. This must really be a life-or-death situation! I could imagine doctors in a hospital, trying to resuscitate someone, yelling out, "We need 5 cc's of castor oil! STAT!" Since I don't know the answer off the top of my head, I turn to my good friend Wikipedia to find out what castor oil is made of.
"It's made from castor beans." I respond, in hopes that this is all that she needs to know before rushing off to save the day for someone else.
"Are you sure? Check again!" she screams. She looks horrified, as though the castor oil has transformed itself into Freddy Krueger and will slaughter her in her sleep. Wow, this castor oil must mean a lot to someone. Out there in the world, someone is in dire need of this product. So I check another website, that assures me that castor oil is indeed composed of castor beans. I break the news to the woman, who then shouts in such an overblown way that it would put Vincent Price's overly hammy acting to shame,
"What is this used for?"
Castor oil has many uses, including weight loss, constipation, a laxative, and to help regrow hair. I can't quite see why this is so important, but the woman looks so distraught, so it must really be a lifesaver somehow. Maybe someone out there is just really, really constipated?
The client looks a bit more relaxed, now that she knows the uses for castor oil and that it is made of castor beans. She can now assuredly administrate the oil to someone in need, thereby saving them from a life of constipation and hair loss.
The woman walks down the aisle, and to my complete amazement, puts the castor oil back on the shelf and walks out of the store.
I can't believe it! What is her constipated friend going to do now? What happened to the life or death situation? Now I'm the confused one, who can't understand why someone would look so distraught over the contents of castor oil. I'm ready to chalk that one up to the woman being completely insane when it dawns on me.
The language barrier in Quebec goes both ways, especially in Montreal. French people can't understand what is written in English, and vice versa. The revelation hits me, and puts all of the pieces of that conversation into place.
In English, the word "castor" refers to the bean. In French, the word "castor" is used for something entirely different. "Castor" in French means "beaver." Therefore, the woman wasn't looking to save someone's life, she was simply horrified at the idea that this oil could have been made from beavers. The image of the woman thinking that this castor oil is made from mashed-up beavers, and how horrified and distressed she was at the idea, is an image that I will remember forever.
You can find some strange things in pharmacies, but I am pretty sure that mashed-up beaver oil isn't one of them. At least, I sincerely hope not!
Friday 19 August 2011
"Can I Get A Refund?"
In the course of working in a pharmacy, I've dealt with some demanding clients. Most can be placated with a few polite words or a smile, but the really difficult ones tend to be another story. Typically, difficult clients tend to fall into one of two categories: the ones who expect you to bend over backwards for them, and the ones who get angry at you for not bending over backwards enough for them.
The age of the client also tends to have a direct correlation with how angry and loud they become, and the number of times they threaten to go to another store.
"What do you mean, this product was discontinued three years ago? It was a great product and you should have bought tons of it before they stopped making it! I'll do my shopping elsewhere from now on!" At that point, you can usually hear the client yelling from the opposite end of the store, and you can usually hear them muttering on their way out. After all, when you're muttering, even if you're muttering loudly, no one can possibly hear you. These are the difficult clients, where even if you do your best, it's like you did nothing at all.
The same problem pops up with difficult clients and medications. In Quebec, and likely in most places, the law is clear: once the medication has left the pharmacy, it cannot be returned. That law doesn't alwats stop people from trying though.
"I bought these pink pills two weeks ago, but they aren't the right ones. I want to exchange them for the yellow ones."
"But the bottle is half-empty."
"I don't care. Refund those pills or I'll go elsewhere."
Once medications have left the pharmacy, we have no control over what happens to the pills. Sparky the dog could have drooled all over them, or chewed them up and swallowed them, only to vomit back up the pieces. Or maybe the person dropped the pill on the floor, stepped on it and then had to dig it out of the treads of their shoes. The possibilities are endless. So the law about no returning medications once they're out the door isn't meant to be obnoxious, but rather to prevent clients from returning Sparky puke and the pharmacy selling it to the next person in line.
Even if the pills are vomit and slobber free, the law applies. But as long as rules have exceptions, you will find clients who believe they are the exceptions to every rule.
"Well, I didn't use them, so exchange them." Nope, still can't. Then the client usually brings out what they think is their biggest selling point:
"I've been a client of your pharmacy for over twenty years! If I want a refund, I should get one! Where's your boss? He'll give me the refund."
Of course, slime free or not, my boss can't take back the pills. But sometimes, all people need is to hear the same spiel about pharmacy laws from someone they perceive as a higher authority before they finally accept the fact that they won't be getting that refund after all. Or at least, they will accept it until the next time it happens.
