How "Sharrie" Turned a Typical Doctor's Appointment Into a Pure Disaster.
Please Read This Serious Introduction
as you peruse throughout this hub, which by all appearances, look comical to you. But with a closer look, the truth will stare you right into the eyes. This piece, written simply, (or do I say 'simply written'?) to share with you, my dear followers, what it is truly like to enter an office, greet the office receptionist and witness what can happen to someone like yours truly.
None of these girls on this piece are glamour girls, Playboy bunnies, or even a low-grade porno film that cost, including the girl actor and cameraperson, a grand total of $65.00 plus taxes and distribution governed by the Interstate Commerce Commission.
Notice: to All Red-Blooded Men and Women who are Honest. Do you think that this girl (below) is as pretty as those you see in those men's magazines?
What Pretty Girls Today Want
are, everyday, garden salad receptionists who work five and sometimes six days per week to make a living and some of these girls just might be a single parent, so girls like this have to pull double duty to have any quality of life and depending on how generous her company may be when she was hired several years ago.
Now that you know what to and what not to expect in this hub, let me take you with an average day in my life, but except on "this" day that I am sharing is far from average.
I rise around 8:30 a.m., drink my coffee, eat a light breakfast, dress in my best everyday clothing and head for any given doctor's office over in Tupelo, Miss., a good hour's drive. Upon arriving, I check my facial appearance in my car's rear view mirror to see if I have any rogue hairs trying to stick out from my nostrils and smooth out any unsightly wrinkles in my trousers and shirt and walk into my doctor's office to keep the appointment the doctor has made for me.
Upon walking into the reception area, I see a really pretty girl in her early 30s, pretty brunette hair styled and draped over her shoulders and to make her appearance complete, a pretty blue dress (three inches from her knees) and deep red lipstick, a sight that any average guy would appreciate.
She smiles at me. I return the smile. I tell her (in a quite tone) that I am here for my appointment (that by the way is half hour early. I learned that all female receptionists appreciate this gesture.) and "Shara," looks on her desktop computer to check my name. In the checking, I cannot help but appreciate how good she smells. Must be the expensive perfume she is wearing.
This is where the trouble begins with my title: How "Sharrie" Turned a Typical Doctor's Appointment Into a Pure Disaster.
I told you that my appointment was at 1 p.m., so now it's 2:00 p.m., and frankly, up until now my doctor has never lagged on his medical attention toward me. So in my humble, quiet-spoken nature, I swagger up to where "Shara" is working. She looks up and acknowledges my presence. I ask, again, in a nice manner, "what is the hold-up? My appointment was at 1 p.m., it's now 2!" She halfway smiles then sharply retaliates, "Sir, the doctor is running a bit behind. Be patient and sit back down and by the way, my name's not "Shara," but "Sharrie. Looks like you made a vocal blunder. And while I'm at it, I saw how your eyes were ogling me in this figure-shaping blue dress showing a bit of my perfect flesh, so get over it. I am a total feminist. I am empowered and I answer to no man."
Right now, the other patients are frozen in shock. Oh, some are chuckling at me for my obvious mistake in mispronouncing her name, but all is forgotten. I slowly walk with my head down and sit back down.
- "Sir, can you come back for a moment?" "Sharrie," asks. "Sure," I reply. Then walk back to desk. Then she looks into my eyes and adds, "I have already given the police a description of you and placed you on our town's "No Stalking List" so if and when you try to look at another pretty girl like you did me, you will land in jail."
Again, the remaining patients are frozen in shock. None of the patients laugh. These people whisper to me, "sounds like she means business," and I nod in agreement. I start to sweat.
A few of the patients and I engage in some casual chit-chat and I hear that voice again. It's "Sharrie," saying to me, "Sir, would you mind not talking so loud. Our patients are dealing with various sicknesses and one more time of this foolish talking will get me to cancel your appointment and send you home."
I try to laugh, but tears of pain start rolling down my cheeks. I ask an elderly man holding his crutches in a chair near where I was sitting. I ask him, "pardon me, but is this receptionist by any chance, a German who secretly loved Hitler?"
