Beef Stock and Smoothies

I really should be reading poetry or studying algebra at the moment, but I’ve had it with the both of them. I’m in need of some therapy (again), so I shall just write for a while. As my classmate Jessica and I were discussing today… we are so burned out on poetry. We have been reading poems for the past six weeks or so, and we’re TIRED of it. So we decided to go on strike tonight. We’ve turned in the rough draft of our poetry analysis papers, and the final draft is due next week. I’ve decided that the pain of that paper can’t be all that unlike the pain of childbirth. Oh, but it was a struggle. Last Wednesday night in my literature class, we had to read this poem about the magi and write our interpretation of it. So I took it literally and wrote an analysis about the wisemen going to find the baby Jesus. From all appearances, this is what it was. In the end… it turned out to be a poem about World War I. Now what kind of sense does that make?

I’m not the only one who struggles with this poetry stuff evidently. I ran into my Algebra buddy William after my Sociology class. We were chatting awhile, and the subject came up of poetry papers. It turns out he is also in a literature class and also has an analysis paper that is due. “What in the world did you write about?” I asked him. “Well!” he said. “I randomly picked some poems out that I thought were about fishing and wrote a paper on those. Then we went over them in class, and I found out that they weren’t about fishing at all. So now it’s back to the drawing board.” I found this highly hilarious, especially after just having gone through the World War I trauma.

My own paper happens to be on three poems of John Donne’s. I am expounding on love as if I’m an old pro at it. Mainly, I’m just stretching it out to a five page paper any way I can. It’s only at four pages right now, and even then, I have stretched the paragraphs out in every way imaginable. The last sentence in a good majority of my paragraphs have just one or two words on the last line—just enough to take up another line. I wonder if she’ll notice.

Fridays are the days when we do not see patients; it allows us time to catch up on our paperwork. But last Friday, who should come strolling in the door about ten o’clock but Dr. G himself. If he’s there, we get NOTHING done, for he needs help with this, and he needs help with that. Sigh. Anyway, he got this bright idea that he should cook his lunch there in our small kitchen adjacent to the Workroom where everyone is stationed. We all hate it when he cooks, because his choice of menu is often puke-provoking.

I became aware of an attitude of unrest amongst the girls, and it wasn’t long before Kim came into my office complaining of the smell of his cooking. And then Angela came by and said it smells worse than anything she’s ever smelled in her life. Well, I didn’t really think much of it because he’s always cooking, and we never like the smell of it. And then it began to seep into my office, and I declare…if it didn’t smell as bad as the garbage dump we walked by in Madrid, Spain.

Now folks, I have smelled bad things before, but this was so bad, if I were a cussing woman, I’d have been cussing. The way it was, I ordered the girls to shut the door between the medical records room and our part of the office to deter the smell. It did little good. The general approach we take to his cooking is usually grin and bear it, but I did hear some comments in the back. Then I heard Dr. G ask, “What does it smell like?” to which Kim snapped, !*&t! This, he thought, was highly amusing [which it wasn't].

I put up with it for a little bit longer, but I could only keep my nose plugged up for so long, and it was so bad, that I quickly reached my limit. I literally stomped to the back where they were all working. I made no effort to beat around the bush. I scowled darkly and said, “Just what is going on back here?!!!” Dr. G looked up from the charge tickets he was filling out and smiled broadly. But I was in no mood to be placated. “Is this really necessary?” I asked him, glowering. Now normally, I am civil to everyone, no matter how aggravated I get at the situation. So I think I may have gotten his attention a little bit with my tone. “Heh heh,” he chuckled. “You think it smells bad?”

“YES!” I practically roared. “What is it??”

“It’s some beef stock that’s gone bad,” he said. “I’m trying to see if I can make it edible again by cooking it. I’ve got the door open,” he added, as if that would make everything alright.

“This is bad, Dr. G,” I said. “I can hardly work because of it, and I don’t know how the other girls can work back here.” “I’m breathing through my mouth,” Kim said. I rolled my eyes, turned around, slammed the door, and stomped back into my office. I instant- messaged Kim then and told her to tell him that if he doesn’t quit it, I’ll get my eucalyptus plants out. [He’s allergic to eucalyptus plants.] He just thought it was funny.

