Here's the situation: The old secretary was super disorganized. And Ms. Type-A 2004 right here took a hold of the reins and completely reorganized the office last week. I made specific folders for things to be filed in. At the end of every day, she was handwriting a lits of patients that came in. No more. I set up a computer file to manage all of that. And many such other examples.
The secretary came back from vacation today. Last night, my Dad told me I had to come in today and tell her that she had to follow my system, and if she didn't like it, to take a hike. Obviously he was being a bit melodramatic, but nonetheless he did want me to speak with her. Oh boy. Now, some forty-something woman is not going to want to be taking orders from me. Veruca Salt, I am not. I wonder how this will work itself out. I've got my money on everything reverting to the old system and all my work for the week being placed in the circular file (there's some lame corporate humor I haven't used in a while). Serves me right for thinking I can try to fix things that people prefer to leave broken.
Yesterday one of the other doctors brought his 12 year old daughter to the office. I think it was Indian doctor bring your confused daughter to work day. She was actually adorable and was eager enough to help me alphabetize stuff. Later in the day, some patients were sitting in the waiting room and looked at us. Then a woman pointed at her, looked at me and said "She is your daughter? Very beautiful!"
Oh maaaaaaaaan. A 12-year old daughter? Me? Really? I've crossed the threshold into possible-motherhood resemblance. A 2-year old, even a 5-year old I could understand. But 12? Just great. I am solaced by the fact that this patient was like 100 years old and had thick glasses on. Doesn't change what she said though.
Acting on my newfound motherly aura, I decided to make a second attempt at cookies. Chocolate chip with walnut to be precise. My mom looked at me like I was out of my mind. But I was determined. I dug out a handheld electric mixer that had never, ever been used. FYI, my family does not bake. The oven never gets used. Indian food -- at least the stuff my mom makes -- is made on the stove, not in the oven. So using a mixer and a bowl from 1976, I made chocolate chip cookies from scratch.
I wish I had some music to insert right here, when I tell you that my cookies were magnificent. I wasn't exactly sure how the Indian cookies I made last time really turned out, so I relied on my parents' and aunt and uncles' judgement. But chocolate chip cookies? I am quite the connoisseur. Dude, my cookies rivaled Mrs. Fields. And her husband David. They would sell like hotcakes in airports and highway rest areas. I was so proud of them that I put them in a tupperware bin and took them with me to the office today. Not even to share with people. Just to keep near. They are precious to me. Proof of my ability to create. Not purchase. Create. I don't even think I'll be able to eat the rest. I can give you one if I see you soon. I might even make some to send to my brother in Atlanta.
I know I'm overreacting. But I really, truly am this happy. Did you know that in the 3 years I lived in Manhattan, I lived in 3 different apartments? And in those 3 different apartments, I never once used the kitchen. Not once. Not the stove, not the oven, nothing. Perhaps the refrigerator to keep water cold and the microwave to heat up some Bowl Appetit! (for real, it's a Betty Crocker ready-made meal thing. I love the name so much). But never have I ever baked.
Don't worry, I won't become Martha Stewart or anything. Well, maybe on the insider trading side. But not the happy homemaker side.
I feel like seeing a movie and doing something normal. Working in this office and baking when I go home is so unlike me. I need to remove myself from this bizarro-world.
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