Friday Food and Drinks

Earlier on my way to work, I passed a store called Pharmacy & Liquor. Okay, where have I been all these years? Have these always existed? Pharmacy & Liquor: Now with more booze and smaller print on the prescription warning labels! That reminds me of Arrested Development: "Lucille mistook the drowsy-eyed alcohol warning for a winky-eyed alcohol suggestion." Wouldn't that just be great to send our difficult patients there? "Alright Mr. Williams, with your valium I'm also going to prescribe one bottle of whiskey, to be consumed in no more than five days. Got it?" I remember reading in Modern Drunkard Magazine how to successfully drink on the job. Clear liquids are preferable, helpful if you have one of those coffee commuter cups. Drink slowly out of a straw and always pre-mix your drinks at home. As they put it so delicately: "The only people who mix liquids in the workplace are chemists and drunks. And they know you ain’t no chemist." Lulz. And don't get too sloshed on the job as to avoid getting fired. Oh god do I wish I could do that, sipping white rum all day out of my usual diet coke, trying to get everyone to do the wave or put on some "awesome jams" or even start telling everyone how much I love them.

This is probably a booze themed post because it's Friday, ending my hardest week to date, not to mention my longest give the two hour commute each way because my car is still in the shop. My Useless Dinosaur Boss was out today, and left early yesterday, and will be out again on Monday. She's visiting one of her children or grandchildren or great-grandchildren or something in some random awful state, because she's just "too stressed" and "needs to take a break." Nice that she gets paid for all the breaks she takes on the job, which includes the entire month I've been working there in which she's managed to do nothing at all but complain about how swamped she is. Here's a hint: the less work you do, the more there's going to be when you finally decide to return to it. Oh, did I ever learn that lesson in college. We all hope she'll decide to stay in South Dakota or Montana or Arkansas or wherever she ran off to.

So another thing I can add to my list of things I've learned so far working at a doctor's office: Don't get between a doctor and his lunch. So everyday a large group of us orders food from one of the local places, and we're quite regular customers of I'd say like, 5 places near the office. This one particular place we ordered from today we get something from like every other day, if not everyday. Anyway, we were all eating in the break room, talking about Real Housewives of Orange County and The Girls Next Door and other such trashy reality tv that we all just gobble up, when Dr. Smith walks in, that boyish grin on his face that is reserved only for his panini and diet coke, when he starts rummaging through the bag. Then his head snaps up and he cries "WHERE'S MY SANDWICH?!?!?!" So we call the place and they're basically like, "Oh, shit, yeah we totally did forget his sandwich. Look, it's on your order and everything! *chuckle*" A good 45 minutes later he calls them up and just goes "Hi. Dr Smith. WHERE IS MY SANDWICH????" No introduction. No explanation. Just a list of demands that they must follow or else. I guess that's what 7 years of medical school does to you. Man do I wish that I could be like that. I'd probably call up and say something along the lines of "Oh, hi, um... Yeah, I can hold............................. Okay yeah hi, um, so like, I called a while ago, yeah. And um, well remember how you forgot someone's sandwich? Yeah that was me. Can I um, get it, please? I mean if you're busy then take your time. But yeah, whenever you get the chance....." Not Dr Smith. That delivery girl was at our door in less than five minutes, panting as if she'd run up all 5 flights of stairs, sandwich in one hand and his refund clutched in the other. Man, that guy has balls. And apparently has his sandwich now, too.

Always arrive early. Unless nobody's there.

Everyday on my way to work I pass a White Castle. Being from California, I have never been to a White Castle. However, being a huge Harold & Kumar fan, I feel that it is my civic duty (okay not civic, maybe stoner duty) to go to one. In fact, last night I even had a dream that I had a copy of Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle on VHS (wtf right?), and the tape got caught in the VCR and got all unwound. Oh, technology of the 90s. Anyway, I cried to my boyfriend "Oh no! Now we'll never get to go to White Castle!!!!" and stomped my foot and did something immature and pouty. Clearly, this means that I desperately need a hobby, or at least something that does not involve my work.

