I’m going back tomorrow. I hope she’s there.

When I first admitted that yes, yes I was seriously depressed and yes, yes I really did need some medical assistance, I left not one, not two, but three voicemails with the psychiatrist my counselor recommended.

Did I have OCD? No. I was depressed. Each phone call felt like running a marathon. But I was desperate. So I kept leaving messages.

Finally, this ditsy-sounding receptionist called me back. She was all, “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize from your messages that you wanted me to call you back.”

Good thing I was depressed or I would have reached through the phone and strangled her. But instead I grunted. And then she said they had a cancellation the next day, so all was well.

When I got to the office, everything made sense. Ditsy Receptionist was maybe 24. She was all blonde and dirty jeans and cleavage. And when she asked me to sign the form saying I’d been given a copy of the privacy policy? And I had to ask for the privacy policy? I realized that dead-end, part-time receptionist jobs are where failed reality show contestants go to die.

But really, the best part is the outgoing voicemail message at the office. Since I left three messages, I pretty much have Ditsy Receptionist’s spiel memorized:

“Thank you for calling the office of Dr. Head and Dr. Shrink. Umm? Leave a message and someone will return your call. Umm? If you’re calling for a prescription refill, have the pharmacy fax a refill form to 555-1212. You must give three days’ notice. If this is an emergency, go to a hospital immediately! Umm? Have a nice day!”

Is it just me, or is telling someone in a psychiatric emergency to go to the hospital and then telling them to have a nice day just a little … Umm?

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