Go Ahead. Ask Me Anything.

At my office (and with virtually everyone who knows me), I'm the go-to girl for questions no one else can answer. Medical, scientific, grammatical, computers. You get my drift; they ask me about any subject that puzzles them or confounds them or that they're mildly curious about.

Sometimes it gets on my nerves. Do they think I'm a medical professional? Do they think I know anything about computers? Why, in God's name, do people assume I'm the person to ask? I know why. If I don't know the answer to the question, I don't make stuff up. My dad always did that. If you asked him something and he didn't know the answer, he'd just wing it. Sometimes if I don't know, I find the topic compelling enough to find the answer. The real reason they ask me, though, is that I can't keep my mouth shut.

Case in point. Last week, Crazy Employee wandered into my office in a daze.

"I have a knot on the back of my head and it really hurts."

I actually asked her some questions, like when it had developed, did it hurt only when she touched or all the time, etc. That's right. I actually pursued this, without pausing to consider the consequences, both short and long term.

I decided that it was probably a swollen lymph node. I've spent considerable time lately looking at a map of the lymphathic system while my physical therapist massaged my lymph nodes. It's fascinating stuff and almost worth lymphedema to learn about it.

Crazy was enormously relieved. She thought a tumor had sprung up over night. I assured her that I didn't think that's the usual way they develop (as if I really know). Crazy eventually called her doctor, who agreed with my "diagnosis." Off she went to immediately share with the rest of the office that, thanks to me, she was relieved to learn the problem wasn't cancer and that it was verified by someone who was trained to know.

Big mouth. People ask me things and out come answers. I don't think about it until they've gone on their merry way, when I once again wonder why the hell they're asking me. Admittedly, I have a rather half-assed store of knowledge on a broad range of topics. I have many interests and a surprising memory for the things I read.

The people I know and trust well enough for me to complain to about this blind belief that I'm the bearer of esoteric wisdom tell me to simply stop answering their questions. Excellent advice, but I've never been able to follow it. Open mouth, answer comes out.

The inability to, once again, keep my mouth shut has, once again, furthered my reputation around Crazy Land. It's become part of my unofficial job description.

I have a question myself. Knowing that providing information spawns more trust in my boundless knowledge, knowing that it irritates me to no end, why is it that I can't stop myself from participating?

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Daylight Savings Time in Crazy Land

Daylight savings time renders an otherwise godawful week in Crazyland virtually unbearable. The only good news? My good friend, the Hemorrhoid Guy, was appalled at how dark everything is when I arrive in the morning, so he took it upon himself to see to it that many new lights were installed on every corner of both buildings. When I arrived this morning, it might as well have been high noon. I wondered if the glare was keeping Lillian awake or maybe helping her find her meth pipe a little easier. I confess that thought made feel a bit impish; I had an almost irresistible urge to intentionally set off the building alarm. I was a good girl; I did not do it. I wonder if that counts as one of my good deeds for the day? Probably not.

Both Crazy Employee and the Superhighway are on vacation this week, leaving me to fend off some of the phone traffic. By around 10:00 o'clock, our lovely and brilliant young receptionist has managed to drag herself out of bed and make it to work. That makes things much easier for me. To be fair, when Owner and Hemorrhoid Guy are here, their respective male organs don't seem to impede their ability to answer the phone. The same cannot be said of Golf Pro and Mr. Moneybags. The Foot Lady is of no help, either. If her foot can't be involved, then it's no dice, I guess.

This week also brought me another Hurt Guy. The foreman (whom I probably haven't introduced before), The Ladies' Man, was fabulous and is working hard to get that boy back to work so he's not sitting around all day watching reruns of Law and Order on Crazy Land's dime. Preventing people from taking up residence in their recliner while we pay the price is one of my primary missions in life. Unfortunately, I think L.M. is going to have to come up with an unlimited amount of "restricted duty" activities. This is a knee injury and I'm praying that we won't eventually discover a torn meniscus. If we do, our workers' comp rates are bound to rise. That is never, ever good. The injury isn't a big deal yet, but you know how I hate the paperwork.

Hemorrhoid Guy had to make an appearance at a Benefit Review Conference for the scary Don Quixote. Don has changed his story so many times that even he can't keep up anymore. He's now claiming that his broken hand qualifies as a permanent disability. Sadly, Don had neglected to inform his state-provided attorney that he's actually been working. That kind of argues against the claim of disability and, of course, his attorney was outraged that he hadn't mentioned this important fact prior to the actual hearing. Don tried to engage Hemorrhoid in, no doubt, bitter dialog, but H.G. slipped away before the scary guy could corner him.

Our incredibly liberal local version of the Worker's Comp system has decided to pass Don on to a higher authority, so there will be a new hearing on May 7. Since I know very little about the working conditions and schedules of any of our field employees, I won't have to attend. Poor Hemorrhoid will be in attendance, but he's taking along some reinforcements in the person of the actual foreman of the job. Let's hope that the foreman will remember that loyalty to his fellow "working man" must not outweigh the facts. If he doesn't, I believe Hemorrhoid could take him in a tussle. Fisticuffs might well break out over this particular case. H.G. and I are very, very serious about worker's comp fraud.

Is there more? Well, of course there is, including an encounter with Mr. Moneybags. I needed some information from him this morning to relay to the Ladies' Man, so I had no choice. Moneybags was off and running right away about what an idiot Loathsome is. I agreed. Then he moved on to the "liberal (read Democrats) idiots" who are supporting Spitzer. Maybe Moneybags knows something I don't, but I haven't heard of much defense being mounted by even the party's most faithful. Time to exit. When he took a breath, I told him I knew Foot Lady had finally made some coffee and that I simply had to get down there immediately. It was a rare moment when self preservation outweighed excellent Southern manners. Mercifully brief, or as brief as it gets with Moneybags.

So that's it. I still have two and a half days to go. The phone will be ringing any moment now. My eyes are burning and watering from allergies and I just spilled yogurt down the front of my shirt. Yes, I'm writing this at lunch because otherwise there is no time and I can't live without you. As predicted, the phone is ringing.

German Shepherd

The Perfectionist

Doggedly dedicated to getting the job done, you don't let silly little distractions get in the way of putting in a full day's work. And after you come home, chowing down on a little grub and taking a little catnap is all it takes to get you up and at 'em for round two, whatever that may entail. Your dogma emphasizes the importance of hard work, and you swim laps around your dog-paddling, time-wasting co-workers. Your cleverness leads to you often being entrusted with some pretty important tasks, which you are always more than happy to sink your canines into. You really dig being outdoors and love a bit of exercise, but you draw the line at the ridiculous stuff, choosing a game of beach volleyball over Pilates in the park any day.

Healer