curmudgeon classic

CURMUDGEON CLASSIC

IF IT'S BELGIUM, THIS MUST BE TUESDAY

courtesy NASA

Tuesday, January 16, 2001

Let’s see: I have my choice of working four weeks in Fairbanks, two in Gallup, NM, or a week in Augusta, Maine. I’ve lost my local sinecure—or had it snatched away—and CompHealth, the company that sets up my out-of-town jobs, seems to have priced me out of the market in Visalia, as well. They had to scratch and claw to get them to pay the going rate last time, so naturally they demanded another fifty bucks a day this time. “Well,” they told me, “we have to keep raising the rate—this is a business.” So Visalia said thanks a lot and took their business elsewhere.

That’s kind of what happened in Rancho Cucamonga, too. They found the maximum the guy would pay and then bumped it up. The difference is that with him they offered to supply another guy who would work cheaper. Without bothering to ask me.

(I tried changing companies, but that’s another story. Don’t beg. OK, then, here’s the other story: Some woman from Huntsville, Alabama hounded me for a full year to sign up with her company ((“But how do you know we won’t treat you even better than CompHealth?”)) until I finally filled out the forms to get her off my back. It worked: I never heard from her again. After the CompHealth fiasco, I called Huntsville: “Oh, yes, well, we need a lot of doctors in Ohio. We could reactivate your license there, I guess, but we’d need you to work longer and more often than you said you wanted…” End of endostory.)

So back to my choices. I’m going to Maine. In the middle of February. Assuming there’s no major snowstorm that grounds all the flights back east. And assuming TWA hasn’t gone under by then. Where did I put my parka…?

I’ll probably have to do Gallup, too. Last year was a financial disaster, and I have a big tax bill coming up soon. I have to pay more than I have by quite some. (I don’t know why this is either, but at $55 a question, I was afraid to ask my accountant.) I don’t think I’m quite desperate enough for Fairbanks yet. Although, it’s just a short train ride from there to Denali National Park, and 4 weeks means 3 weekends…

Wednesday

Whoa! Hold ‘er right there, Newt! It got up to twenty-something in Augusta, Maine yesterday, which is just about average for this time of year. (Fairbanks hit a blistering 18˚, unseasonably warm.) And to get there you fly to Dallas, change planes for Boston, and then catch the commuter flight to Augusta. Oh, yes, and the flight for Dallas leaves at 1:00 A.M. Without me.

Meanwhile, CompHealth must have decided they owe me: they have added options of 2 weeks in Mission Viejo, 10 days in Tacoma, or a week in Ventura. I’m taking ‘em all.

Thursday

Whupps—hold on again. Ventura is out. But Mission Viejo is in, with maybe another week later on. I got up early today and tried the drive. Jeanine thought it would take 2 hours and wanted me to leave at 6 A.M. I pointed out that if it takes that long, I’m not commuting. I allowed 90 minutes max, left at 6:45. Got there at 8:05. So we have come to a compromise: they will find me a hotel but I’ll drive in on Mondays and come home for the weekend.

Thursday, 2/1/01

It is now official. I got my packet with directions, etc. The directions are to a different address, or course, but what did you expect? Turns out they were so taken with me (the guy actually spoke to me for 5 minutes on the phone), and so interested in “maintaining continuity,” that they have reassigned me to spend the whole 3 weeks at the breast center, doing fifty or sixty mammos a day. Oh, joy.

I will also be responsible for the occasional galactogram (injecting the ducts that open on the nipple), which should be no problem now that I have gone down to the medical school library and read up on how to do ‘em.

Monday, Feb 5—way later. After work.

Arrggh! I have some disgusting disease! Some terrible discharge coming out of my ears! Oh. It’s mammograms. Never mind…

You’d think by now I’d have learned to ask about the nature of the practice before I committed, but you’d be wrong. I have to find a grocery tonight and get something for my lunches. There is no going out at noon around here. You eat between breasts (that was a fantasy of mine once, but I’m older now) or you don’t eat.

