assignment...any advice is taken gladly!
A few months ago, I was diagnosed with an overactive bladder, or OAB. The symptoms of this debilitating disorder were apparent: the frequent use of the laboratory throughout the day and night, along with the anxiety I felt when attending a long meeting, or sitting through a traffic jam knowing a toilet wouldn't be available to me at any given moment if I felt an urge to release my bladder. I couldn't handle the discomfort. In hopes of there being some kind of recent medical breakthrough, I decided to visit my physician again.
I arrived late for my scheduled appointment because the new employee at Starbucks had no idea how much milk was needed in my venti-sized Marble Mocha Macchiato. I even leaned over the counter, telling him that of the 24 ounces in the drink, 5 should consist of milk to give it that creamy flavor. He insisted on blatantly ignoring me and my help, even when my arms were waving over the counter and I held my palm up towards him indicating it was, in fact, five ounces that were needed. Fifteen minutes off schedule, I left the coffee shop. Twenty minutes and a Marble Mocha Macchiato later, I found myself in his office.
"But Dr., I've already been to the bathroom twice since I got here! What does that tell you?! Didn't they teach you about OAB in Bangladeshi?"
"My dear Miss Janice, I have told you before - Bangladeshi is the ethnicity and Bangladesh is the city. And no, I do not think that was a symptom.", he told me through his overbearing white mustache.
"I'm shocked, Dr. Rahani, I am really just shocked and a little bit appalled at your disinterest in my disorder", I told him as I buried my head in my hands.
I awaited a response from him while I sat there, bent over in the misery of my situation. After a few passing moments of silence, I lifted my head up and found Dr. Rahani with his own head tilted to the left. He was staring at the empty 24 ounce pitcher of coffee at my side and shaking his head. I tried explaining to him that my drinking habits had absolutely nothing to do with my OAB. For goodness sake, I even took an online test that told me I might be suffering from it! He just put his head down and shook it while he held his hand up in protest to me.
"Miss Janice, I tell you time and time again to stop diagnosing yourself!"
"But I watch ER religiously. I know what I'm talking about. Hell, I should have a TvD by now!", I smiled at my wit. Unfortunately, the doctor didn't find my joke to be a pisser.
"Stop drinking five cups of coffee a day and I am telling you that you will not have to urinate as much as you do now. And, as you know, Miss Janice, I have other patients to see. So if you would like, please take my advice, and come see me in a week."
I sauntered myself out of the office eyeing the basket of toy treats the doctor gives his younger patients, and felt an unmistakable urge to snatch the pink kazoo I saw gleaming out of it because when I was little, i was told if I didn't cry at the doctor's office, that I would get a treat. I still believe I am eligible for that treat today. However, I thought against the idea, and decided to satisfy my oral fixation with a cigarette instead, which would also help to curb the anxiety I felt after knowing there would be no help for my unbearable condition. Staring at the cancer stick, I speculated that if men had the same effect a pack of Marlboros Menthol Lights had after smoking one, then my life would be much easier. Angry? Anxious ? Depressed? Feeling fat? Have a man to inhale from, and you can smoke the sadness out of you! Now that would be just perfect. Unfortunately, the only men in my life were more like the candy cigarettes you pretended to smoke in the schoolyard during recess when you were eight.
During the daydreaming session of the perfect menthol man, I saw my bus slowly passing by me. Do I make a run for it? I debated whether or not I should put out my cigarette, since it would be a waste if I discarded of it so quickly. I mean, cigarettes were so expensive these days, and it would be a shame to waste a whole one, wouldn't it? This deliberation meant precious running for the bus time was lost, so I kept the cigarette dangling through my pointer and middle finger as I grabbed onto my leather bag and ran down the street to the stop.