Speaking of work.. I left a bit earlier to get there today and so I arrived at 8:20 (I allegedly start at 8:30), only to wait outside the locked door because nobody had arrived yet. I do not have a key. As I'm waiting patiently and fiddling around on my phone, a couple of 9:00 patients show up early, and of course begin to complain about the office not being open.
Patient #1: Are you a patient or do you work here?
Me: I work here.
Patient #1: Then open the door! Come on!
Me: Actually, I just feel like standing here. I could let you in, but I'm enjoying standing out here in this cold drafty corridor, standing with people I've never met and probably wouldn't like anyway.

..Okay no I didn't say that, but I wanted to. What I really said was
Me: I don't have a key.
Patient #2: What's up with you guys not being open yet? I got here at 8:30 and I want to be inside at 8:30.
Me: You and me both. I don't have a key. I'm sorry.
Patient #2: My daughter has to diarrhea!

Wouldn't it be great to be a 2 year-old, getting to demand that what you want happen right now because your diarrhea is about to hit you squarely in the back of your pink stretchy pants, and you're not so great at walking yet so you might just fall flat down on it and spread it all over down your legs? Man, that'd be the life. I guess in another 60 years or so I'll get to again enter that stage of living. Can't wait.

The patients then began to discuss about how great doctors have it, getting to work short hours and earning the big bucks and abusing their patients, or whatever they were talking about, while throwing loathing looks at me all the while. Yes. Because I need reminding how much more money the doctors make than I do. And how they get to take mid-week trips to Aspen. And leave at 5:00 on the nose. Also, according to these patients, I get to join in on reaping all these same benefits.



Today our fax machine, printer, and scanner all stopped working at once. We were all too busy to really dig in and see what happened, but our manager sauntered out of her office, after putting down her cup o' noodle and dramatically tossing her sheer leopard scarf around her shoulders, to take a look. Apparently all it took was a restarting and/or unplugging or two, but for the next hour she kept telling everyone who crossed her pleather boots that she deserved a raise for fixing them all.

It's the small stuff

I usually drive to work but due to an ice-related car accident, I am now enjoying all the fruitful joy that is the NJ Transit system. It's so nice not having to drive, just traveling slowly through Manhattan early in the morning, soaking in all that the city has to offer. Ah, is that urine I smell? Oh look, it's coming from that questionably alive guy slumped over in the corner there. Or perhaps it's that mystery smell that seems to linger in New Yorkers' hair and clothing for much longer than would be deemed acceptable.

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Wait a minute, did I actually say that I was enjoying taking the train to the train to the bus to work? No. Not when it takes me 2 1/2 hours to get there. Not when the bus stops at every. single. fucking. stop. And you start to question if having a job and making money is really all that worth it anyway. I should just develop [more of] a drinking problem, never wash my hair and become a hipster or an arteest or something that would give me a good excuse to sleep til three and chain smoke all night.



Here's a tip: try at all costs to avoid getting stuck in the elevator at my work. It goes at the rate of 0.0000000001 mph, so you might falsely think you are stuck. Also the heavy AC blowing at you from above does not help to warm your fingers and toes from the FREEZING WEATHER OUTSIDE. But mostly, don't get stuck in the elevator, like a couple of old ladies did today, because we will leave you in there for over 30 minutes, while my manager is feigning concern while reading her latest issue of People or Parenting Magazine or Jersey Weekly or whatever she pretends is the stuff that she's actually supposed to be reading. Also, don't call the office to ask if we can call the fire department, because my manager will flat out say "no" and dial 6 numbers on her phone and talk to the dead air.

In fact, I haven't quite figured out what she exactly does do. There's a large stack of charts on her desk, all from post-op surgery patients, waiting to be sent to insurance companies. Some of them are from December, she told me as she was haphazardly rummaging through them for a lost chart the other day. We are horrendously understaffed, and we're all dying as we are juggling going through charts and answering the incessant phones and talking to patients about "omg i might be dying! oh wait it was just gas," and she wanders about all day saying things she thinks are hip and cool like "wuzzup."

One thing I have figured out though, is that people are out of shape. With the elevator broken, people actually had to walk. Up stairs. Not an escalator. Everyone comes into the office, grabbing for air like one would grab Hennessey while looting a liquor store in Detroit, collapsing onto the front desk, and almost fainting when we tell them they have to exert themselves once more: to fill out some paperwork.