In the time between graduating hygiene school and finding a permanent place to hang my loupes, I spent a lot of time temping.  I was hungry for work during a time when there were more new hygienists than open operatories and seasoned vets were delaying retirement due to a down economy.  One time I drove 265 miles to work in a large building with a “beautiful” view of the freeway. It was a hectic day with little time to catch my breath.

 

To make matters worse, I was failing at “faking it” and I got the “Are you new here?” or “How long have you worked here?” question more than I would have liked.

Here are 5 dead giveaways that you are a temp that are to be avoided at all costs.

 

You can’t figure out how to recline the chair.  Nothing makes you look more foolish than not being able to find the right button to push or switch to flip.  Like is this your first time ever cleaning someone’s teeth?

 

You finally get the chair back but the light won’t turn on.  Is it a motion sensor?  Is there a switch to flip?  Do you flip the switch and then activate the motion sensor?  And how many times can you attempt activating a motion sensor that may or may not exist before looking like a failed magician.

 

Where the hell are the freaking toothbrushes?  It’s always a guessing game with that first patient, rummaging around through drawers and cupboards until thankyousweetbabyjesus you find the home care supplies.

 

You forgot the doctor’s name or horribly mispronounced it.  I’ll be the first to admit, names are not my thing.  I’ve learned to stick with “the doctor” rather than tempting fate.

 

Technology.  What the heck is this space-age (or stone-age) pano machine and do you really expect me to teach myself how to use it?  And what’s up with your computer system (or lack thereof). How is there not a standardized “Microsoft Word” of dental software?

 

Needless to say, I am grateful my days as a gypsy traveler hygienist are behind me.  The next time you have a gypsy visit your office, be kind.  They may not remember your name, and I can almost guarantee they’ll ask you about lights and chairs and toothbrushes and pano machines, but dammit they’re trying.  And do not judge a fill-in hygienist until you’ve driven 265 miles in her shoes to make it to work that morning.