dooce this

Today, my friends, I am going to talk about work. Something I don't usually do, not because I'm particularly worried about being dooced, but because nothing that exciting usually happens there. I was at work today for ten hours, uninterrupted, no lunch break with very, VERY little goofing off and I was totally content. Something is wrong with that. I am obviously starting to fill the voids in my life with work which is totally unhealthy. I should be filling those voids with other things, like friends or alcohol or BOTH AT THE SAME TIME.

Anyway. Remember the Dora the Explorer incident? Yeah, I tried to block it out, too. Until today, when the cutest little patient came in bearing a gift for me. Because all of our patients love me. LOVE. ME. Unfortunately we do not have any single, good-looking 23-35 year old, male patients so I get no love from them. ANYWAY. Her gift, and I kid you not, was a picture of Dora the fucking Explorer that she had printed or colored or something in computer class. Luckily, she is really goddamn cute so I wasn't offended.

Yesterday, however, I was offended by our most vile, obnoxious patient's father. This guy . . . ugh, this guy is so annoying. Stephanie, remember Scary Larry? Scary Larry once told me that I reminded him of the Virgin Mary, asked if I liked snake handling, and asked my friend if I wanted to do it with him like they do it on the Discovery Channel. This guy is like Scary Larry all grown up, with fifty extra pounds, and twenty years of experience in making disturbing comments. We all dread when he comes in because he flirts with all of the women in our office in the most creepy way, he's loud in stating his opinions (very few of which I have ever agreed with), and he totally invades my personal space. Sir, stop LEANING ON MY DESK and also stop staring at me because IT'S RUDE. Seriously, sometimes I hide in the bathroom when I know he's there so I don't have to talk to him. Other reasons for hiding in the bathroom? My phone keeps ringing, my boss keeps asking me to do stuff, or I felt the need to go stand in the dark and scream silently into the mirror. Oh, and also? This guy looks like George Costanza, keeps trying to get me to go to his church (oh HELL NO) and even though he is so spectacularly creepy . . . he's boring.

So, yesterday, Daddy BoreBucks is at my desk talking to me about one of his kids, which, fine, parents tend to do that at our office because their forced to wait for a while. He's going on and on and I'm staring at my computer, trying to make it obvious that I'd like him to go away, when I hear "so now my son has a job and it makes it harder to get him in here and also [insert weird pause here] you look nice," all out of the blue and ew. I guess it's a pretty innocuous comment, but it was really the tone and the man and the fact that it CAME OUT OF NOWHERE in front of my coworkers that makes me shudder every time I think about it. I'm seriously considering buying a fake wedding ring to wear to work, but then I'd have to make up a fake husband and a fake wedding and that could lead to a serious break with reality.

And finally, it is phone conversations like this:

Guy on Phone Pretending to Have an Indian Accent, but really he sounded African: I am having a problem with my kneecap.
Me: Um. We're an orthodontist's office.
GOPPTHAIABRHSA: Yes, someone gave me your card.
Me: Ok.
GOPPTHAIABRHSA: I hurt my kneecap.
Me: You might want to try looking for a physician in the phone book.
GOPPTHAIABRHSA: But I cannot read English, only speak it.
by the way, this is the point where I realized I was being prank called
Me: Would you like me to look in the phonebook for you?
GOPPTHAIABRHSA: You don't fix kneecaps?
Me: No.
GOPPTHAIABRHSA: What do you fix?
Me: Teeth.
GOPPTHAIABRHSA: Oh! The bone in the mouth is the same as the bone in the knee, yes?
Me: No.

and this:

DR: Good Afternoon, Jennie!
Me: Hello.
DR: Can you look up a number for me?
Me: Sure.
DR: I have the number but I don't know who it belongs to
Me: . . .
DR: Is there a way to find out who it belongs to?
Me: I guess I could Google it.
DR: Ok! Here is the number 467-9876 (said faster than the roadrunner)
Me: Is that a 937?
DR: What?
Me: Area code.
DR: Um, yes, 537
Me: 937?
DR: Oh, yes, 937.
Me: Yeah, it's not coming up with anything.
DR: What does that mean?
Me: Um . . .
DR: You don't know who it belongs to?
Me: No.
DR: Oh. I've tried calling it 25 times or so . . . 20, 30 times and it keeps ringing busy.
Me: . . .
DR: What if I try star 62? That will just connect me to the number, right?
Me: What?
DR: STAR. Sixty. Two.
Me: You mean star 69?
DR: Yes, yes, yes!
Me: Yeah, that costs money.
DR: I know, but will it tell me who the number belongs to?
Me: NO.
DR: Oh, ok. And you don't know?
Me: Not off the top of my head.
DR: Ok, I'll be in the office in a moment.
Me: Sigh.

that cause me to go stand in the bathroom and scream silently into the mirror.