phenazopyridine hydrochloride will turn your urine the color of tang, could discolor your soft contact lenses, and -- if you are the sort of person who props her legs on the edge of the bathtub when she uses the bathroom -- tye-dyes the inner toilet bowl until it looks like woodstock.
and despite being the equivilent of tylenol for you urinary tract, it is packaged poorly with two pills per flimsy, see-through pocket. if you have crawled from the bedroom to your purse for your emergency stash, it is almost impossible to rip into a package. your teeth aren't sharp enough, your thumb nails aren't strong enough, and your wherewithal to retroactively grab a scissors not nearly honed enough. and you could die right there in the hallway, a modified take on the fire-breathing dragon. however, if you are wandering around target thinking about isaac mizrahi shirt-dresses and champion sports bras, the packs open easily. at will. these aspirin-sized discs are escape artists.
soon the bottom of your purse is lined with a neon yellow silt. and you hope it doesn't rain.
phenazopyridine hydrochloride will stain your fingernails when you dig in your purse -- think cheetos, but medicinal -- and anything else that is free floating in your bag: receipts, gum, tampons, ear buds, check book, ID.
it's the weathered ID that is most bothersome. not to me, but to the people who need to verify that i am me and that is my check card and i'm old enough to get into your bar. they frown. or laugh. or furrow. they wonder if the ID is contageous.
"what happened ...?" i'm asked. over and over and over.
i used to explain in great detail: my urinary tract pain pills? they stain things. they came open in the bottom of my purse? and everything in my purse turned dirty yellowish? then i dumbed it down to: [grunt.] i spilled something on it.
"whoa. dude. did this start on fire?" was the most recent question from a clerk at a west end gas station.
i just shook my head no and didn't elaborate. i'm bored with explaining my drivers license. but it got me thinking about the questions we have to repeatedly answer. things that are fun to answer at first, but become so tedious that you eventually just stop explaining them. instead you shrug and leave the question dangling like a pinata at the birthday party that was cancelled.
then i thought, thank god i'm not a celebrity.