My wonderful doctor retired recently, making it necessary for me to look for a new one. Doctors are scarce where I live, and finding one who’s accepting new patients is like tripping over a gold nugget on the sidewalk. I signed up with a “Find a Doctor” program, and a few months later, they assigned me “Dr. Ellen” (not her real name).

I quickly realized that, unlike my old general practitioner, Dr. Ellen is dour and humourless. I didn’t let that bother me (much) since I needed her medical expertise, not her ability to tell jokes. However, my not-so-great impression of her intensified when I discovered that she’s very impatient. When I had trouble remembering something she’d told me, she got condescending and spoke to me like I was a stupid child. Being at least fifteen years her senior, that bothered me a LOT, but I gritted my teeth and told myself that it was my own fault for not making notes to aid my memory.

Three months ago, she put me on cholesterol meds and told me to get a full blood panel and urinalysis before coming to see her again. I got that done last week, and then I got a call from her office. The receptionist said, “Dr. Ellen got the results of your tests, and she wants to discuss them with you.” I booked an appointment for that as well as a follow-up shingles vaccine since I’d had the first dose earlier in the year.

Something else I wanted to discuss with her (although, to be fair, I forgot to mention it to the receptionist) was a mole that I was concerned about. Since I’d already had one experience with basal cell carcinoma, I knew I should get it checked out.

When the appointment began, Dr. Ellen asked if I’d like the flu vaccine as well as the shingles one. “Sure,” I said, so she injected the flu vaccine in my left arm. She then sent me off to the pharmacy to pay for the vial of shingles vaccine and bring it back to her. I did so and was back in her office very quickly.

Dr. Ellen: “Which arm did I use for your flu shot?”

I was somewhat puzzled because she’d given it to me literally less than ten minutes before.

Me: “The left.”

Dr. Ellen: “Then I’ll put the shingles vaccine in your right arm.” *Does so* “Now, I’m going to recommend a full blood panel and urinalysis.” *Starts printing off forms*

Me: “Uh, why are we doing that again so soon?”

Dr. Ellen: *Staring irritably* “What are you talking about?”

Me: “I just did that last week.”

Dr. Ellen: “WHY?”

She spoke accusingly, as if I’d decided to do that of my own accord for funsies.

Me: “Because… you told me to?”

And I thought that was why I was here in the first place?

Dr. Ellen: “Hmph.”

She looked up the results of my blood test and talked a bit about my cholesterol.

Dr. Ellen: “Okay, we’re done here. You’re not due for a pap test yet, so we’ll do that next time. Bye.”

Me: “Oh, but… I have a mole that I need you to look at. It’s gotten bigger, and I’m worried, because I’ve had basal—”

Dr. Ellen: “You’ll need to make a separate appointment for that. Bye.”

Me: “…”

It’s very likely, of course, that she had another patient due and couldn’t spend any more time on me. I realize that I should have mentioned the mole sooner, too. I have to say, though, that her dismissive attitude about potential skin cancer really shook me.

I got curious and decided to look her up on “Rate My MD” later. Her reviews were HORRIFIC, especially regarding her technique for giving pap tests. I saw words like “rough”, “painful”, “violated”, “made me cry”, and “bled for three days afterward”.

Looks like it’s time to start looking for a new doctor.

Both of my parents worked when I was a kid. That meant that I spent a lot of time alone at home during summer holidays unless I was doing something with friends. My mum got worried that I might be bored or lonely, so she asked her boss for permission to bring me to work with her for a day. Her boss knew that I was a quiet, well-mannered twelve-year-old, and he said sure.

Being at my mum’s office wasn’t bad. The other employees liked me and showed me how to use the various office devices, like the photocopier, fax machine, and typewriters. (Hey, it was the mid-1970s. That stuff was state-of-the-art!) Then, one of them got the idea to have me help her do some filing.

She took me into the room with the filing cabinets and was about to hand me a bunch of documents when she paused.

Employee: “Oh, wait a second. Do you know your A-B-Cs?”

She didn’t ask if I knew how to file, or whether I would file a document for, say, “The Widget Company” under “T” for “The” or “W” for “Widget”. She literally didn’t know if a twelve-year-old knew her letters.