Just as I arrived, the bus had shut its doors and continued on its way, despite my persistent screaming to make it wait for me. Standing in the shadow of the bus, I now felt the smoke from the muffler in my face. There I was - just coming off a disappointing visit to my Bangladeshi doctor, huffing and puffing to catch my breath, my hair a mess, handbag half off my shoulders about to fall on the floor and my shirt almost unbuttoned because of the jingle jangle that went on while I was running. Well, at least I still had my cigarette, or so I thought. I looked down to my hand and found nothing laced between my fingers. Lost in my frantic dash, I figured. I placed my hand on my chest in horror at the events preceding, and slowly began to realize I wasn't catching my breathe as I should have. I started to hyperventilate and almost had an attack before someone came and put their hand on my arm, asking if everything was alright.
"I'm fine - it's just my adult asthma. It happens when I exert myself suddenly", I assured the stranger as I turned and looked him up and down the first time. This was right before I did it again a second time, even slower. What a hunk of man. I had to distract myself somehow, before I undressed him with my eyes. I had a habit of doing that, ever since my high school speech teacher told me to picture everyone naked, which to me meant not only an audience, but the public in general. Scurrying through my bag, I found my pack and lit another one.
"Adult asthma?", he said with his head tilted, staring at the cigarette. I knew that scornful look from somewhere.
"Yes, yes. An acute form of it.", I said matter-of-factly before I began to strip him with my eyes again.
"You don't have an asthma pump?" the now naked man asked. I rolled my eyes while twirling the cigarette in the air, telling him the doctor claims my loss of breath is from smoking, and would only prescribe me the nicotine patch.
As I inhaled the cigarette in a sexy French film fashion, I noticed the stranger jerk his head back a bit and scrunch his eyebrows in confusion. Perhaps he was just as confused as I was by Dr. Rahani's theory. The stranger then wished me good luck in catching the next bus, and went on his way. The bus came soon afterwards and I headed to work.
Before getting to the office, I decided to grab a healthy lunch of oatmeal and yogurt, along with some coffee to rejuvenate me for the day's work ahead of me. All went smoothly until I got up to use the bathroom. As I opened the door, I detected the most horrible smell. I only walked in about two feet before I could not take it anymore, and went back to my desk. Had I been medicated for my disorder, I would have lasted more than the 10 minutes I had sat at my desk before I decided to face the stale horse manure odor and relieve my bladder. Sitting on the toilet, I held my breathe as long as I could until I was disrupted. Someone had opened the door and walked in. I quickly froze up and had a flash back to third grade, when I accidentally used a stall with no lock on it. As I had begun to wipe myself, one of the popular girls in school walked right in on me and put her hand over her mouth as she giggled in delight. I had worn my Tuesday themed underwear on a Friday. Throughout my elementary school career I was known as "Tuesday's Child", and the other children snickered about making fun of me because they thought I had worn days old underwear.
Suddenly, I snapped out of it and decided that this person in the room must think I was the one who took the dump! I quickly pulled up my pants, flushed the toilet, and made my way out of the bathroom James Bond style by latching myself onto the wall opposite of the stall so that the other woman wouldn't see my feet as I walked out. If she had, my whole cover would soon be blown because it was known that I was the only one in the office who wore heels on casual Friday. It being Friday, my mission failed as my stilettos clucked away while I walked across the black and white tiled floor. Ashamed, I ran out of the bathroom and towards my desk hoping nobody noticed me get up.
Soon after, the floozy of the office, Dotty Marchione, walked out of the bathroom and passed me without taking notice of anything suspicious. I thought I was scott-free until I received an interdepartmental mass e-mail at around 4:30. In it, slutty Dotty outted me to the whole place, without realizing I was on the mailing list as well. She claimed in her letter that I "laid a fat one" in the bathroom (this was not true), and tried to run out so nobody would know it was me (yes, this was true), and then proceeded to not even wash my hands after I "literally piled a load of bullshit" into the toilet (again - this was not true), and she even told them I did not wipe my "shitty ass" because there was no squeaking sound coming from the toilet roller (unfortunately this was also true - in my panic I forgot to clean up). I was horrified at my predicament. Absolutely horrified. Laying my head down on the desk, I figured out that if Dr. Rahani had only prescribed me some sort of medication, this would not have happened because I would have been able to hold it in until the smell left the bathroom altogether. I must have fallen asleep with my head on the desk, because when I awoke, there was a hot pink post-it on my computer. "Don't feel so shitty - it's Friday!", written in purple ink. My jaw dropped. It felt like third grade all over again. I knew that Dotty Marchione was the only worker who used hot pink post-its and purple pens. I was set on clearing my name.