The age of the client also tends to have a direct correlation with how angry and loud they become, and the number of times they threaten to go to another store.
"What do you mean, this product was discontinued three years ago? It was a great product and you should have bought tons of it before they stopped making it! I'll do my shopping elsewhere from now on!" At that point, you can usually hear the client yelling from the opposite end of the store, and you can usually hear them muttering on their way out. After all, when you're muttering, even if you're muttering loudly, no one can possibly hear you. These are the difficult clients, where even if you do your best, it's like you did nothing at all.
The same problem pops up with difficult clients and medications. In Quebec, and likely in most places, the law is clear: once the medication has left the pharmacy, it cannot be returned. That law doesn't alwats stop people from trying though.
"I bought these pink pills two weeks ago, but they aren't the right ones. I want to exchange them for the yellow ones."
"But the bottle is half-empty."
"I don't care. Refund those pills or I'll go elsewhere."
Once medications have left the pharmacy, we have no control over what happens to the pills. Sparky the dog could have drooled all over them, or chewed them up and swallowed them, only to vomit back up the pieces. Or maybe the person dropped the pill on the floor, stepped on it and then had to dig it out of the treads of their shoes. The possibilities are endless. So the law about no returning medications once they're out the door isn't meant to be obnoxious, but rather to prevent clients from returning Sparky puke and the pharmacy selling it to the next person in line.
Even if the pills are vomit and slobber free, the law applies. But as long as rules have exceptions, you will find clients who believe they are the exceptions to every rule.
"Well, I didn't use them, so exchange them." Nope, still can't. Then the client usually brings out what they think is their biggest selling point:
"I've been a client of your pharmacy for over twenty years! If I want a refund, I should get one! Where's your boss? He'll give me the refund."
Of course, slime free or not, my boss can't take back the pills. But sometimes, all people need is to hear the same spiel about pharmacy laws from someone they perceive as a higher authority before they finally accept the fact that they won't be getting that refund after all. Or at least, they will accept it until the next time it happens.
Thursday 18 August 2011
"Where Is Your Beer Aisle?"
I was working one Saturday, and happened to be at the front cash when a group of five guys walked in. They looked to be about eighteen years old, but I've never been good at guessing age. They wandered up and down all of the aisles of the store (this is a very small pharmacy, so there are actually only three aisles). When they came back to the front cash, they all had rather puzzled looks on their faces.
"Can I help you?" I asked.
"Uhh, yeah. We would like to know where your beer aisle is." Responded one of the young men hopefully.
"Huh? We don't sell beer here."
"Oh. Do you sell any alcohol?"
"No."
"Alright, well thanks anyway." And like that, the gang just wandered out, much in the same manner they had wandered in, looking slightly confused and annoyed at the pharmacy's lack of beer.
Quebec is a little relaxed about drinking laws, as the legal drinking age here is lower than in the other Canadian provinces (18 instead of 19) and you can even buy beer in grocery stores. Some people seem to think that this means that you can find beer in just about any store, judging by the number of Saturday customers who wander in to the pharmacy in search of beer.
I'm not even certain that pharmacies were ever allowed to sell beer. Seems to me that it would require more licenses and permits than it would be worth. But I guess that no one told that to anyone who lives outside of the province. Unfortunately, the closest thing you will find to alcohol in a pharmacy is likely the type that you use to clean wounds. That doesn't stop people from trying, though.
However, in Quebec, there is the luxury of finding beer in a depanneur, the French word for "corner store." These stores are everywhere, especially in Montreal. They will sell you beer without batting an eyelash, provided you are of legal drinking age. Just don't wander in to a pharmacy looking for anything alcoholic and drinkable, because the chances of finding something are less than slim.
"Can I help you?" I asked.
"Uhh, yeah. We would like to know where your beer aisle is." Responded one of the young men hopefully.
"Huh? We don't sell beer here."
"Oh. Do you sell any alcohol?"
"No."
"Alright, well thanks anyway." And like that, the gang just wandered out, much in the same manner they had wandered in, looking slightly confused and annoyed at the pharmacy's lack of beer.
Quebec is a little relaxed about drinking laws, as the legal drinking age here is lower than in the other Canadian provinces (18 instead of 19) and you can even buy beer in grocery stores. Some people seem to think that this means that you can find beer in just about any store, judging by the number of Saturday customers who wander in to the pharmacy in search of beer.
I'm not even certain that pharmacies were ever allowed to sell beer. Seems to me that it would require more licenses and permits than it would be worth. But I guess that no one told that to anyone who lives outside of the province. Unfortunately, the closest thing you will find to alcohol in a pharmacy is likely the type that you use to clean wounds. That doesn't stop people from trying, though.
