Call Center Confessions

We sat in wedges.  Nondescript wedges completing a circle and pointing to a center of nothing.  Imagine a Trivial Pursuit game piece, that you snap colored triangles in as you master subjects, or one of those circular cheeses made up of individually wrapped triangular chunks.  This is the better analogy, as each desk had it's own slightly off cheese-odor.  Some people bring in family photos and potted plants to their office; we brought our own Clorox wipes.  We couldn't bring in photos or plants if we wanted to because we weren't coming back to an assigned spot.  The beginning of each shift was a silent, bitter battle to secure a somewhat less disgusting wedgicle for the day.

The initial training lasted eight weeks.  I loved training.  I love learning- even about cellular customer service.  I felt very proud when I scored 100% on my final exam.  I know it isn't a big deal.  It just felt good to excel.  Fast forward 12 weeks, waiting for my next call, and silently enduring a panic attack.  Nothing was wrong.  No one had yelled at me, and yet, there I was, realizing that this was as good as it gets, and not knowing what to do.  I sat there waiting for a call that wasn't coming when I felt the hand of my Supervisor on my shoulder,

"Hey, do you want to go home?  The queue is low."

Home?  Did I want to go home?  Oh, yes.  I wanted to go home.  I had never been asked that by an employer before.  I felt like an angelic choir was going to appear. 

"Yes, I would...thank you, I think I'm having a small panic attack right now.  Going home would be good."

My Supervisor's expression shifted from confusion, to concern, to discomfort.  I think he was wondering why I was telling him this.  His team's emotional problems were slightly above his pay grade.

"Oh, man.  Well, close out your programs and feel better..."

He walked away. 

The concept of going home early sank in.  It did not fix me.  I was genuinely having a mild panic attack in that moment.  However, I felt such relief.  So much did I love getting to go home, that I began impatiently waiting for slow queues.  Eventually I discovered a bulletin board in the back where you could sign up to leave early.  That's right- SIGN UP to LEAVE EARLY.  My first stop every shift was to see if they were asking for volunteers.  One time they made an announcement that the sheet was going up.  Everyone who was not on a call put themselves in break mode and ran to the back.  I joined them as soon as my call was done.  As I headed back I overheard two employees talking about it,

Employee #1:  "Why does everybody want to go home?"

Employee #2:  "Ha, they hate money."

I don't know why that conversation has stuck with me for so long.  I thought it was absurd at the time, but I think I now see where he was coming from.  You work hard, you earn money, you pay bills, pay off debt, plan for vacations, stay on top of everything.  You keep signing up to leave early- your paycheck suffers, your debts and dreams suffer.  However, I still don't believe anyone signing up "hated money."  I believe they loved something else more.  Loved getting home to have dinner with their family- (we worked the swing shift- 2pm to 11pm).  Loved getting to hang out with friends.  Loved going home and taking a nap, etc.  Most of us were not in a job we loved.  We made the most of it, but the pull to stay would never equal or exceed the pull to experience everything else. 

I stayed in my position for about eleven months.  Then, with the urging of a friend, I interviewed and obtained a position as an Front Office Manager in a Physical Therapy clinic.  For a long time this was a better fit.  I really enjoyed it, but ultimately, I moved on.  Several missteps later and where am I now?  Yep, a Call Center.  But a nicer one.  With a real cubicle that I can decorate, and co-workers that I know by name.  It is not what I hope to be doing for the rest of my life, but I'm not praying for a sign up sheet either.





    

 

Home again

I've spent the last few days house sitting for my friends while they attended family camp.  They have a dog and two chickens, so you could say I was house/dog/chicken sitting which, of course, sounds way cooler.  Their dog, Maxwell, was easy to please.  He wandered in and out of the house as needed, and napped in the living room.  The chickens needed their scratch, (supplemental feed), to be let safely in and out of their coup, and to have their eggs collected daily.  They were very pleasant creatures and would even come over to check me out when I came near. 

Here are the lovely ladies themselves.  Unfortunately, you can't see the coup to the right.  It looks like a little red barn!

I enjoy house sitting.  To me it is like a mini-vacation.  However, I don't go crazy in other people's homes.  In fact I tend to minimize my environmental impact as much as possible.  I'll walk the same route throughout the house, clean as I go, and try to not to move things around.  I do this so it is easier to tidy up before I leave.  I try to leave things as clean, or cleaner than when I left them.  I know how much of a buzz-kill it can be to come back to a unkempt home. 

One of the main reasons I like house sitting is because I get to enjoy a home without having to maintain it.  The grass is not mine to mow, (unless requested), the garden is not mine to tend, and the remodeling projects are above my pay grade.  I get to sit back and enjoy the fruits of other people's labor.  From the swing set on the back porch I don't look out to see a dozen weekend projects looming.  I look out to see a charmingly tended yard, hanging flower baskets, and a tree house. 

