The leaves are turning and it's starting to get colder. Ok, not really. This is California. It's still in the 70's every day. I think of You've Got Mail around this time because of the opening scene where they discuss how the fall inspires a desire to buy school supplies. Tom Hanks says that he would send Meg Ryan a bouquet of sharpened pencils if he knew where she lived.
Anyway, I bring this up because I recently found a rubber band on my desk that smells just like those rubber playground ball we used to play four square and Greek dodge ball with in elementary school. I always loved the way those smelled. This little strip of stretchiness took me back to the times when I'd open up the coat closet and the dense aroma of rubber and fun would envelop me. Anyway, I guess I could finish up about nostalgia for a simpler time when my only worries were catty girls on the playground. But really, I just like the smell...
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Wernicke's Disease
So I've started my job as a receptionist as I've mentioned before. I always considered myself good receptionist material. Warm, friendly, nice smile, etc, but I never realized that something lurked within that would destroy my hopes of reaching the pinnacle of receptionist-ness.
I always knew I had a problem. My friends knew it. My parents knew it because my mother suffers from it. There's nothing wrong with my hearing, but I'm pretty sure there's something not quite right in my Wernicke's Area. Slight brain damage? Maybe. Judge for yourself. Not uncommon are comments such as this:
Me: Did you say you are in love with Michael Buble?
Whomever: No! I said I want to make a cheese souffle!
Oops. So yesterday a man by the name of Wif called. I had no idea that anyone in the world is named Wif, so I told me boss, Bob, that Wes was calling. He later corrected me, saying that his name was indeed strange. Near the end of the day, a man who I swear said his name was Brian King calls up Bob, and I transfer him.
Me: (Sweetly) Bob, Brian King is on the line for you.
Bob: (Gruffly and obviously annoyed) Ming! His name is Ming! He's Chinese!
Sorry Bob that my disability has come between us. I'll never get promoted to favorite receptionist now.
I always knew I had a problem. My friends knew it. My parents knew it because my mother suffers from it. There's nothing wrong with my hearing, but I'm pretty sure there's something not quite right in my Wernicke's Area. Slight brain damage? Maybe. Judge for yourself. Not uncommon are comments such as this:
Me: Did you say you are in love with Michael Buble?
Whomever: No! I said I want to make a cheese souffle!
Oops. So yesterday a man by the name of Wif called. I had no idea that anyone in the world is named Wif, so I told me boss, Bob, that Wes was calling. He later corrected me, saying that his name was indeed strange. Near the end of the day, a man who I swear said his name was Brian King calls up Bob, and I transfer him.
Me: (Sweetly) Bob, Brian King is on the line for you.
Bob: (Gruffly and obviously annoyed) Ming! His name is Ming! He's Chinese!
Sorry Bob that my disability has come between us. I'll never get promoted to favorite receptionist now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)