- It is now 2:30 p.m., There he is, I think to myself. It's my doctor. He is conferring with "Sharrie" and she is giggling and posturing herself to keep his attention to make points with him for twirling her long brunette hair round and round. The doctor smiles and waves and me. I speak now, "Doctor, will it be any longer? I am really hurting."
"Sharrie" stops looking desirable and snaps at me, "I will let you know when the doctor will see you. Got that? You must think that you can bully us pretty girl receptionists like anyone else, but you clod, you have another thing coming. Now sit down and shut---up!"
She continues the cold, direct stare at me as I sit down. Now I am wondering if I even have the right clinic. I am now sweating barrels of sweat. The other patients grow sympathetic toward me. One elderly woman (with shades) pats my back as to gesture that she understands my abuse.
- "Sir, would you pl---eee---ase come here?" "Sharrie" says almost bursting the window glasses out by the energy in her stout voice. I do not bother to answer. She looks at this piece of paper and asks, "Sir, or is that clod, how do you plan to pay for this visit?" I look more confused than when I arrived here an hour and a half ago. "What payment? My insurance always covers my visits," I explain. "Not anymore," "Sharrie" says with arrogance. "Now either pay me the $154.99, cash, check or popular credit card or be sued for this amount."
- I sign a paper of agreement to give her this very amount, wouldn't you know it? The very exact amount left in my checking account. Now as I start to walk back to the chair where I was sitting. "Are you an fool or what?" "Sharrie" asks halfway laughing. "This amount does not include taxes. The total now, clod, is $176.88, and I need it now." She is now crossing her arms and glaring a hole in my forehead.
- It is now 3 p.m., sweat has caused my shirt to stick to my body. In all of this time I have not felt the air conditioner come on. When I find "Sharrie" not looking at me, I slowly and quietly ask to a guy in his late 40s, "Sir, are you sure that this is not one of those live television prank shows?" Then David Spade, the actor, comedian and producer replies, "You jerk! I was the creator of "Fameless" and no, we are not on television."
I am in deep trouble right now. I think about my situation. I am facing a debt collecting agency to collect the $176.88 or a muscular, burly Hispanic man will seize my 2006 Chevy Impala with 245,000 miles and an engine that hardly runs an entire day. And this "Sharrie" is killing me with her eyes. It is now 3:30 p.m., the doctor waves at me again and says nothing about my appointment.
- An old man who is being helped by his caregiver, maybe his grandson, is now entering the waiting room. The two walk to the reception desk. "Sharrie" smiles bigger than Miss Universe winning the crown and the caregiver and her share winks as he is helping the elder man limping across the floor. I cannot contain my frustration any longer. "Sharrie, uhh, now I am not a troublemaker, but I was wrote in before that guy (who is hot for you) and that limping elderly man, so my did they go before me?" I ask and this time with a little more internal fortitude. "Idiot! That was my grandpa and I am dating that intern across the hospital in town. He is going to be a surgeon in a week. Anymore stupid questions?" "Sharrie" spews.
With my spirit defeated and no will to live, I ask, "Sharrie, may I just ask is the doctor ever going to see me with this back pain?"
- "Sharrie's" face lights up and a huge smile appears on her now-angelic face, "Sir, I am very sorry. This is not a chiropractor's office, but a medical doctor's clinic. Obviously you have been in the wrong clinic--wasting my time and ruining my day."
"But the doctor . . .he waved at me and I know him," I argue with desperation.
"Oh, him? He's not a doctor. He is our lab technician, "Jimmy," and you probably never knew it that he was born with some fantastic gift of being super friendly since he was a baby."
My drive home is long, frustrating, and sad. And my back is killing me. I am now thinking to myself that I wish there were a lot more "Jimmy's" than the "Sharrie's" in our world.
Good night, Dodge City, Kansas.
Believe it or not, even in the fast-paced workplace of 2017, there is a lot of wisdom even in this vintage 1950s video about "Office Etiquette."
© 2017 Kenneth Avery