Even though I appreciate the freedom to be lazy, I have to admit I hope to own a house someday.  I know this would mean that all that labor and upkeep would finally be my responsibility.  But it would also come with the satisfaction that by my own hand I created something to take pleasure in everyday.  I'm not sure I'll have a chicken coup and a tree house, but I bet I could handle a hanging basket or two.

Gush

Hello Everyone! 

I don't have a lot of time tonight, but I wanted to brag a little.  I just checked and my blog is approaching 700 views!  Huzzah! 

I realize this may be considered small change to a lot of prominent bloggers out there, and there's always the slight chance a small portion, oh, I don't know, of about half or so, of these views are just me frantically re-editing my posts after I published them, but that's okay.  It still means a lot that you're checking them out at all. 

I truly hope you are enjoying them.  They are therapeutic and a great way for me to practice and improve my writing, but if they weren't providing something of value to you, then half the joy would be gone.

Thank you!

Off with Her Head...

Confession time!  When it gets hot, and I'm taking one of my long walks, my hands plump up like the Incredible Hulk.  See!:

Before pic

After pic

And, I don't want to hear "I don't see the difference," because if I do, I'll crush you with my gigantic hands. 

I decided to post these pictures, because in my country today is a day about Freedom.  And, I'm posting these pictures to liberate myself.  I'm tired of feeling awkward about the size and shape of my body.  Tired of hiding behind throw pillows, and strategically large purses.  My body fluctuates, (hence the pics), I have scars, bumps and calloused heels.  I'm overweight; when I work at it, I lose weight.  Sometimes old habits win, and I gain it back.  It is the body I was born with.  It has suffered some abuse over the years, and I'll never look as good as some women, but if I feel healthy, and comfortable- why isn't that beautiful enough?  Maybe not photo-shop/bikini beautiful, but everyday beautiful.

I'd be remiss if I told you I believe this without wavering.  I fight inside my mind plenty about whether I'm good enough, and although I've received my share of insults from others, most of the criticism comes from myself.  My head becomes my own worst enemy.  Lots of people live this way, and it is a tragic waste of our energy, and not what we were created for. So, I hope my amazingly large hand(s) inspire you to not be ashamed of your own wonderful, imperfect, and fearfully-made body.  At any rate, I hope it reminds you not to take physical appearance too seriously, and that you are not alone in that struggle.

Oh, and- Happy Independence Day!  May we continue to live in freedom from our enemies- the ones who wish to hurt us- from without or from within.

Why the Saturday Market and I are just friends...

Having the house to myself for the next nine days has afforded me the opportunity to DO WHAT I WANT!!!  And, apparently what I want is to...clean...and to...buy groceries.  Ah, yeah!  I embrace this practical side of myself, and as I am decisively procrastinastic, (that should be a word; even though it's not), about the cleaning, I went shopping instead. 

While most cities have a Saturday Market; my city has two.  Rumor has it one of the main organizers of the original Market, was let go, causing the split.  Consequently, downtown Boise sports two separate, but equally charming Markets, separated by a block and a half. 

I am pulled to the Saturday Market, as I am more and more pulled to organic and local products.  Organic eggs, milk, honey, and blueberries are becoming staples to my diet.  Of course I mean to expand on this trend; however, my budget is limited, and I can stretch my grocery dollars farther by avoiding organic, locally grown, meats and produce.  I know, I know- it's not very socially conscious, but I am trying- and I will continue to incorporate these options into my life. 

Besides financial restrictions, a big reason why I tend to limit my Market purchases to local honey, and a chocolate croissant, is the overwhelming abundance of choices.  I mean, how do I choose?  Pricing is consistent across the board; so, do I frequent this booth offering locally grown organic berries, or that booth...offering locally grown organic berries?  Or, how about that one- of which the funds go to local refugee families, or that one, over there- which no one else is shopping at, and really, how sad is that?  Do I buy from an Idaho farm, or from an Oregon farm which is still technically "local."  Where does the social consciousness end???  In response, I commit to none.  I buy my croissant from Guston's, and my coffee from Dawson's, and people watch. 

But, you say- weren't you going grocery shopping?   Why, yes; yes I was.  And, I did.  After.  At Winco.  For stretching dollars, Winco is probably as good as it gets in Boise.  I am even able to buy a few organic items there.  In fact, today I had an internal struggle over eggs.  Do I choose the organic, or the cage free eggs?  The cage free eggs are probably also organic, but the label doesn't say, and I'm not sure I trust it.  And, what does that imply, anyway?  That there are anti-biotic and pesticide munching chickens roaming wild and free, while the hormone free chickens are living in little chicken-ghettos with no porches and yards?  I'm starting to understand while some people go bat-crazy over sustainable living.

After the great egg crisis of 2013, I picked up some organic milk and chicken.  I bought panko bread crumbs to prepare the chicken with, as I remember hearing panko was all the rage five years ago.  I think that is another reason why I'm non-committal about the Saturday Market.  I never think about what I want to make before I go shopping.  When I see all the options: arugula, purple asparagus, different types of root vegetables, I have to wonder how long they will sit in my fridge forgotten before starting to rot.   