"This is not funny", and slammed the post it on her desk.
"Please Janice, unless you just used hand sanitizer, keep your paws off my desk."
Every spectacled head in the office perked up out of their cubicles.
"For your information, I was NOT the one who let loose in the bathroom earlier today. It had already smelled when I got in there. Do not leave me with the crap guilt!", I exclaimed just as loud because Tuesday's Child will not be reborn in the corporate world.
"I heard your heels! You didn't even wipe yourself! And apparently you didn't notice the 'Employees must wash hands' sign, either."
A grumbling chuckle was overheard through the 4 foot high cubicle walls. I felt my face reddening. Dotty was winning.
"And also, Miss Janice Crink, when I walked by your desk afterwards you were beat red and out of breathe from running your ass to your desk!"
Damn her, she was right. And damn Dr. Rahani again for not giving me an asthma pump, I thought. I began to mumble some sort of defense at her when I heard echoes of "pee-yew!" coming from all sides of me. They were all against me now, I thought, all because of Dotty Marchione. So I slapped her. Hard. It was all I could do, until I lunged myself towards her in hopes of grabbing hold of her extensions and yanking them out. Unfortunately Dotty was too quick for me, and she swiveled her chair away as I landed flat on my face, having my first introduction to the fancy carpeting of the office which I never knew we had before. The texture of the fine fabric is remarkable up close.
All in all, I was fired that day from work and glad for it. I didn't want to show my face in front of that crowd ever again. My next stop afterwards was the bank, because I now needed to dip into my savings until I found a new job. After waiting in line for what felt like two and a half hours, I met with a teller who said, unbeknownst to me, that I had no money in my account, and actually had overdraw charges.
"But why would you let me charge something, if I have no money in my account?!".
"That is our policy, ma'am, so that we can be of convenience to you.", she said with a blank stare on her face. I read her nametag.
"Soon-Li, I must admit this was not a convenience at all to me. I was not even notified of it", I lied. I had received mail from the bank, with some blurb about some overdraw charge, but thought they would, well, forget about it.
"I'm sorry, but I can't help you with that. We always mail our customers when this occurs. Maybe you need to learn how to balance your checkbook more."
The nerve of bank tellers these days, telling me that I should learn to balance my checkbook! Little did she know, I suffer from numerical dyslexia, which is a mathematical form of general dyslexia. It is the real reason why I am unable to balance my checkbook. I cannot distinguish the number 1970 from 1907, or 23 from 32, for example. It takes me a great deal of concentration to read numbers carefully. I spoke with Dr. Rahani about this and yet again he let me down, telling me that I should wear my reading glasses more often, and read more slowly. I don't know why I am still going to him for help. He really never listens to me.
Appalled at her comment, I walked out of the bank, vowing never to step foot in it again. I should never have opened an account there anyway - even if they did give me a free panini grill for doing so.
I found myself at the bus stop again, and went over the days events. In doing so, I came to a realization that Dr. Rahani is the cause for everything; from losing my job, to my bladder dysfunction, and even for my going bankrupt. If only he had prescribed me a drug for my bladder, I would not have wasted time using the bathroom twice in his office that morning, which meant I would have left the office earlier. If I had left the office earlier, I would have caught my bus and arrived to work on time. If I had arrived to work on time and eaten lunch earlier, then I would never have had to use the bathroom when the dirty stench surrounded it. If that wouldn't have happened, Dotty Marchione would never had caught me and made fun of me, which ultimately lead me to kick her ass and therefore lose my job, only to find out that I am currently broke with no bank account. All because of his incompetence as a doctor.
This is why I strangled him, officer. He is the cause of all my problems. It was an act of rage and perhaps temporary insanity. By no means did I attempt to kill him.
