Ok, so I am attempting to make a dermatologist’s appointment, nothing major, but something I would rather have addressed sooner than later. So, I do what most reasonable people in need of an appointment do: I call them on the telephone, which I foolishly believed was customary in this neck of the woods.
Here is how the conversation follows:
Derm’s Office: “HELLO. DOCTAH’S OWFICE. HOW MAY I HELP YEW?” (NASAL!)
Me: “Hello. I would like to make an appoinment to be seen. I-”
Derm’s Office: “THIS IS AN ANSWERING SERVICE! WE CAN’T DO THAT! CALL BACK AT ONE-THIRTY! THANK YEW!”
Me: “Oh. Ok. Tha-”
Derm’s Office: Click.
Forgive me, but I don’t get the whole answering service thing. I think if they are going to pick up the phone, then they should be able to schedule an appointment or two. Ya know, just for shits and giggles?
Fast forward to scene two, in which I decide to call my ob/gyn’s office for an appointment. You know, just because no one has scraped my cervix with a spatula in awhile, and it’s feeling a little lonely.
Dudes! I am not kidding! THE SAME WOMAN ANSWERED THE PHONE, OR MAYBE HER CLONE!
Ob/Gyn’s Office: “DOCTAH’S OWFICE. CAN YA HOLD?”
Me: giggle-snort laughing, can’t manage to mutter more than a “uh-huh”
Ob/Gyn’s Office: Retaliates by putting me on hold for SEVEN MINUTES.
Not to be a bother, but uh, if a baby was about to come shooting out my cooch, this would have been enough wait-time to cause alarm. Luckily, no such baby shall be sliding down that chute today, so I didn’t really care all that much. Plus I did laugh, so I’m sure I deserved some sort of punishment.
To be fair though, the phone was picked back up by a very nice young man, who I thankfully did not have to regale with any horror stories of my reproductive system. (Remember last summer and the cyst THAT WOULD NOT DIE? I really would have hated to have had to tell this nice polite man that I thought my ovary was about to pop off.)
Apparently both offices will be back in at one-thirty. I predict I will forget and not call for another month.