| I'm cured already. |
About ten years ago, I had a job at a low-income health clinic for a summer. It was one of the best jobs I'd ever had. I was originally hired to answer the phones, but someone ended up quitting and I got a weird "promotion" to Patient Specialist, which was the title they made up to cover for the fact that I was doing like six different jobs, none of which I had been trained to do. But it was fine. I loved the patients and I loved the medical staff and I had a really good time.
A lot of the patients who came in didn't speak English very well, so I got to practice my spanish while taking medical histories and stuff like that. Additionally, I got to triage patients, plan community education events for the neighborhood, and help design programs to meet the specific needs of people living at or below the poverty level. I felt very useful and helpful and like I was making a difference, so it was a really satisfying summer.
One of the patients who came in regularly was an old man I'll call Mr Robinson. He was eighty two, spunky as all heck, wore a funny little cap with a blue feather in it, and carried a pipe in his mouth at all times though he'd quit smoking some twenty years prior. He just liked the way it made him feel, he said. "Like a detective. Or a professor. Something distinguished with lots of girlfriends." And believe you me, if I had been just six decades older, I totally would have tried to hit that shit. He was absolutely darling.
So Mr Robinson would come in faithfully for his appointments, always calling the day before to confirm. I adored his calls and visits, because he was so cheery and coherent and responsible. Just a delightful person.
One time he called to confirm that he'd be coming in the next day, and as we were hanging up, he said something kind of unusual that gave me pause- "Oh, and tell the doctor I'll be bringing in my samples."
I could not fathom what he meant. Samples? Like, maybe, carpet samples? Was he redecorating? Or samples like at sam's club on the weekends when you can just walk around and gorge yourself on stuff fresh from the toaster oven whilst you shop for a gallon of salsa and a cheese brick the size of your foot? SHUT UP YOU KNOW YOU DO IT TOO. I really love the huge buckets of Twizzlers you can get there.
What on earth could he mean by samples?
Now, I'm not completely stupid. Had he said "I'll be bringing in my sample," I would have figured he meant a urine sample or something. But the thing is, we had a system in place to remind patients what they were supposed to bring with them when they came in for their appointments. There were little boxes that were supposed to be checked off indicating if we needed to remind them about a urine sample, or to bring a list of current medications, or their food journals-- stuff like that. I logged on to the computer to confirm electronically that Mr Robinson would be at his appointment, and noticed he had no reminder boxes checked. He was not supposed to be bringing in a sample.
"Maybe he made brownies. Or potholders or something," I reasoned with myself. And then, la la la, my brain moved on to bigger, more important things, like "Hey, is that security guard looking at me? OH MY GOD HE IS TOTALLY LOOKING AT ME. HUBBA HUBBA, OFFICER BEEFCAKE! I can't believe it! I have been fully in love with him for a week and now he's looking at me! Hooray! Hooray! Hoor- what the shit is on my gee dee shirt? What IS this, pepperoni? Aw, goddangit, it's on my BOOB. No wonder he's looking at me. I hate myself, I really do. Sigh."
like that. that's how it goes in my upstairs.
Anyway, the next day, I was working away when I heard "Hello, young lady" at the front desk. "Mr Robinson!" I crowed. "So lovely to see you!" We made small talk while I signed him in, I agreed that YES it WAS hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, and then I asked him to take a seat until his name was called.
"Sure, sure. Thanks, young lady," he said, turning away. "Oh!" he said, whirling back around and leaning forward conspiratorially, "Tell the doctor that I remembered my samples."
"Yes, yes. That's right. I'll let her know. You are so respons..."
I stopped because I'd been rendered speechless by what happened next.
Mr Robinson, grinning from ear to ear, was holding up his samples. And they were not potholders. No, no, they were not. It was a blue plastic bag from walmart that was chock full of, for lack of a better word, doody.
He had a big bag full of his own pooples. No joke. I was struck absolutely dumb.