I’m staying at the Holiday Inn. I take it as an ominous sign that, though I am alone, they insist on giving me two of those magnetic key cards. Giovanni, at the front desk says it’s “so you won’t have to come all the way downstairs in case one of them doesn’t work,” and I’m afraid she ought to know. Yes, she. I had to ask, too. Seems her father, a schoolteacher, had a very bright student named Giovanni and named his daughter after him. Personally, I think that now that she’s old enough to be on her own and has a job and all, she’s old enough to be told the truth. But I don’t want to butt in…

Gio has also promised to find out why the emergency exit plan says of the fire alarm box: “Sound: ‘clink-clink.’” I am assured that if I pull the handle, it will not go “clink-clink.”

I’m in the Catalina Suite, which is a room with a locked door leading to another room. The second room also opens onto the hallway, but doesn’t have a separate number, so I guess that’s why it’s a suite. I assume they could rent out the other room, but they’d have to tell their guest to go up to “the room next to 403.” Bit awkward.

Holiday Inn has 147 guest rooms (I don’t know if they count the Catalina Suite as one or two) and a “workout room” consisting of a treadmill and a mirror. I suppose the mirror makes the room look larger (I wonder where they store their brooms, now that they’ve made this into an exercise room?), but I find it disconcerting to watch myself walking toward me. Or would, if I could get down there. My legs feel like rubber bands and I can’t convince my feet to get off the bed and back on the floor. 14 more working days in lovely Mission Viejo.

There are no old missions in Mission Viejo, but you could have guessed that. The town is named after Mission San Juan Capistrano, which is past Laguna Niguel and down the coast beyond Dana Point and San Clemente. “But,” they tell me, “this is the mission area.” California, some of us call it.

What there is here, is an Edwards Theater whose marquee advertises “Dracula. Now Hiring.” And a mall called Shops at Mission Viejo. And lots of signs telling you how to get to Laguna Niguel. Oh, and about a bazillion condos.

I ate in the hotel’s restaurant this evening. It’s not something I recommend as a rule, but I wasn’t getting on the road again today. Had swordfish parmesan, which sounds a lot better than it was. It came with broccoli that tasted a lot like—oh, let me see, like—nothing. Absolutely nothing at all. And rice which is distinguished from the broccoli by being yellow and softer. The staff kept coming by and asking “how’s your dinner?” and I felt like I must be the butt of an elaborate hoax: “Let’s give him 3 different colors of tofu and see if he notices!” I think that guy at the next table is Alan Funt….

Friday

The week is practically done, as am I. I guess I need to tell you about Mrs. Thatcher, which is not her real name but close enough that she’ll recognize herself, so don’t spread this around. Hell, go ahead: what do I care? Anyway, Mrs. Thatcher showed up on Monday clutching one of our letters saying she needed to return for additional films to complete her mammo. She was irate. She was irate because the doctor who read her initial films was not the same as the one who read last year’s mammo. And furthermore, his name wasn’t on the door, which she considered fraudulent. Besides, we hadn’t sent her the full report of her incomplete mammo, only the message that she needed to return and was that really necessary? She wanted a second opinion on whether she needed more films. (Actually, it turned out what she wanted was a fourth opinion, and was presumably going to go on until she found somebody who told her not to bother, but that’s another story.) After she had berated everybody in front, I took over. I was so unctuous, you could throw up. I smoothed her little feathers, showed her the films, apologized for everything including the fact that my name wasn’t on the door either. And I assured her that the doctor who had read last year’s mammogram would personally take over her case. (Ha! Take that, Forino! I told you to let me work in the general diagnostic office, but you wouldn’t have it!)

That was Monday, the day I got a reputation for limitless patience. (Yes! Me!)

Then came Tuesday. And then came Mrs. Thatcher, again. She wanted all her films, from the office, the hospital, the state of California. Now. She wanted to know why Dr. Forino hadn’t called her at home after dinner. She wanted to know why there was so much chatter in the front office. She wanted to know why she had to wait in the waiting room and wait AGAIN in the dressing room. She wanted to know why people weren’t more polite to her. I’m afraid I may have gotten just a leeetle testy. I think I blew my rep.

When she came in on Wednesday, I promised I would personally collect all her films and deliver them to her door. (I lied. It happens. Get over it.) On Thursday I left early, at 5:20, so I missed her visit. But I got to hear all about it on Friday morning. Whereupon I instructed the front office people to explain when she returned that I would be unable to see her today because I was deceased. So Friday is safely over, and I am FREE. I’m out of Mission Viejo. See you next week.