>A surefire way to piss off a control freak like me is to tell me what I have to do. Seriously. If you let me think it is my idea, I’ll do it. But telling me??? Oh no, no, no.
And I work for a private Catholic hospital.
And they tell me all sorts of things.
For example, my birth control: Insurance pays zilch for it. Whatevs, I don’t think the $43/ month self-pay expense is going to kill me. I am a little disgruntled that they would pay almost half a million dollars for Zachy’s entrance into this world, yet still not consider my bc pill medically necessary, which is the only way they will pay. And there is no better way to convince the powers that be that you are bound for damnation than to tell them you are preventing pregnancy. Seriously.
So the latest and greatest: our fricken cafeteria.
Let’s discuss this, shall we?
Our cafeteria is decent. And they open it for us night-shifters at 2AM every night, which is great. But at night, the food sucks. The lettuce on the salad bar is brown, the food on the hot bar congealed, the lady at the grill afraid of the actual grill and thus cooks everything at too-low temps ( nothing like getting salmonella at a hospital cafeteria!). It’s bad. But on a few nights a week, we have a good cook, and she will make you anything and it will be edible, I promise. Enter the problem here.
They decided they care about our hearts. And our cholesterol. And our risk for hypertension. And so I walk into the cafeteria one night and I see the horror. No-Fry Friday. I shit you not. All I wanted was my damned chicken quesadilla, which it says on the menu is a heart-healthy choice! But nope! The grill is closed down. And on a night when the good cook is working! Oh the HORROR! The lettuce on the salad bar was brown. There was something made with mushrooms on the hot bar (highly allergic). There was no pizza-by-the-slice. And all that was in the cooler were little containers of potato salad (allergic to mustard, too). I ate a Heath bar, a blueberry muffin, and some potato chips. The quesadilla would have been better for me! For real!
So we are all disgruntled, right? And it is the talk of the hospital. We are all going to call everyone from the cashier working the register. all the way up to the President of the United States, in order to get our cheeseburgers back. A serious revolt was on the brink. And then Monday hit.
You have got to be freaking kidding me. Seriously. No pizza. Still no grill. Still brown lettuce, but now no hot bar either. I ate popcorn and a Tootsie pop. Chased with a cup of coffee to replace the energy I would not be getting from my meal.
My hospital cares that my thighs have fat on them.
No, they don’t.
They care that our insurance, though through Humana, is privately funded, and they have to pay for all of our heart attacks when the time comes.
Hey, Hospital BigWigs! I’ll give you a hint: a heart attack would be much cheaper than one of my pregnancies. Just sayin’.