"Mr...Mr Robinson...um. Nice samples! Hey. So. Is that...is that your...uh. Did you save...your...did you...did...did..." no joke. I was like a less composed Maxx Headroom, totally stuck on my words and absolutely incomprehensible. Fortunately, Mr Robinson is a sensitive soul, and he took pity on me.
"It's my samples! The doctor said to save them. So i did! I kept them in the freezer though. So they're sanitary."
I managed to nod and smile, and then I turned around and started shaking with that panicked, desperate, weepy church laughing that results from losing control in a situation where it is NOT okay to laugh. Marci, my bitter joyless coworker, noticed my horsey snorts and said "What's so funny?"
I wanted to say " oh my GAWD marci, Mr Robinson froze all of his poop for like three weeks and brought it in in a WALMART bag! A WALMART BAG full of frozen poop! In July! He has it right there FROZEN POOP IN THE WAITING ROOM WALMART BAG POOPY" but what came out was a tearful "poopsicles..." before I dissolved into giggles again.
She rolled her eyes and went back to writing invoices. see? joyless.
So things picked up again, and I missed the point in which Mr Robinson went in for his appointment. In fact, time flew by so quickly that I was truly shocked when the phone rang and i checked the time so that I could either answer "Good morning, Health Center" or "good afternoon, health center" or whatever, and it turned out to be none other than six o'clock. "Good MornAft-um-Evening, Health Center!" I chirped.
"Hello, this is Mr Robinson."
"Mr Robinson!" I exclaimed, whirling around to look in the waiting room while still holding the phone, as though I expected to be able to screamwhisper The call is coming from inside the clinic! But he had indeed departed. Who knew.
"How can I help you, Mr Robinson? Is everything all right?"
"Oh, yes yes yes, young lady. I'm just such a silly old man, I left something there today and I was hoping you could peek around for it."
Oh god.
"What did you lose, sir?" please say glasses please say glasses please say glasses.
"Oh, gee. I left my samples, actually!"
NOooooooooooooooooo!
"You did? Where did you leave them, do you know?"
"Well, I actually forgot to bring them in to the appointment with me, as it turns out. So they should still be right there in that waiting room, if you don't mind looking."
"Um, not at all. Will you kindly hold?"
I set the phone down and took a deep breath. "Marci, will you listen for the other lines? I have to go look in the waiting room for...something." Marci grumbled and shot me I Hate You Eyes, which I took to mean 'sure, no problem, meg.' and I stepped around my desk and started creeping through the waiting room like the world's most reluctant cat burglar.
Ew, i thought. What if it thawed out? Oh no, oh no...what if it MELTED?? THIS IS SO AWFUL.
My brief but thorough inspection of the now-empty waiting room was fruitless. I picked up the phone and said "Sorry, Mr Robinson. I don't see your bag. It might have gotten thrown away."
And god bless him, the man sounded So disappointed. "Oh gee. Well, that's what I get for being so darn old, you know? Never get old, young lady! I can't recommend it!"
I laughed and told him I'd keep an eye out for him, but in the meantime he should remember to pick up his new medications and I'd see him in a few weeks.
Then I hung up the phone and looked over the clinic contact sheet to see who you called to talk about missing poopsicles. I settled on one of my favorite nurse practitioners.
"Cheryl! Someone left poop in the waiting room." I tattled.
She didn't even look up from her computer. "Uh oh, someone isn't quite ready to be out of diapers." she said.
"No, no. It wasn't a kid, Cheryl. It was Mr Robinson. He brought in a bag of frozen poops and left them in the waiting room today only they aren't there anymore and I think someone threw them away because god knows you don't want that shit laying around...Ha! Shit! I wasn't even trying. Just came out. HA! JUST CAME OUT! Cheryl! Poop!"
She looked at me with such utter pity for my idiocy that I fell silent. "Meg. We cannot have poop in those trash cans in the waiting room. That's not sanitary. Someone has to go throw it out in a biohazard trash can."
"No they don't."
"Meg, yes they do."
"Ew. No they don't!"
"They. Do. Too."
"Holy disgusting, Cheryl. Are you saying I have to dig through the trash and find this bag of frozen poop and dispose of it properly?"