I gaped at her, wondering if she was joking. She stared back, silently waiting for me to answer. 

Me: “I’m twelve.”

Employee: “Yes? That doesn’t answer my question.”

Me: “I’ve known the alphabet since I was five!”

She got very huffy.

Employee: “Well, I don’t have kids! I don’t know this stuff!”

Yes, but you WERE a kid at one point, weren’t you?

My first daughter was born just before Christmas of 1994. My parents flew in from their province to see the new baby and spend Christmas with us. On December 27, Mum asked if her friend Daisy (who lived about half an hour away from me) could come see the baby, as well.

“Of course,” I said, so it was all arranged. Because Daisy didn’t drive, my dad went to fetch her, leaving Mum, [Daughter], and me at home.

While we waited, Mum said soothingly, “Don’t worry about the state of the house. Daisy won’t mind.”

I looked around, bewildered, wondering if piles of dirty laundry and unwashed dishes had suddenly materialized without my knowledge. But no, my house looked the same as it always did. Perhaps a tiny bit untidy, but perfectly clean.

“It’s fine,” Mum insisted. “I promise you that she won’t mind.”

Not being an idiot, and knowing that my mum was the queen of passive-aggression, I knew what she was trying to get at. She minded that my home didn’t look like something out of House Beautiful, and she hoped that I’d take the hint and start frantically dusting and vacuuming.

Nope. I smiled sweetly, deliberately took her words at face value, and said, “Well, that’s good to know! It would be a bit much to expect someone who gave birth less than a week ago to have priorities other than making sure her daughter is healthy and safe!”

Mum looked like she’d sucked a lemon, but she backed down.

Several years ago, my husband’s company hired a new IT guy named “Frank”. He was supposed to work with my husband and take some of the burden off him, but he wasn’t a good fit. Not only was he terrible at the job, but he was also unpleasant to be around. My husband didn’t like him, and he likes EVERYONE. He didn’t exactly mourn when Frank quit to go work in the IT department for a local food delivery service.

About a month later, that food delivery service was purchased by another company. It was a very big deal and made headlines in my city. Every employee got a bonus. For obvious reasons, the owners of the service got the biggest bonuses (I believe they each received at least $1,000,000), and all other employees received amounts that were commensurate with the length of time they’d been employed.

About a month after THAT, my husband ran into Frank and asked him how he liked the new job.

Frank: “The job’s okay, I guess, but my bonus sucked! It was only $2,000! Everyone else got a lot more than I did!”

Husband: “Uh, sure, but you were only there for a month.”

Frank: “That shouldn’t matter! It wasn’t fair!”

My husband hurriedly cut the conversation short before he lost his temper and said something like, “You got paid $2,000 for having the good fortune of being part of a company that got bought out when you’d only been there for a month!”

My husband enjoys a beer occasionally, but sometimes he just wants the taste without the alcohol. There’s a particular brand of non-alcoholic beer he likes which is available from our local grocery store. The last time I purchased some, I got a brand-new cashier who was still learning the ropes. I should note that I’m sixty and very much look it.

The cashier peered at his cash register’s display.

Cashier: “Huh. That’s weird.” *To me* “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m going to have to call over one of my coworkers. I’m seeing a message that I don’t understand.”

Me: “That’s fine.”

Coworker: “What’s up?”

Cashier: “The cash register is asking me for an age. What’s that all about?”

Coworker: “Oh, that’s because of the beer. We need to know that we’re not selling it to a minor.”

Cashier: “Ohhh. I got confused because I thought it was asking for my age, and I was all ‘Huh? What do you want to know that for?’”

Me: “I’m confused myself, actually. Why do you need that rule for non-alcoholic beer?”

Coworker: “There’s still a trace of alcohol in it, ma’am, and we can’t sell it to anyone underage.”

Me: “Okay, fair enough, but I’ve bought this stuff many times before, and this is the first time I’ve heard of that rule.”

Coworker: “Well, sure. We usually just override the ‘Check Age’ prompt when the person buying it is obviously…”

The coworker trailed off, looking mortified.

Me: *Trying not to laugh* “Not underage?”

They were relieved that I wasn’t offended.

Coworker: “Yes, exactly!”