Looking for a Laugh?

Why not bathe in my misfortune today folks? As you may or may not know I am employed as Seasons Scum, the affectionate term coined for a receptionist at The Seasons Assisted Living Home.

My duties include, but are not limited to:
kissing ass,
cutting up scrap paper,
directing calls,
filing files,
depositing checks,
and my all time favorite, shredding paper.
Thrilling, right?

Well, today was a little different. Blessed with a co-worker who simply adores these demeaning and menial tasks, all of my "work" was done. Leaving virtually nothing for me to do but be bombarded by angry residents, one in particular, who ugh so help me god if she comes over here one more time before this cursed shift ends. I should have known it was going to be rough when the aforementioned co-worker greeted me not with hello but with "If Room 100 dies, I won't be upset, as in today, if she dies today, I'll be glad." Ooookay.

Obviously sensing a shift-change with her finely tuned hearing aid, about five minutes after Blessed Co-Worker left, Mrs. Room 100 baited her accomplice (or personal CNA) into wheeling her out of her lair to harass me. This is the conversation that ensued:

100:  "THERE IS A PROBLEM WITH MY PHONE." She screeches as while barely able to peer menacingly over the counter top.
D: "Oh, Hello Mrs. _____, the other receptionist told me about the problem Cox will be in as soon as they can to fix it." I lamely reply after failing to successfully hide under said counter top.
100: "WELL WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN? Soon! Soon?!?!?!?! I NEED ASSISTANCE, this is assisted living is it not!? Don't they know I need a phone!?"

*Cue Accomplice to look horrified and shrug her shoulders.*

D: "Um, well they didn't specify a time exactly, just err whenever they can. It's not a problem with our facility, Cox Servers, (what the fuck does that even mean?) are down."
100: "FORGET IT, SEND THE NURSE IN. Can you at least do that? Or is that too difficult?" The vein in her forehead is at peak bursting temp now.
D: " No ma'am, I'll send her right away." (Damn it.)

Accomplice wheels Mrs. Room 100 back to her lair, a whole 30 feet away from the desk. Leaving me to think, Jesus Fucking Christ, why don't you just prop open her door so she can hurl grenades at me from her apartment? Wouldn't that be more effective than encouraging the 90 year old Satanist to come over here and render me incompetent every fifteen minutes or so? Fuck this, I'm going to go shred some more paper, save a bit of my dignity.

The day pretty much down spiraled from here. I think the highlight was when Gold Tooth's (Mr. 108) daughter-in-law cussed me out for calling when her husband was clearly busy bringing in groceries. You know, because I fucking knew right?

Thankfully, Pub is happening now and I can probably score a snack. And thanks be to God if I do because for supper they are having the classic Saturday Night Hot Dogs and Beans. Gag.