I have no reservations about what light this puts me in.  I can admit I'm no lion in the kitchen; however, just as I'm trying to be better about eating healthier foods, I am also open to improving my domestic skills.  Hence, the panko.  So, I may experiment in the kitchen a bit over the next several days.  Once I feel more comfortable there; perhaps, I will feel more confident at the Market.   






    

Lion House

A large mansion sits along an affluent Boulevard in my city.  The mansion is white with red steps leading up to the front door, and two somber stone lions guard the porch.   It is an old, eccentric, and beautiful home, done in the Spanish Mission style; all of which makes it prime real estate for a ghost story. 

And, behold- there is such a story surrounding the Lion House of Harrison Blvd.  Its origin belongs to a child that drowned decades ago in the basement pool.  The pool, having caused such lasting devastation to the family, was filled in and boarded up; but this was not enough to subdue the spirit of the small boy who perished.

Well, that is one version.

Other reports say there never was an indoor swimming pool, and the truth is that a child did drown in that neighborhood in the 1930's; but in an outdoor pool, one or two houses down from the Lion House.

The idea that the home is haunted perpetuated a few years back when a local historian received a tour, and was told by the owner that a ghost of a woman roamed the mansion searching for her lost child.  When asked how the ghost made herself known, the owner referred to electrical variances and noises in the house...how she discovered the ghost's motivation, let alone gender- I do not know.  The only plausible witnesses; the two stone lions- weren't added to the home till the 1980's, and therefore, were not on guard to witness any truth in the myths surrounding the house.   

What we do know is that the construction of the Lion House dates back to 1911.  Its Spanish style was inspired by the builder's experience living in San Diego, CA.  The San Francisco Earthquake of 1906 inspired him further to build the house with concrete walls, 12 inches thick.  It was an impenetrable safe house.  It was home to a former Governor and other influential residents. 

So why am I blogging about an improbable ghost story, seemingly unrelated to my own life?  I attended a lecture a few days ago regarding local myths and how they influence society; how they bring people together to form plausible explanations of the weird and strange.  How difficult they are to vanquish despite all our modern principles and research.  How necessary they are to our survival as a community, and how slowly, over time, for good or for bad, they become our history.  All this made me realize that the story of the Lion House is quite important.  Every vicious local legend, every family story I knew growing up- that we are distantly related to Marie Antoinette; that we bear some long lost connection to Andrew Carnegie- formed a framework for ideas, hope, pride, horror, and finally- the ability to embrace the unexplainable.  Together we share a unique history- verifiable or not, that we cannot shake.  How will our history evolve as we grow older; as time puts more distance between the story and the truth?   Will they be used to unite, or manipulated to cause division?   Or, are stories too strong to be wrangled, too wild to contain?  Each year spreading out further and further from their origin, until they can only exist as acceptable fact.   

For now, if you research the Lion House, you will come across conflicting reports- pool, no pool- ghost, no ghost.  Either way, it truly is a gorgeous building, a lovely landmark of this city, and that beauty in itself is sufficient to render it absolutely haunting.   

Take a tour inside the Lion House and decide for yourself: 

http://tours.tourfactory.com/tours/tour.asp?t=903660

Call out...

I am not consistent in my writing.  I ignore inspiration until it turns reluctantly away, leaving me to my own time-wasting devices.  By the time I'm ready to sit down and write, all my ideas have abandoned me- and rightfully so.  As inspiration has left me, and I'm vastly behind on my blogging; it's time to give credit where credit is due: Netflix, Pinterest, and Facebook.  Amazing time killers.  Creators of Writer's Block.  And, in moderation- great things.  Two hours of Kitchen Nightmares, and Supernatural, is entertaining, and a refreshing break from daily stresses.  Nine hours of Kitchen Nightmares, and Supernatural, well, that's an addiction.  And, with any addiction, there is the penalty of having all your natural human energy sucked away by heartless things that will never appreciate, never grow, or benefit from it. 

Truthfully, I could blame these havens of time-suckery for my lack of progress, but as I've said many times- it all comes down to a choice, and the choice is mine.  When I think about my story- the story that I both hate and love, enjoy and find excruciating, am most proud and most ashamed- I choose to not think about it.  I could choose to finish it, change it, throw it out the window, but instead I choose to ignore it.  How self defeating.  I'm making all these changes in my life to get better physically, improve my finances, and try new things, but I won't change the one thing that could make the biggest difference- how I approach my story.  I need to approach it as an ally, not an enemy.  A friend, not an adversary.  At the very least- a frenemy.

I am a very introspective person, and it is hard for me to ask for advice.  So, I am making a choice right now to ask for help.  Any advice out there on how to turn things around?  What gets you back on track?  It would be much appreciated.