Aptly named because that’s what it feels like I’ve been doing. I have had, essentially, a teenager representing my office.
Well hell, what else would you call a hostile, vulgar drama queen without the sense to at least try to hide the Facebook addiction from me during work hours?
And oooh, did Mama Bear ever get defensive! Rather than imagine for one second the idea that getting rid of this malignant tumor might’ve actually been a last resort, lest we disturb our relationships with people whose faces we stand a good chance of seeing in the parking lot every day, and lest we find ourselves without a receptionist, and in the cumbersome position of having to search for, identify, acquire, and train a brand-new one…from scratch.
The only way this little darling couldn’t have seen this coming is if she was either purposefully ignoring the series of clue-by-fours pistol-whipping her on a weekly basis from the top-down (maybe thinking she could charm her way around them), or doing her best impression of an ostrich clutching an iPad, or her socio-psychological past is so fucked up that the only way to get through to her is to holler at her, clocking her upside the head for punctuation.
Occasionally the fleeting temptation was fun to imagine sometimes, but considering our families started walking upright many generations ago, it wasn’t going to materialize, so please don’t bother getting all lawyerly on me.
While I can understand and appreciate someone’s dysfunctional past and subsequent scarring that comes out in the form of hostility and overcompensation for past hurts, repeat after me: it’s not my problem.
Yep, that’s right. It doesn’t give anyone the right to bring it into my office or ignore our disciplinary actions, subsequent ongoing training, on-the-fly advice/directions, or what have you. My clock, my office, my rules.
My significant other, too.
Oh yes, the plot thickens, because yes, she did try to go there. Consciously or not. And it would’ve been one thing for him to be the only one to say that, but it seemed to be a recurring theme among several patients in the first few days following her departure. Not cool, but definitely damage-controllable.
The funny part is, I have no need to get revenge. Why? Because 1) I’m civilized and mature, and 2) the best “revenge” (if you could call it that) is to live well. During the first 72 hours after we fired this little chickadee, we reactivated about 5 patients, got 5 new patients scheduled, filled my available appointment times such that my significant other will have to pick up some slack, and got more paperwork packets returned to me properly in 2 days than I had in 2 months.
Meanwhile, Generation Y self-described homewrecking Brat and Barfly Mama are still bickering like cats and dogs on their way to buy yet another needless glittery purse, blaming others for their own mistakes, and leading shitty lives that will ultimately go nowhere, because they’re not smart enough to learn from those mistakes.
To them I say Fuck You and Good Riddance. You don’t have a clue as to how utterly relieved I am that my office is no longer held hostage by your juvenile crap. Good luck repeating your same patterns at your awaiting string of low-end jobs; I hope that you smarten up long enough to learn from at least one of your mistakes.