Twiddling My Thumbs in Crazy Land

I have another client survey to complete this week and, as usual, I need information from Mr. Moneybags. I'm psyching up to twiddle thumbs. The 3 day rule must be enforced, for whatever reason. When the waiting time is predictable, does it make it any easier? No. I'm breathing deeply while twiddling.

In the meantime, allow me to entertain myself with a recount of a short run-in with Loathsome that took place on Friday. He was at the copier as I passed by on my way to the Information Superhighway's office.

"Well, hello, Ms. Ggirl." He always calls me that.

"Hey Loathsome. How's your mom?" His mom broke her hip a couple of weeks ago. This is a diversionary tactic. I try to get him to talk about something that won't drive me crazy and hope I can wrap it up before he starts telling me about his latest proposal. Or how busy he is being a manager. Or, God help me, how well-dressed he is today.

He filled me in on the latest then, attempting to engage in normal human conversation, he asked,
"So how did things go at...." Loathsome mumbles at this point, as if he can't quite bring himself to focus on someone else enough to actually know where I went. Maybe he's one of those people who's superstitious about things like cancer: say the words "M.D. Anderson" and get struck with prostate cancer next week. Who knows. I couldn't begin to speculate on Loathsome's motivations.

"Did they check your gallbladder?" He smiles knowingly. Loathsome is convinced that my fatigue is related to a diseased gallbladder. If you check your WebMD website, you will find absolutely no reference to fatigue as a symptom for any gallbladder-related illness. It's downright shocking, really, given his "medical background" (orderly in state psychiatric hospital in the early 1960's) that I didn't specifically ask about the potential gallbladder issues. He also finds it shocking that my Internal Medicine doctor didn't mention it at all.

Time for another diversionary tactic. Luckily, I'm quick on my feet.

"They prescribed Ritalin while we wait for the test results," I volunteered. There's still hope for
the gallbladder result, so he's happy to move on. Loathsome proceeds to give me his version of the history of Ritalin use in psychiatric patients. He explains that it's now used for kids with ADHD.

I stand around patiently, smiling and nodding. I occasionally throw in an "Oh really?" or a "Wow" because I know I'm not going anywhere until I acknowledge his incredible knowledge base. After what seems like an eternity, while casting pleading glances at Superhighway, who can see me from her office, she throws me a line. I slide on past Loathsome, who knows that when the Information Superhighway calls, it's probably something more pressing than my personal problems.

Now that I think about it, deep breathing and thumb twiddling don't seem like such a huge waste of time, after all.