As the kids head out to school, the house tends to get a little chaotic, as boots are thrown about, coats fly through the air, backpacks are strapped on, and Charlene navigates her way to the door.  For whatever reason, I decided that ten minutes prior to this moment of ultimate chaos would be the best time for me to call in a prescription to the pharmacy.  This should have been fine, but I never noticed before how things begin to ramp up, just prior to head-out-the-door-for-school time.  Also, my prescription could have waited until sometime later in the day, but I found it for whatever reason urgently important for me to call in my prescription for middle aged male upper digestive tract gurgling.  Hey, you younger people, don’t laugh.  Put on a few pounds and get older and you too could find yourself with middle aged male upper digestive tract gurgling, which I believe is the clinical name for my affliction.  Consider yourself warned.

There I was calling in my prescription to the automated service, when one-by-one I became distracted.  Question from automated refill message, “For verification purposes, enter the last four digits of the phone number associated with your prescription.”  This verification is needed because of the huge black market for anti-middle aged male upper digestive tract gurgling pills.  At that very moment, our dog Kirby needed to go outside.  Kirby, our dog that feels the need to mindlessly bark every time he runs outside.  Kirby, the dog that we have tried all manner of solutions to quiet his barking.  Solutions, as in a citronella collar that sprayed citronella up his nose each time he barked (he began to enjoy having citronella shoved up his nose, while he barked).  Corrective measures, which he now ignores (apparently “Kirby, no barking!” is a sign of affection in the dog world).  Three bark collars, which he kept burning out or draining their irreplaceable batteries.  A muzzle, which just makes his barking quieter, but when coupled with an industrial strength hunting bark collar and the dog whistle that just came in the mail may finally get him to be a little more quiet and allow him to continue living in our home.  This background was provided so that you don’t say, “Oh, that poor Kirby.  Those people are so mean using a muzzle on him.”  No, no, no.  It should really be, “Kirby, get the point already and hush.”  Well, Kirby really needed out at that very moment and I needed to put on his muzzle and cradle the phone against my ear and enter the last four digits of my phone number for verification purposes.  Something had to give.  Apparently it was my brain, which could no longer remember the last four digits of our phone number, which I thought was “3583,” even though the last four digits of our phone number are not “3583” and as a result, the automated prescription refill service hung up on me.  My upper portion of my stomach gurgled its disappointment.

Our 11-year-old son Jacob likes to call Kirby “The Winter Pup,” when he wears his muzzle, because of his striking resemblance to “The Winter Soldier,” who was a frenemy featured in the latest “Captain America” movie.  Ah, if we only hadsuper powers to make our pup just a little quieter outside.

Not discouraged, I got the correct last four digits for our phone number from my wife, who was now looking at me as if my middle aged male upper digestive tract gurgle had migrated to my brain.  I once again began the endless dance with the automated phone attendant, but for whatever reason I figured this would be the best time to simultaneously plan our evening’s childcare with my wife.  “You’ll be home at 6:30?”  “Yes.”  “No, wait automated attendant lady, I wasn’t talking to you.”  That is when my automated pharmacist hung up on me.  Again.  My stomach gurgled louder.

Angry and middle aged, I was determined to try again.  I punched in the number, navigated the first few questions, and then my 8-year-old son Sam approached me with what I believed to be an urgent matter.  “Dad, I really like the pockets on these pants,” as he happily put his hands in what are apparently the finest Italian tailored child track pants that Target has to offer.  Really?  You’ve got to be kidding me.  Pockets?  Pockets make you happy.  That was the urgent matter?  Is the phone against my ear invisible?  “Yes, those are nice pants,” I replied, as I punched in the numbers for my prescription.  As I kept at it, my stomach made an appreciative gurgle.

Completing the call, I glanced down at the phone.  1 minute and 53 seconds it took for the successful final call, an eternity in head-out-the-door-for-school time, but my order had been placed.  Soon, my kids were off to school, we were off to work, Kirby was taking a nap, the chaos dissipated, and the gurgle subsided.  All was well and next time, I will select a better time.