Another Day, Another Receptionist

It’s not as bad as Murphy Brown, but we just can’t keep a receptionist and we all know why – the receptionist is located perfectly at the intersection of countless, incessant, sundry Douche Bag vectors. When I say we, I mean those of us who stand detached, on the sidelines watching men clubbing seals.

Can’t do a thing about it from our Alanon boat. We're just here keeping our side clean.

They all pretty much start out the same - optimistic, eager, wide eyed, on-time. The phone list seems like a type of Schindler's List. They page people with a question mark.

Stanley? You have a call on 103?

After a while they get teeth, and the more toothy ones page like you just roofied their child, the Math Whiz. Some page with flirtation. The guy who elevated it to an art form made the men feel extremely uncomfortable. Terry (you naughty boy), you have a call (implied giggle) on 102 (end with a silent, but heavy smirk). Each has had their own special style and flair. No one can do phones like the receptionist.

Each is a natural born listener and entertainer. That's the person's job. They are anchored to a desk, prone to any wandering, bored, stir crazy asshole who is tired of YouTube and just needs another human to pretend to care.

Receptionists provide us with mental CPR, but they don't necessarily like being the company shrink.

And as such, they hold your endless stories about your kid, your prosthetic butthole, your dumb spaniel, your drunken boyfriend, your ex-wife, your doctor's office, your insurance company and all the bullshit you are going through, they know which of your balls is fake and which is real, they know which of your kids is a crack head, and which one is dating the coach. If you can create drama, the receptionist receives it. The receptionist knows a lot about a lot so you better be careful.

At my company, we are careless. We can't keep them. I don't need to tell you why. I'd rather have you imagine a herd of moose trying to open a bottle of Corona, it's a better image than the amazing feats of micromanagement and inconsistency that I witness at the front desk. Many many years ago when I was new to my post, the outgoing receptionist took me aside, made a grave face - you've seen this face, it's ghastly, it warns the Indiana Jones guy not to proceed or he'll get his head chopped off. She gave me this face and said, "You better be careful, they're going to FUCK you." It's not yet my turn, and I see she was right.

No one has been kind enough to warn our new person. Some of us already have a small wager going that in 7 months, we are going to get the email that ends in: and we wish her well in her new endeavors.

For now though, I wish her well in her current endeavors.