The front door opened, and a patient and her husband walked in. “&*#^%!” the man said. “What is going on in here?”

“Dr. G is cooking,” Angela told them. That’s all the explanation they needed, for they had been subject to such goings-on before.

A home health rep walked through the door. “You might consider not staying very long today,” Angela said. “Dr. G is cooking.”

“Yes,” he said. “I think I’ll take your advice.” And out the door he went.

In the meantime, the Yellow Pages woman showed up for her appointment with me at 11:30. I was struggling to be charitable toward her because of the way she had been “talking down” to me when we had spoken over the phone. Sort’ve all whiney-like and old biddy-ish. She's the type that won't take no for anything. She knows best and all that stuff. I had finally agreed to see her and had set up an appointment for just this time.

I had been able to tell she was a smoker just by hearing her voice, and her presence confirmed it. As Dee put it later, she’s literally a “smoke bomb.” She had a VERY STRONG smoke odor hanging about her. She inhaled, and I smelled smoke. She exhaled, and I smelled smoke. She talked, and I smelled smoke. She smiled, and I smelled smoke. My sense of smell had already been abused, and I was not feeling too gracious. So I did not even bother apologizing for or explaining the smell in the air, for she was beginning to offend me too.

“Now Kris,” she said. “You used to be big advertisers with us, but you’re not anymore. Did we do something to make you hate us?” I briefly considered going the drama route, inhaling sharply, holding my breath, and squeaking out, “YES!” but I didn’t. I resisted. My tone for the meeting was cordial, at best. She laid out the Grand Plan to make our business an overnight success. And then, she wanted to show me their online advertising, and could I please pull up the website right then, and she’ll just stand behind me and talk over my shoulder. And that was almost my undoing.

“No,” I said through gritted teeth, “I cannot go talk this over with Dr. G right now. I want to wait. I will call you. Yes, it is unfortunate that you’ll only be in town until next Thursday, but no, I really cannot [won’t] discuss this with the Doc right now.”

In walks Dr. G. Well, hello Dr. G!

“Yes,” I said to Ms. Yellow Page while giving Dr. G ‘the eye.’ “I’ll wait for your call on Monday. See ya later—buh-byeeeee!” Out, out, out you go!

He asked me what he wanted to ask me, then went on his way again. But it wasn’t long till he was back, standing at my door with his big medical book in hand. He proceeded to read an excerpt from the book out loud; the only word I recognized was “streptococcus.”

“And this is relevant to me HOW?” I asked. He looked up. “Well,” he said, "I’m trying to prove my point.”

“The thing is, Dr. G,” I said. “We’re not on Survivor. This is not Fear Factor. You’re not even poor! Why would you think you need to preserve spoiled meat?? Go to Krogers!!! Buy some fresh meat! Boil it! Eat it! Why do you eat the things you do? I’ve never understood that about you.”

Ann walked by about that time, and I continued, “Ann, I don’t know how you can stand to smell it back there.”

Her tone said it all when she snapped, “If he can eat it, I guess I can smell it,” which he thought was highly hilarious.

About that time the patient had finished getting her blood drawn. “Dr. G,” she said. “What are you cooking??”

“Oh, I’m just doing a little experiment,” he said, unwilling to admit his real goal.

“Are you really going to eat it?” She asked.

“No, I guess not,” he said finally….reluctantly. Death of a dream.

Hah!

Dee came in later on that afternoon. “WHAT is that smell??” she asked. “What smell?” I said. “We’ve just gotten rid of the bad smell.”

“No, no,” she insisted. “It smells like a garbage dump in here. You’ve got to understand—Y’all have just adjusted to the smell—but this is fresh for me.” Well, come oooon in, honey.

By Monday morning, I thought I had pretty well recovered and was once again a good, gracious person...until Dr. G came strolling by my office, happy and eager. He said, “How are you doing, Miss Kris? I’ve just mixed together a smoothie. Would you like some?”

“Dr. G,” I said wearily, “after your fiasco on Friday, please do NOT mention the word ‘smoothie’ to ME.”

It just shouldn’t happen in a doctor’s office.