Everything I Like Causes Cancer

I am pretty sure I have the plague. I missed three days of work this week because I couldn't stop coughing long enough to start the car. And I still can't.

I called the doctor yesterday morning about getting a return-to-work note (required if we've been out three or more days.) His efficient and helpful (NOT) receptionist said she'd have him call me. At about 3 in the afternoon I hadn't received a call back. Since I haven't actually seen this doctor in years I assumed that they might have called my home phone number, which no longer has a phone attached to it. (I just use my cell. It eliminates all unwanted calls.) And since I can't go back to work without a note saying I'm no longer deadly, I need to speak with the doctor TODAY.

So I call back. It went something like this:

Me: Yes, this is Gwen. I called this morning and left a message for the doctor . . .
Her (interrupting): Yes, and I gave him your message.
Me: Okay, but I was calling because I haven't heard from him and . . .
Her: He is with patients and will call you when he returns calls.
Me: Yeah, I'm just trying to tell you that he might have the wrong phone number for me.
Her: I took your number this morning.
Me: I understand that, but if he uses the chart to find my number, it will be the wrong one. This is what I have been trying to tell you.
Her: He has your message.
Me: Good. But would you mind taking my number again? You know, just in case?
Her: I will take a second message.

Little Miss Bitch Pants needs to learn how to listen. Or maybe just a good hard smack upside her head. I volunteer for the smacking part.