"Miss Crink, you held his throat for almost three minutes. Don't you think if his secretary hadn't pulled him off of you, that you would have killed him?", the officer asked.
"No, officer, I don't.", I stately stated.
"And why is that, Miss Crink?"
"Well, because I eventually would have had to let go of him so I could use the bathroom."
I arrived late for my scheduled appointment because the new employee at Starbucks had no idea how much milk was needed in my venti-sized Marble Mocha Macchiato. I even leaned over the counter, telling him that of the 24 ounces in the drink, 5 should consist of milk to give it that creamy flavor. He insisted on blatantly ignoring me and my help, even when my arms were waving over the counter and I held my palm up towards him indicating it was, in fact, five ounces that were needed. Fifteen minutes off schedule, I left the coffee shop. Twenty minutes and a Marble Mocha Macchiato later, I found myself in his office.
"But Dr., I've already been to the bathroom twice since I got here! What does that tell you?! Didn't they teach you about OAB in Bangladeshi?"
"My dear Miss Janice, I have told you before - Bangladeshi is the ethnicity and Bangladesh is the city. And no, I do not think that was a symptom.", he told me through his overbearing white mustache.
"I'm shocked, Dr. Rahani, I am really just shocked and a little bit appalled at your disinterest in my disorder", I told him as I buried my head in my hands.
I awaited a response from him while I sat there, bent over in the misery of my situation. After a few passing moments of silence, I lifted my head up and found Dr. Rahani with his own head tilted to the left. He was staring at the empty 24 ounce pitcher of coffee at my side and shaking his head. I tried explaining to him that my drinking habits had absolutely nothing to do with my OAB. For goodness sake, I even took an online test that told me I might be suffering from it! He just put his head down and shook it while he held his hand up in protest to me.
"Miss Janice, I tell you time and time again to stop diagnosing yourself!"
"But I watch ER religiously. I know what I'm talking about. Hell, I should have a TvD by now!", I smiled at my wit. Unfortunately, the doctor didn't find my joke to be a pisser.
"Stop drinking five cups of coffee a day and I am telling you that you will not have to urinate as much as you do now. And, as you know, Miss Janice, I have other patients to see. So if you would like, please take my advice, and come see me in a week."
I sauntered myself out of the office eyeing the basket of toy treats the doctor gives his younger patients, and felt an unmistakable urge to snatch the pink kazoo I saw gleaming out of it because when I was little, i was told if I didn't cry at the doctor's office, that I would get a treat. I still believe I am eligible for that treat today. However, I thought against the idea, and decided to satisfy my oral fixation with a cigarette instead, which would also help to curb the anxiety I felt after knowing there would be no help for my unbearable condition. Staring at the cancer stick, I speculated that if men had the same effect a pack of Marlboros Menthol Lights had after smoking one, then my life would be much easier. Angry? Anxious ? Depressed? Feeling fat? Have a man to inhale from, and you can smoke the sadness out of you! Now that would be just perfect. Unfortunately, the only men in my life were more like the candy cigarettes you pretended to smoke in the schoolyard during recess when you were eight.
During the daydreaming session of the perfect menthol man, I saw my bus slowly passing by me. Do I make a run for it? I debated whether or not I should put out my cigarette, since it would be a waste if I discarded of it so quickly. I mean, cigarettes were so expensive these days, and it would be a shame to waste a whole one, wouldn't it? This deliberation meant precious running for the bus time was lost, so I kept the cigarette dangling through my pointer and middle finger as I grabbed onto my leather bag and ran down the street to the stop.
Just as I arrived, the bus had shut its doors and continued on its way, despite my persistent screaming to make it wait for me. Standing in the shadow of the bus, I now felt the smoke from the muffler in my face. There I was - just coming off a disappointing visit to my Bangladeshi doctor, huffing and puffing to catch my breath, my hair a mess, handbag half off my shoulders about to fall on the floor and my shirt almost unbuttoned because of the jingle jangle that went on while I was running. Well, at least I still had my cigarette, or so I thought. I looked down to my hand and found nothing laced between my fingers. Lost in my frantic dash, I figured. I placed my hand on my chest in horror at the events preceding, and slowly began to realize I wasn't catching my breathe as I should have. I started to hyperventilate and almost had an attack before someone came and put their hand on my arm, asking if everything was alright.