However, in Quebec, there is the luxury of finding beer in a depanneur, the French word for "corner store." These stores are everywhere, especially in Montreal. They will sell you beer without batting an eyelash, provided you are of legal drinking age. Just don't wander in to a pharmacy looking for anything alcoholic and drinkable, because the chances of finding something are less than slim.
"Excuse Me, Do You Work Here?"
I'm working at a small pharmacy in Montreal, counting pills or stocking shelves or any of the other countless tasks that I do as a pharmacy lab technician, when you come up behind me and loudly ask, "Excuse me, do you work here?" It's loud and sudden enough that I feel my heart racing in fear, and you are staring at me in an almost accusing manner.
"Yes, yes I do," I respond, while waiting for my heart rate to slow a little.
"Well then, do you have Tylenol?" you ask, as though I am the enemy, she who has been contemptuously hiding your salvation from you behind my back.
"It's right behind you." Now that I no longer fear getting attacked in, of all places, a pharmacy, all of the responses I COULD have given pop into my head:
"Do you work here?"
"No, I wear this lab coat as a fashion statement."
Because, indeed, while you were sneaking up from behind and scaring the living crap out of me, you neglected to notice the white, oversized lab coat which makes me look like the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man (you know, if he lost a ton of weight and used his skin as some horrifying garment). The same lab coat that every employee is required to wear, in just about every pharmacy ever.. You also didn't notice how I was stocking shelves, which is typically not an activity of someone who is just visiting the store for fun.
Instead, you likely blew a gasket in the ten minutes it took you to force the question from your craw like a burst of smelly flatulence:
"DO YOU WORK HERE?!?"
"No, I'm only here for the air conditioning."
Wouldn't an "Excuse me?" have made much more sense rather than shouting out the obvious? And, better yet, lowered your voice by at least a few decibels? Is it complicated to distinguish me, in my big, white lab coat, from all of the other clients milling in the aisles? Do I look like a velociraptor?
"Do you work here?"
"No, I am an undercover spy who has to infiltrate the local gang chapter by re-stocking this shelf until one of them breaks and comes in to buy bandages. Then, I will take out the hand grenade that I have skillfully hid in my large coat pocket here, but it won't hurt him too much. Really, it will only stop him from running away. Then I can apprehend him, and take him back to the lair with all of the other spies, who will waterboard him into oblivion. Oh, but we'll have to cut off one of his ears and send it to his boss, and hopefully one of his other minions will break and tell us everything. Then, I can come back here and continue stocking the bandage section until the next gang member wanders in. By the way, I require a human shield before I throw this grenade. Do you mind not moving? That would be great. Oh, and I do work here."
Moron.
"Yes, yes I do," I respond, while waiting for my heart rate to slow a little.
"Well then, do you have Tylenol?" you ask, as though I am the enemy, she who has been contemptuously hiding your salvation from you behind my back.
"It's right behind you." Now that I no longer fear getting attacked in, of all places, a pharmacy, all of the responses I COULD have given pop into my head:
"Do you work here?"
"No, I wear this lab coat as a fashion statement."
Because, indeed, while you were sneaking up from behind and scaring the living crap out of me, you neglected to notice the white, oversized lab coat which makes me look like the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man (you know, if he lost a ton of weight and used his skin as some horrifying garment). The same lab coat that every employee is required to wear, in just about every pharmacy ever.. You also didn't notice how I was stocking shelves, which is typically not an activity of someone who is just visiting the store for fun.
Instead, you likely blew a gasket in the ten minutes it took you to force the question from your craw like a burst of smelly flatulence:
"DO YOU WORK HERE?!?"
"No, I'm only here for the air conditioning."
Wouldn't an "Excuse me?" have made much more sense rather than shouting out the obvious? And, better yet, lowered your voice by at least a few decibels? Is it complicated to distinguish me, in my big, white lab coat, from all of the other clients milling in the aisles? Do I look like a velociraptor?
"Do you work here?"
"No, I am an undercover spy who has to infiltrate the local gang chapter by re-stocking this shelf until one of them breaks and comes in to buy bandages. Then, I will take out the hand grenade that I have skillfully hid in my large coat pocket here, but it won't hurt him too much. Really, it will only stop him from running away. Then I can apprehend him, and take him back to the lair with all of the other spies, who will waterboard him into oblivion. Oh, but we'll have to cut off one of his ears and send it to his boss, and hopefully one of his other minions will break and tell us everything. Then, I can come back here and continue stocking the bandage section until the next gang member wanders in. By the way, I require a human shield before I throw this grenade. Do you mind not moving? That would be great. Oh, and I do work here."
Moron.
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