Hub and I went to see this movie last night. He loves history and I love Colin Firth so I knew we would both like it. Popeye and the Sea Hag bought us a gift card to Regal theatres for Christmas that we wiped out with the purchase of two tickets, a small popcorn, a small coke and a box of Raisinets. The acting was superb – after a few minutes I forgot that I was watching Colin Firth as he exposed us to this soon-to-be King’s horrible anxiety about his stammer and his place in history.
So from a lovely date night to a horrible day job. I know I am well-respected in my place of business. The newer employees always come to me for an answer if they can’t find a manager. My work ethic, my intelligence and my experience in the medical insurance “world” is very much appreciated.
Today I received my monthly report. My supervisor told me that although I answered over 1700 phone calls in January, of the ten ….count them, 10 calls that she monitored, I had two errors. She explained the errors to me and I politely disagreed with her that an error had been made. Without going into detail, I guess she thinks that in addition to dealing with 1700 phone calls monthly, I should also
- have a degree in mental health to deal with all of the problems of our members who call, crying hysterically about their husbands beating them or the cost of the wedge they have to put under their newborn’s crib to keep them from vomiting with acid reflux.
- have a teaching degree to explain to our members what the word “deductible” mean
- speak fluent Indian, Mexican and Korean to deal with the office staff of the providers.
Oh, I should also have a fricken crystal ball so that I can read someone’s mind over the phone and know that the question they are asking me is not really the question they want answered.
I hate my job.