"I'm fine - it's just my adult asthma. It happens when I exert myself suddenly", I assured the stranger as I turned and looked him up and down the first time. This was right before I did it again a second time, even slower. What a hunk of man. I had to distract myself somehow, before I undressed him with my eyes. I had a habit of doing that, ever since my high school speech teacher told me to picture everyone naked, which to me meant not only an audience, but the public in general. Scurrying through my bag, I found my pack and lit another one.
"Adult asthma?", he said with his head tilted, staring at the cigarette. I knew that scornful look from somewhere.
"Yes, yes. An acute form of it.", I said matter-of-factly before I began to strip him with my eyes again.
"You don't have an asthma pump?" the now naked man asked. I rolled my eyes while twirling the cigarette in the air, telling him the doctor claims my loss of breath is from smoking, and would only prescribe me the nicotine patch.
As I inhaled the cigarette in a sexy French film fashion, I noticed the stranger jerk his head back a bit and scrunch his eyebrows in confusion. Perhaps he was just as confused as I was by Dr. Rahani's theory. The stranger then wished me good luck in catching the next bus, and went on his way. The bus came soon afterwards and I headed to work.
Before getting to the office, I decided to grab a healthy lunch of oatmeal and yogurt, along with some coffee to rejuvenate me for the day's work ahead of me. All went smoothly until I got up to use the bathroom. As I opened the door, I detected the most horrible smell. I only walked in about two feet before I could not take it anymore, and went back to my desk. Had I been medicated for my disorder, I would have lasted more than the 10 minutes I had sat at my desk before I decided to face the stale horse manure odor and relieve my bladder. Sitting on the toilet, I held my breathe as long as I could until I was disrupted. Someone had opened the door and walked in. I quickly froze up and had a flash back to third grade, when I accidentally used a stall with no lock on it. As I had begun to wipe myself, one of the popular girls in school walked right in on me and put her hand over her mouth as she giggled in delight. I had worn my Tuesday themed underwear on a Friday. Throughout my elementary school career I was known as "Tuesday's Child", and the other children snickered about making fun of me because they thought I had worn days old underwear.
Suddenly, I snapped out of it and decided that this person in the room must think I was the one who took the dump! I quickly pulled up my pants, flushed the toilet, and made my way out of the bathroom James Bond style by latching myself onto the wall opposite of the stall so that the other woman wouldn't see my feet as I walked out. If she had, my whole cover would soon be blown because it was known that I was the only one in the office who wore heels on casual Friday. It being Friday, my mission failed as my stilettos clucked away while I walked across the black and white tiled floor. Ashamed, I ran out of the bathroom and towards my desk hoping nobody noticed me get up.
Soon after, the floozy of the office, Dotty Marchione, walked out of the bathroom and passed me without taking notice of anything suspicious. I thought I was scott-free until I received an interdepartmental mass e-mail at around 4:30. In it, slutty Dotty outted me to the whole place, without realizing I was on the mailing list as well. She claimed in her letter that I "laid a fat one" in the bathroom (this was not true), and tried to run out so nobody would know it was me (yes, this was true), and then proceeded to not even wash my hands after I "literally piled a load of bullshit" into the toilet (again - this was not true), and she even told them I did not wipe my "shitty ass" because there was no squeaking sound coming from the toilet roller (unfortunately this was also true - in my panic I forgot to clean up). I was horrified at my predicament. Absolutely horrified. Laying my head down on the desk, I figured out that if Dr. Rahani had only prescribed me some sort of medication, this would not have happened because I would have been able to hold it in until the smell left the bathroom altogether. I must have fallen asleep with my head on the desk, because when I awoke, there was a hot pink post-it on my computer. "Don't feel so shitty - it's Friday!", written in purple ink. My jaw dropped. It felt like third grade all over again. I knew that Dotty Marchione was the only worker who used hot pink post-its and purple pens. I was set on clearing my name.
