(Start with "Monday" if you can. Just give your coworkers the "One minute" finger) So what were we talking about? Oh right. I was giving you the virtual tour of my fertility center theme park. "Meet Goofy. Meet Grumpy. Meet Doc."
Doctors are great to have in a medical facility. But, let's be honest. Just like the rest of us, they're at the mercy of the receptionist. I don't care who signs whose checks. We all have to make nice with the receptionist or fertility game over.
She doesn't make the appointment. Game over. She doesn't tell the doctor you're waiting and he goes home. Game over. She doesn't give the nurse your message. Game over. She doesn't charge you for the visit...well that would be okay.
When I started going to my fertility clinic there were two receptionists. Jessica and Jamie. They complemented each other beautifully. Jessica was lovely but as smart as a tuna fish sandwich.
Jamie was speedy, intelligent, and as nasty as a summer rash in the crack of your… knee. (I do have some sense of decorum you know.)
The pair sparked a lot of childhood memories for me.
My sister and I had identical twin babysitters (Not simultaneously. I don’t think moms in the ‘70’s were overly concerned about having a one-to-one child-babysitter ratio).
Identical Twin Wendy let you play "kitchen" with real knives while she fell asleep in front of Johnny Carson.
Identical Twin Cindy, on the other hand, followed you into the bathroom to make sure you didn’t drink iodine. I was like ten at the time.
I’m not sure whether she’d read somewhere that ten year olds were prone to chugging antiseptics, or that she thought that we thought that she was such a sucky babysitter, we might feign a toilet issue so we could sneak out of the room and kill ourselves.
What we needed was the middle twin: The one born with ALL of the chromosomes.
And that’s what the fertility clinic needed: A receptionist who could multi-task: Be pleasant and competent at the same time.
Of course the pleasant one got canned first. I've never figured out why, (maybe someone could write me), doctor's offices hang on to intolerable receptionists for decades.
After she went, there was always a new receptionist at the desk.
They were all named, Giselle, or Jaleesa… It got way too complicated. I just called them all Becky.
Becky One went to lunch and apparently kept on going. Becky Two gossiped on her cell phone while she took your insurance. Becky three was "in training" for six months.
Aren't office managers aware that training a receptionist is like recovering from a stroke? There's a very short window of time for them to improve. If they're not any better by then, they're never going to get any better.
I just kept repeating my mantra: "It's okay. She's not allowed to touch prescriptions or needles. It's okay. She's not allowed to touch prescriptions or needles."
Surprisingly, I don't complain much to the higher-ups about crummy receptionists. 1) I don't want to be responsible for someone losing their job. 2) You don't know who she is.
Once as my chiropractor ushered me into his office and closed the door I said:
"That lady at the desk is so rude." To which, of course he responded:
"That's my wife."
Of course I was then forced to go on and on about a fictitious receptionist about whom I was really talking, (in this one-receptionist office), shutting up only long enough to yell: "Ow! My spine!"
Listen, I gotta go. I need the company microwave. I see someone heading down the hallway carrying a frozen dinner and I want to cut her off at the pass. I'll talk to you tomorrow.