Posts Tagged 'people'

Skeeze revisited

Back at the doc-in-the-box for my follow-up workman’s comp visit. This time, the waiting area is packed, with a new Phlegmy Bohemian Youth, this one accompanied by Distant Parent, or Sudoku-Obsessed Man. Also making an appearance are Soulless Marketing Career Man with More Money to be Made Elsewhere, Depressed Young Mother with Infant, Woman Whose Incessant Coughing Sounds Like Sobs, and Chinless Obese Woman Snoring with Open-Mouthed Abandon on the couch.

Play-by-play: The TV is blaring a cartoon that not only no one appears to be watching, but whose demographic is completely unrepresented in the room. Retrieving my dropped water bottle gives me the undesirable opportunity to inspect the carpet stains. Depressed Young Mother with Infant and Phlegmy Bohemian Youth are each admitted and quickly replaced with a new Depressed Mother with Infant and yet another PBY with guardian.

Oh yeah. Waiting time this visit? Two hours. Two hours of mobile solitaire and inhaling airborne pathogens ferocious enough to make it all the way here from Indonesia. I’ll keep you updated on how my avian flu progresses.

Workman’s Comp in 12 Easy Steps… Library Edition!

This is the Workman’s Comp in 12 Easy Steps… Library Edition!

Step 1: If you don’t have one already, get a job in a library.

Step 2: At your (new) library job, injure yourself in a stupid way, say, by falling out of your shoe.

Step 3: Fill out a workman’s comp form.

Step 4: Find where they keep the workman’s comp forms, then complete Step Three.

Step 5: See a physician.

Step 6: Discover your regular doctor is unavailable because you put off the dreaded appointment until the weekend, when the only legitimate health professionals open are the emergency room and the walk-in “doc-in-the-box.”

Step 7: Complete Step Five by going to the damn doc-in-the-box.

Step 8: But first, shave your legs for once, you slob.

Step 9: Try not to catch SARS or the bird flu while waiting your turn behind the Phlegmy Bohemian Youth and the Harried Mother With A Billion Snot-Nosed Kids.

Step 10: Get chewed out by a “doctor” with unprofessionally casual wear, heavy accent and open contempt for American youth. See the errors of your ways in having stuck it out at work and postponed medical attention as well as having ever picked out, bought or worn shoes that are so easy to fall out of. Leave feeling less of a person in general.

Step 11: (Almost there!) Get saddled–I mean fitted with an ankle brace to be worn constantly for the next week. “Forget” to ask whether or not it must be worn even to bed. (What you don’t know you’re not responsible for.)

Step 12: Hobble around work for the next week, fishing for sympathy, which you garner in truckloads. (It’s the comp time that doesn’t appear forthcoming.) Try not to think about going back to the grumpy foreign doc-in-the-box at the end of the week.

You did it! Now don’t do it again.

Because the men’s room doesn’t have that sweet couch.

At a coffee house with friend M., who’s deaf, and her brother S. So M. comes back to the table and signs to S. that they’re all out of paper towels in the ladies’ room, could he let the staff know. S. hops up, then stops and you can see the exact moment when the realization hits him and he says, “Wow. This’ll be awkward.”

When S. came back, though, he said they just gave him a funny look. Probably because they were already distracted by the weird guy ordering a latte and complaining loudly about how he’s mad because he’d tried so hard to get laid the day before, but it hadn’t turned out. So a guy knowing the status of the ladies’ room paper towel supply was the least of their worries. We’re all having a good loud laugh at this story (which is being both spoken and emphatically signed) when S. suddenly falls silent with a sheepish grin. We follow his gaze to see a disgruntled young man glaring at us from a sofa in the corner. Some lessons we learn the hard way: If you don’t want a bunch of perfect strangers laughing and gesturing about your sexual ineptitude, you probably should save those kinds of complaints for a shrink, not your local barrista.

That’s when M. realized her purse was gone. We’d switched tables at one point and the purse, left at the first table, had been turned in to the lost and found. “No problem,” said her brother. On our way out, he commended the staff on their prompt restocking of the ladies’ room paper towels and asked if he could just get his purse back.