June 6th, 2008

Bitter clinic nurse

This is minor or moderate, depending on your perspective.

I'm generally extremely satisfied with the clinic I use. My doctor's weird, but pleasant and never judgmental. The receptionist is a dear. Any lab work I've ever needed has been done promptly. I've never had to wait longer than five minutes from my appointment time; in fact, if I show up a few minutes early, I get in a few minutes early.

But the nurse downstairs who draws blood is a demon.

Needles don't scare me, never have, and I'm incredibly complacent when it comes to any medical procedure. But every time I've had to had blood drawn, I've cringed at the sight of her.

She's an elderly, bitter-looking woman who shakes as though with palsy. She always ignores me when I insist that she draw blood from my right arm, not my left, and not from the crook of either elbow because I have piddly thin little veins and there is no blood to be had. Blood MUST be drawn from a big-ass vein running along the inside of my forearm, close to my elbow, or there will be no blood for you. Period. I know it's unorthodox, my apparently my DNA doesn't give a damn about normalcy.

So why, OH WHY, does she insist on jabbing me with that needle and wriggling it to and fro like a dog worries a bone? There is no blood there. No. Nope. Not there either. Not even if you dig rrrreeeaaaal deep. She always concedes and draws blood from the big vein in my forearm with a scowl as though I willed my body to grow thin veins just to spite her.

If it weren't for her, this would be the perfect clinic.
  • Current Mood
    mellow mellow
fdf

Oh, how helpful of you!

My boss went out with an old friend of hers last night. This old friend currently has some visitors from out of the country staying with him, so they made it a foursome. They went to one of the snazziest restaurants in town. Meal is great, service is great, yadda yadda. The bill arrives and one of the guests insists on paying for it. The waiter waits (CLEVARR) patiently while the visitors discuss, in their native tongue, which card to use. After a second, one of the visitors hands the waiter a credit card and all is well.
Waiter does the usual thing and brings the receipt back for him to sign. They decide to tip in cash so he leaves the tip portion of the receipt blank and simply writes the total at the bottom and signs his name. The waiter takes the receipt and wishes them a good night.
Moments later, they are getting up to leave and the waiter runs over and stops them. Caps used to emphasize the fact that he was doing the "speaking in English really loudly makes foreigners able to understand everything you're saying" thing. Never mind that they're fluent and he's yelling in the middle of an upscale, busy restaurant.

"SIR. EXCUSE ME, SIR. *pulls out receipt* THIS PART OF THE RECEIPT *point point point* RIGHT HERE *point* THIS IS WHERE YOU WRITE IN THE TIP. SEE, YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO WRITE THE TIP IN RIGHT THERE *point* AND THEN YOU ADD THE TOTAL AND THE TIP AND YOU PUT THAT NUMBER ON THE BOTTOM LINE, NOT JUST THE TOTAL. THE TOTAL PLUS THE TIP. YOU HAVE TO PUT IN A DOLLAR AMOUNT ON THE TIP LINE IN ORDER TO TIP."

Woah. Woah.

The visitor explained, in plain English, that his tip is sitting on the table right in front of them. The waiter seemed unphased and wished them another goodnight and left.
blue sunflower

Southwest Homes

A couple of months ago my parents bought a modular home made by Deer Valley. They had to set up the buying and the installation of the home through Southwest Homes in Lake Charles, LA  because it was the only place where they could buy it locally. One of the reason they chose this place was because it seemed to have the best ratings in the area.

Collapse )
  • Current Mood
    pissed off pissed off
batman

the post office strikes again!

Last time I posted here, I talked about parcels disappearing into some mysterious vortex of doom. This time I have a variation.

I have a post office box because our local postie sometimes mixes up mailboxes and streets and most of my mail wouldn't fit in the piddly little box anyway, so going to the post office to collect my mail is no longer a big deal, especially as the post office is on the way to everywhere. This afternoon, however, I made a special trip just to check my mail, because I'm expecting a parcel which should have arrived today.
In my post office box there was the 'hi! you have a general parcel waiting for collection!' card, so I trotted into the post office, dodged the people who weren't in line but were standing there and the people in line who were wandering around, and eventually handed over my card to the lady behind the counter.

"Are you expecting something, *koulagirl?" she said. She knows who I am and didn't even have to ask what my box number is before going to check on the shelves.
"Yes," I said.
"That's funny, I don't remember anything for you today, and there's nothing here."
I peeked around the corner and well, there's nothing obviously labelled with my box number, but they've looked harder for parcels that have definitely been there.
"But you got two yesterday, didn't you, in a rubber band? Did you only get one card in your box yesterday?" The gentleman behind the counter has weighed in. He gave me two parcels yesterday, and there was only one card in my box then.
"Well, that's it, then. There must have been a mix up and you got a card for yesterday's. Sorry!" said the lady. "See you!"

Despite the fact that I'm expecting a parcel, the fact that it's not immediately visible and the fact that they don't remember it magically counters the fact that they told me I had one and placed a notification card in my box.

I suppose it could have been worse - last year my mother was expecting a parcel which was rather late, and when she asked about it, the person behind the counter found it for her and told her that the notification card must have "blown out of the box", despite the boxes being in a sheltered area and the mail sorting area on the other side being inside (as in having four walls and a roof).