No matter how much you try, nothing will ever prepare you for the college experience.
Last year I thought I knew it all. I was away from home for months at a time. I was responsible for my own time, meals, and life. I was my own boss. I was - drum roll - a college freshman.
Then April rolled around and the bathtub that was my savings account had not only completely drained out, but had started to crumble into powder while the sagebrush blew past.
I suddenly became anything but my own boss and would do anything I could for some spare cash including but not limited to doing other people's laundry, eating large, frightening insects, and pouring lemon juice on open wounds for dollars.
When I came home for the summer, I was in crucial, dire need of bank account replenishment, so when I learned that there was a job opening at the health care facility where my mother works, I jumped at the chance.
My advice to people who want to work in health care: don't work in health care.
I was a receptionist, which meant that I had the least amount of power and the most amount of blame if a phone message were not answered promptly (defined by the disgruntled patient as "now").
Your average phone message covered a variety of extremes. First there was the hypochondriac mother who would call in saying, "My little Johnny coughed this morning, and we have a long family history of death. Should he get all of his vaccinations again just to be sure they worked?"
If you tried to tell this mother that kids cough sometimes, that this was a fact of life, she would scream something about a second opinion and slam down the phone in a hysterical huff.
Then there was the sweet old lady who would say, "Well, it's about my Harold. He's 97, you know. And he's been lying on the floor on his stomach for a good three days. He hasn't slept so well in a while, and I don't want to wake him, but I'm afraid he's starting to smell. Should I call an ambulance?"
And finally, there was the random person who asked to speak to his or her doctor.
"The doctor is seeing patients right now," I would say, "Can I take a message?"
"What? No, I need to talk to him RIGHT NOW. This is Frances."
Frances what? Frances the Talking Horse?
"And what is your last name, Frances?"
"Jones!"
"And what is the message regarding?"
"Oh, he knows what it's about."
Of course, this meant that the doctor had not the foggiest clue what the patient was calling about, nor did he remember ever speaking with a Frances Jones in his life. But if the message were not returned, you can bet that Frances Jones would march right into the office, demand to speak with the doctor immediately, and mention that she had not yet forgotten how rudely she was treated on the telephone.
The things I do for my bank account.
Now that I'm back at school (and after a very short-lived bout at Burger King), I am again seeking employment.
But don't worry about me. As long as there are large, frightening insects, I'll have a steady income.++2'+â-Ç+â-¬g-
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