Well, this past Thursday, she said I wasn't eligible for insurance, but couldn't be bothered to look up the date of my last appointment. Which would have clarified everything right there. But no. Where is my chart? She no find my chart. OK, fine.
So Friday, I spoke to my insurance company. They said I was eligible, and called her and told her.
Saturday, I looked up the date of my last appointment in my checkbook. The insurance company was mistaken. I wasn't eligible; my last checkup was July (how I mixed up July and March is beyond me), and I'm allowed one checkup per year.
So today I called the Fork-like-Spoon lady to tell her I wasn't eligible, and to please cancel my appointment.
"Hi! My name is Zelda* Fork* and I have an appointment today, and need to cancel..." "Oh, Fork*! How do you spell that?"
*spells name* *spells name again* *suppresses small scream*
Now, keep in mind here, I was taught good diction. I practice my diction. I occasionally get paid to stand on a stage and speak clearly (among other things). Diction is my friend. Sure I can mumble at times, but when I'm paying attention, I'm a regular freaking dictionary.
So after the whole Fork*-spelling thing, she said I wasn't eligible. I said I know, I'm not eligible. She said but you're not eligible. I said, I know. So let's cancel the checkup for today. My bad. She says you want checkup today? No, say I, cancel checkup today. No checkup? Uhm, no, no checkup. You're not eligible. Yes. Yes. I know.
Fork*, right? (Yes! Fork*!)
I said, can you fax me my prescription so I can just order another pair of contacts?
Her: Fax? What is fax? I can mail. I should mail.
Me: No, fax. Fax machine.
Her: Fax is what? I have address.
Me: Telephone fax machine. Fax machine?
Her: Oh! Fax machine! Telephone.
Me: Yes! Fax machine is fine.
Her: No, no, I should mail. Should I ask the doctor? I'll ask the doctor.
Me: No, that's not necessary, trust me you can fa--
Her: Hold on! I ask the doctor.
Her: I speak to doctor, he says yes, I can fax! What is fax number?
Me: ... Five four five TWO.
Her: Five four five?
Me: *repeats the seven-digit number*
Her: *reads back six digits*
Me: FIVE FOUR FIVE TWOOOOOO.
Her: FIVE FOUR FIVE! Yes!
Me: There is one more number: two. Five four five two. 555-5452. TWO! FIVE FOUR FIVE TWO!
Her: Oh! Haha! Five four five two! I see!
I realize that English is likely a second language for this woman, and I can sympathize and all, but, but, BUT IT'S A FREAKING PHONE NUMBER! THEY ALL HAVE SEVEN DIGITS! In the event that you do not know this, or cannot count to seven, you may wish to reconsider your career choice of providing secretarial assistance in an optometrist's office!
Whew. Thank you for the vent there. I wasn't about to start yelling at this poor woman, but I was getting just a little frustrated. With her. Again. :P
In other news...
I'm so very tired. I barely slept last night. Or Saturday night. Tonight I have Midsummer rehearsal in
And now my employees are coming in and smelling me. No, seriously. "Come here! You have to smell Zelda*! Have you smelled Zelda* today?"
I'm wearing Green Tea, by Elizabeth Arden. Is pretty. It's the same scent I've been wearing two-to-three times a week for the entire time you've been working here.
Is it just my life that's surreal like this? Or do you guys get this type of stuff going on, too?
I'm afraid to leave the office to go get coffee. There seems the reasonable chance that I might be followed by a paperboy demanding his two dollars, be attacked by a rogue aquatic bird, or get run over by the #545 in a particularly poetic death-by-bussing (and not the smoochy kind of bussing, either). My day is just that strange and surreal.
Well, I'd better go get the coffee anyway. I'm about ready to faceplant here.
Wish me luck.
* Not my real name.