"Yes. but you should wear gloves."
"GODDAMMIT."
But of course I did it. I had to. So I put on like six pairs of gloves and my sausage fingers and I went to work.
And wouldn't you fucking know it, there were no blue walmart bags to be found in ANY of the publicly-accessible trashcans in the clinic! I even went through all the cans in the exam rooms and in the staff rooms. No poopsicles.
Which can only mean one thing to me, but I welcome your theories:
I'm pretty sure someone stole that man's bag of frozen poop. What they're doing with it, I do not care to know.Labels: old people, on the job, potty humor |
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| 14 Comments: |
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Poopsicles. I kept reading it and bursting into laughter. My mom and husband think I'm crazy and it's all your fault.
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I am having a hard time breathing because I don't want to LOL at my desk this early in the morning because I don't want to talk to anyone and they would totally ask me what I'm laughing at
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HAHAHAHA. Amazing. Old dudes coming into your place of employ with frozen bags of poop = priceless.
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Well somebody probably saw the bag and thought "Oh, poopsicles from Wal Mart! Don't mind if I do..."
I just grossed myself out.
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That was too funny NOT to read to my husband, who I had the joy of totally grossing out. Thanks!
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So here's to you, Mr. Robinson.
Meg - I nosed a banana I was eating. Because of your post, I mean.
I will love you forever. Not just because of the banana.
~ Piney
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The levels of wrong are staggering. HYSTERICAL but staggering. :D
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have you kept records of the amount of time you've spent digging in various trash receptacles? i feel like it's a big number.
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Poopsicles....He he he =)
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I think the first post I ever read by you was the post about your phone going into the garbage can, so I second Kelsi's comment... lol.
And dude. Just. wrong. no. How do you freeze poop next to your actual fudgesicles? How? Did he fish them out of the toilet, or squat over a plastic bag? Has he no respect for his freezer and frozen foods? These are the things that go on in MY upstairs. No, really. I keep seeing a frail older gentleman squatting over a blue Wal-Mart bag and I feel sorry... until I start giggling again.
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Girl- you are too kind. I don't want to be the only girl who is thought of as wackadoo.
Lora- tell them something really esoteric and obnoxious "This literary criticism of kate chopin is totally tautological."
IW- doesn't happen nearly enough, I've always said.
Jamelah- HA.
RP- i too love grossing people out.
piney- i think the phrase "nosed a banana" is charming.
md- story of my life
kelsi- it's on my resume
mj- grody, right?
yvo- you know me. i love garbage.
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Meg, you are awesome! I have a scarey hospital appointment later today and wasn't expecting anything could make me laugh. But you did. So glad I found your blog!
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Couple of things: I agree with Yvo on the sanitary aspect of keeping the turds in the freezer. My freezer has it pretty good, I guess; No matter how old things get in there, at least there has never been crap in there.
Also, your "panicked, desperate, weepy church laughing" made me think of a story I hope you'll appreciate. My old roommate was a fan of MadTV, particularly the Lorraine Swanson skits. We were bored one night and talking about sex, like ya do, and we were discussing ways to get back at men for all of their evilness. We decided that the next time we got "lucky," upon first sight of his package we'd exclaim, "Ohhh, dat's cute!" Now, my RM went to church weekly and I'd tag along on occasion. The following service I attended, I was sitting there minding my own business when out of no where, the thought of this actually happening popped into my head. PPFTWHORT was the noise to escape my lips, prompting the preacher to look me square in the eyes as I sat trembling from laughter. Bad. VERY bad.
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OK, so I'm reading this at work-and I'm sitting in the empty two story entrance and people are staring at me from above as I do the necessary silent laugh where you look especially retarded. This was amazing. Priceless.
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Name: A Lover and a Fighter
Home: New York, NY
About Me: "It is a very sad thing that nowadays there is so little useless information."
-Oscar Wilde
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Poopsicles. I kept reading it and bursting into laughter. My mom and husband think I'm crazy and it's all your fault.