Hey Zach, Wanna Trade Places?

I hate Mondays. They set a bad tone for the week. I think that Mondays should be an easing back into work, instead of running around picking up one project then putting it right down for another, in a useless attack of the frantic dithers.

Multitasking. I'm supposed to be multitasking. It's a buzz word included in resume skill sets and interview questions as if it were an actual ability like typing 70 wpm or speaking fluent French. Multi-tasking isn't a skill. It's a limbic response to crisis. It doesn't mean that you're actually accomplishing anything. It means you can fuck up several things at one time.

I start work 15 minutes early and leave 15 minutes late every day. I usually skip my last break because my focus isn't anywhere near a clock. And still, I don't get anything done. I must have started 50 projects today. I finished nothing. I multi-tasked my ever-lovin' ass off. And what do I have to show for my efforts? More piles of unfinished paperwork. More cryptic notes on postage-stamp post-its. More stuff I'll eventually have to burn if I'm ever to find a job after this one.


The phone is ringing just now. It's my home phone, but it rouses the same panic and dread that the phone at work does. Another interruption.

You must know, that I'm learning things like appointment scheduling, insurance billing, Quickbooks accounting, without notes. I just show up three days a week and whatever I remember how to do gets done properly that day. Or that hour. I haven't been able to master simple, basic things like the phone system, because there are a zillion things that needed to be done last week. I have to learn the practitioners' schedules and scheduling preferences--who wants a half-hour between appointments and who just needs 15 minutes. I have to know which practitioners are covered by which insurance plans and all this crap about in and out of network.

And then the phone rings.
And now a patient needs to be checked out and given a receipt. Or is it an invoice this time?
The phone is ringing again. I can't hear them because the door is open to a busy street, and Enya's synthesised drivel is blaring over the sound system.
It seems we're out of labels, or printed envelopes, or business cards for someone or some other such crap that really doesn't need to be done at this moment, but my boss would like me to drop everything for anyway.

The phone rings yet again, just as one of the practitioners yells "Maestro!" which means that the music has timed out, and I have to get on the computer next to mine to download another two hours of shitty New Age 'sounds'.

And this--believe it or not, is a good day.