"This is not funny", and slammed the post it on her desk.
"Please Janice, unless you just used hand sanitizer, keep your paws off my desk."
Every spectacled head in the office perked up out of their cubicles.
"For your information, I was NOT the one who let loose in the bathroom earlier today. It had already smelled when I got in there. Do not leave me with the crap guilt!", I exclaimed just as loud because Tuesday's Child will not be reborn in the corporate world.
"I heard your heels! You didn't even wipe yourself! And apparently you didn't notice the 'Employees must wash hands' sign, either."
A grumbling chuckle was overheard through the 4 foot high cubicle walls. I felt my face reddening. Dotty was winning.
"And also, Miss Janice Crink, when I walked by your desk afterwards you were beat red and out of breathe from running your ass to your desk!"
Damn her, she was right. And damn Dr. Rahani again for not giving me an asthma pump, I thought. I began to mumble some sort of defense at her when I heard echoes of "pee-yew!" coming from all sides of me. They were all against me now, I thought, all because of Dotty Marchione. So I slapped her. Hard. It was all I could do, until I lunged myself towards her in hopes of grabbing hold of her extensions and yanking them out. Unfortunately Dotty was too quick for me, and she swiveled her chair away as I landed flat on my face, having my first introduction to the fancy carpeting of the office which I never knew we had before. The texture of the fine fabric is remarkable up close.
All in all, I was fired that day from work and glad for it. I didn't want to show my face in front of that crowd ever again. My next stop afterwards was the bank, because I now needed to dip into my savings until I found a new job. After waiting in line for what felt like two and a half hours, I met with a teller who said, unbeknownst to me, that I had no money in my account, and actually had overdraw charges.
"But why would you let me charge something, if I have no money in my account?!".
"That is our policy, ma'am, so that we can be of convenience to you.", she said with a blank stare on her face. I read her nametag.
"Soon-Li, I must admit this was not a convenience at all to me. I was not even notified of it", I lied. I had received mail from the bank, with some blurb about some overdraw charge, but thought they would, well, forget about it.
"I'm sorry, but I can't help you with that. We always mail our customers when this occurs. Maybe you need to learn how to balance your checkbook more."
The nerve of bank tellers these days, telling me that I should learn to balance my checkbook! Little did she know, I suffer from numerical dyslexia, which is a mathematical form of general dyslexia. It is the real reason why I am unable to balance my checkbook. I cannot distinguish the number 1970 from 1907, or 23 from 32, for example. It takes me a great deal of concentration to read numbers carefully. I spoke with Dr. Rahani about this and yet again he let me down, telling me that I should wear my reading glasses more often, and read more slowly. I don't know why I am still going to him for help. He really never listens to me.
Appalled at her comment, I walked out of the bank, vowing never to step foot in it again. I should never have opened an account there anyway - even if they did give me a free panini grill for doing so.
I found myself at the bus stop again, and went over the days events. In doing so, I came to a realization that Dr. Rahani is the cause for everything; from losing my job, to my bladder dysfunction, and even for my going bankrupt. If only he had prescribed me a drug for my bladder, I would not have wasted time using the bathroom twice in his office that morning, which meant I would have left the office earlier. If I had left the office earlier, I would have caught my bus and arrived to work on time. If I had arrived to work on time and eaten lunch earlier, then I would never have had to use the bathroom when the dirty stench surrounded it. If that wouldn't have happened, Dotty Marchione would never had caught me and made fun of me, which ultimately lead me to kick her ass and therefore lose my job, only to find out that I am currently broke with no bank account. All because of his incompetence as a doctor.
This is why I strangled him, officer. He is the cause of all my problems. It was an act of rage and perhaps temporary insanity. By no means did I attempt to kill him.
"Miss Crink, you held his throat for almost three minutes. Don't you think if his secretary hadn't pulled him off of you, that you would have killed him?", the officer asked.
"No, officer, I don't.", I stately stated.
"And why is that, Miss Crink?"
"Well, because I eventually would have had to let go of him so I could use the bathroom."