Friday Eve at the Office

Tomorrow is Friday, kids! Not much to report by way of exciting office happenings; my job continues to consist of bouncing on a ball by the windows. Today I found a perfume sample in my bag and tried to lightly spray it on, but it chose that moment to become Niagara Falls. I do not approve of my new scent. I now smell like my grandmother’s curtains. 

There actually was something out of the ordinary the other day; the blood mobile was here doing a blood drive. I’m not sure what gave them the mistaken impression that I was going to give blood and then go back to work, but the woman at the table in the lobby kept looking at me expectantly every time I went to the bathroom. Lady, in order to get me on that bus there would have to be an exponentially bigger incentive than a couple crackers and a juice box. A tropical cruise comes to mind.

Also, I am now accepting donations for queen-sized bed to be installed in place of my yoga ball so that I can sleep while still pretending to listen to my coworker tell me about her husband eating chicken pot pie for breakfast and how he fills his lunchbox with so much food that she could do bicep reps with it. 

Speaking of which, the amount of food that materializes in this office is absolutely absurd.  Today just walking to my desk I was handed a banana nut muffin, some Watergate salad, and two Rollos.  Watergate salad is a devilish concoction of mini marshmallows, cool whip, pecans, pineapple, and coconut and makes me want to eat it by the truckload.  Also, did I mention what was sitting in the break room?  

This. This is why office workers are so sluggish and unhealthy. It's a country-wide ploy to get us to stay in these little cubicle jobs forever.

Now a word about actual patients: the American citizen award of the day goes to the guy this morning who, when I asked what he considered his race to be, answered loudly, “MALE!”

Oh, very good, sir. I take it you were not burdened with an overabundance of schooling. You are now permanently in the same category as the patient who wanted his emergency contacts to be "Obama" and "God."

Well, the week is finally drawing to a close, and here's to a lovely weekend and to no more babies being birthed in cars alongside highways in a 24-hour traffic jam because of three inches of snow. Cheers.

Adulthood and the Fletch

Well, it has been a veritable eternity since I have written a post. At least two years, which would be a shocking 14 years if you happen to be a dog. I apologize to all my canine followers for keeping you waiting for over a decade.

I have retired from restauranteurship and am now employed at Fletcher Allen Health Care in registration. I would be lying if I told you my job was glamorous and fulfilling; I spend over half my waking hours in a call-center cubicle staring at dual monitors. On the upside, my cube is right next to the windows, and I sit on a yoga ball. And nobody sees when I spill strawberry jelly all over my pants from the pb&j-in-a-jar-together that I've been eating at my desk.

I speak with patients by phone all day, registering them before appointments. Mostly it's a whole lot of repitition, having the same conversation with 80-plus patients a day, but every now and then you'll get a break in the norm. Some patients want to tell you their life stories, or try to regale you with tales of 14 colonoscopies (ma'am, please, I'm trying to eat my pb&j).

By far the most scarring experience of my phone life to date would have to be the time an older man called in to register. He started verifying everything I said with "that's correct," but sounded very out of breath. I simply attributed it to respiratory issues and was moving right along with the process when suddenly, barely waiting for the finish of my next question, he hollered, "THAT'S CORRECT!!!" in a mixture of a yell and a grunt. I was so startled I almost fell off my yoga ball and was trying to regain my composure when not 5 seconds later I hear *FLUSH*.

Who on earth thinks, "Hey, I'm pooping - now would be a good time to call registration!"

Men! I ask you. Disgusting.
Today I answered an incoming call from a gentleman who unceremoniously said in tones of greatest disgust, "How did I get you?"  Well, sir, you probably dialed my phone number. I understand your confusion, however; technology has indeed progressed at an astonishing rate.

And then you have the abnormal name spellings, such as "Ceilidh" with a note that says "name pronounced Kaylee." I wanted to call and be like, "Hi, is this Ceiling? It's not? May I speak with Ceiling, please?"
Obviously, adulthood has had a singular effect on me. That is to say, none at all.

Well, the Fletch is a many-splendored thing, and I am quite fortunate to be employed. I may not be so fortunate in my old hopes of a million-dollar tip, but I have not given up all faith. Someday in the not-so-distant future, when I am a black-and-white-clad server in a 5-star restaurant in the ritziest part of New York City, my long-awaited dream may come true.


Yeah, I won't hold my breath.