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Having a prescription refilled, you would think, would be an easy task. I mean, it’s not brain surgery—it’s just the medicine you take after your brain surgery.
The hard part should be snagging an appointment with the doctor of your choice, or the interminable wait in one of those cold rooms wearing a very last-season paper gown and trying not to get caught as you rifle through the cabinets, or maybe convincing the doctor that you need whatever it is in whatever dosage and then trotting that scrawl-covered snip of paper over to your local pharmacy.
Once you’ve done that, you’re golden … Right?
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an East Village street, 5:30 p.m., Wednesday
Last night, I enjoyed drinks al fresco with some former coworkers. It was a balmy 80-some degrees, perfect for street-watching and beer drinking at an outdoor cafe I’d never have snagged a table at had I gotten out of work at 8 p.m. (Had I, in fact, been Your Employed Daughter.) To one side sat a table of bankerish types in baseball caps and polo shirts discussing COBRA and the benefits of moving home to Jersey. On the other were some smoking East Villagers who generously shared a light with my former EIC and discussed the proper amount of space one should give between tables and smoking area. At one point, a fellow in a pink button-down offered us a dollar for a cigarette. I said, “Can you make it $2? We’re unemployed!” His response: “So am I!” And the former hedge fund manager got a Parliament for free.
Oh, 2009! How you’ve evened our playing field. Unemployment: bringing douchebags and media types together at last!