Before we start anything else, we need to have a moment of silence for one of my very best friends and a bastion of my sanity: my television. Which, when I turned it on this morning, has no picture. It has sound, but no picture. And there’s a weird electronic burning smell happening around it. And a line through the black screen. I think a line through a black screen with no picture, only sound, is the same as cartoon characters with Xs over their eyes.
I think my television set, which I got for free from friends when I moved, has died. However, I cannot swap it out with the bedroom television because it is too heavy and almost gave my dad a hernia when he moved it in here. He will be SO PLEASED he gets to move it again when he comes up on Sunday. SO SO PLEASED. And before you ask, yes, I already tried banging on the sides of it really hard with my hands. That’s how I fix a lot of things at work. And turning it on and off. And unplugging it and plugging it back in. None of these things worked. I then realized I had spent forty-five minutes that I don’t even have to spend because I have to leave for work soon banging on the stupid television and also I think I broke the dustbuster because it fell on the floor with a crunching sound, so I gave up. And now I am sitting in silence which is DEAFENING. I don’t care for this at all. I like my television to provide background noise for me. I think I’m going to have to go to the bedroom where there is actually television because this is making me itchy.
OK, so, because I am IMPRESSIVE, I remembered I have a television set the size of a teeny tiny computer monitor from college in the back of my closet so I SWAPPED THEM OUT. But it’s so old my universal remote doesn’t recognize it so I can’t control the volume, or turn it on or off, unless I get up to do so. So THINK of all the exercise I will be getting! ALL the exercise. Up and down and up and down. AND, yes, I totally picked up the heavy hernia-inducing television set that smelled like burning ALL BY MYSELF. I didn’t move it far. It’s just on the floor. But ALL BY MYSELF! I’m thinking in 14 years I’ll be able to afford a new television set so that’ll be nice. Something to look forward to. (Also, yes, no worries, I unplugged the electric burny-smell television, Andreas. I don’t want an electrical fire. I learned my lesson from your scary fire. I live on the second floor and don’t want to have to jump off the porch.)
Let’s see, what’s up in Amyville. Well, it’s night-shift week. Yesterday, a racist called and said naughty racist words to one of our operators. No, I’m not even kidding. He called back later to apologize but I feel that was only because he realized he wasn’t going to get a call back because the on-call tech was all “nope, not calling THAT guy back, I think he’s unhinged.” We get things like that, once. Ooh, I totally have a story about that. Once, when I first started there and I didn’t realize you could hang up on people who were scary and harassing you (I mean, we don’t hang up on people often, but if they’re being terrible, you can say, “sir/ma’am, if you continue speaking to me in that fashion, I have no recourse but to hang up the phone,” or something) I was answering for some account where the owner was out, but you had to say he was on the other line. We have a few of those – they don’t want the callers to know they’re using an answering service, so you white-lie the callers. I hate that, but what can you do. So I told the caller, “he’s on the other line, let me take a message and he’ll call you back when he’s done.” And he was all, “I’ll hold.” And THEN what do you do? He can’t hold. You’re not in the office. So I was all “Um. No, I’m sorry, sir, I’m not able to have you hold, if I could just take a message…” and he was like, “I said I’d HOLD” and I was like “I’m sorry, sir, we’re really unable to do that here,” and then, THEN, he was all, “You are a dirty nickel whore. Do you like it dirty, you whore? How do you like it. Do you like it…” then he started DESCRIBING ALL THE WAYS A DIRTY NICKEL WHORE MIGHT LIKE IT.
And I’d only been there a month or two and wasn’t aware that there are ways to deal with such things, so I was all “…” and kind of making a fish-face while he RANTED and then I waved over a supervisor and muted him and was like, “this guy? He is describing all the things a nickel whore like me might like? What do I do?” and she was all SHOCK-FACED and said, “you can HANG UP. No no NO.” So I got off the phone and she was all, “I’m sorry you had to deal with that,” and I could think of nothing to say but “I…didn’t even know that there WERE whores who worked for a nickel. That seems like…not enough money, at all. For a whore. Even a dirty one.” Then I kind of laugh-cried. BUT! I have gotten much better at dealing with such people, and now I use SARCASTIC HUMOR. And I actually made one dirty whore-shouter cry because I asked him if he would call his mother or his sister those names, and he was all “weep weep YOU ARE SO MEAN!” (PS I don’t recommend anyone do this; it was a long day, and that particular caller had called approximately 50 times and had harassed a ton of my lower-level operators and now that I’m supervisor there is very little in the world I dislike more than a caller who harasses beginning-level employees. I don’t like bullies, and he was being a bully. He was also drunk and an asshole, but that’s neither here nor there. Don’t call my beginning operators and harass them. Don’t even. I am very mama-bear protective of them. They shouldn’t have to put up with that shit. They don’t get paid enough to get dirty-talked to. We’re not phone-sex operators, for the love of Pete. If we were, we’d probably be getting paid more. We would, right? How much do phone sex operators get paid, anyway? Not that I’m INTERESTED. I’m asking out of CURIOSITY. I would be TERRIBLE at that. I’d get the giggles. “Oh. What am I wearing? Um. A red…negligee…and…um…I’m sorry. I just can’t. Sweatpants with a spaghetti-sauce stain. I can’t do this. Please call your mom, you’re making me sad.”)
Oh, quick Dad-story and then I’m outta here like…shit, I don’t know. Something speedy-fast. Speedy Gonzalez, maybe. The roadrunner. The level of my bank account.
Called Dad today. Missed him yesterday. Night-shift and talking to Dad don’t always mix.
Me: I MISSED YOU YESTERDAY! Is it because you hate me?
Dad: Some might say that. Some would be wrong, but they might say that.
Me: Aw. That’s nice.
Dad: I wasn’t home yesterday because I was KILLING TURKEYS.
Me: Is that a euphemism?
Dad: No. There were turkeys, and I killed them.
Me: Were they charging you? Why the turkey-murder?
Dad: SO I CAN EAT THEM. No, they weren’t charging me. I wasn’t in a turkey-store. Ha! GET IT?
Me: Good one, Dad. OK, so that’s kind of awesome, but also sad, because I like turkeys. They make funny underwater gobbling noises.
Dad: You might be the weirdest daughter I have.
Me: Pretty sure I am.
Dad: I killed two turkeys with one bullet, so that’s efficient. They were lined right up.
Me: Imagine if four turkeys were lined up. That’d probably be a world record.
Dad: And illegal. You can only kill two turkeys in the fall and two in the spring.
Me: I like the strange rules that get put on the turkey-slaughter.
Dad: Oh, I killed that wall-mouse, too.
Me: I hope you didn’t shoot it. Mom doesn’t like guns going off in the house.
Dad: No. With a TRAP.
Me: Did you find the trap that the wall-bear stole?
Dad: No. That’s still missing. Probably that wall-bear-monster still has it.
Me: Jim says you have a pigfishbear in your walls.
Dad: I don’t think I do. What’s a pigfishbear.
Me: Something from a nuclear test site, I think.
Dad: Oh, like a mutant. Huh.
Me: You have to kill it with fire.
Dad: I don’t want to burn down my house to kill a pigfishbear. There’s no nuclears here.
Me: Ok, probably just a bear, then.
Dad: Wait, who’s Jim. Is Jim the one who shunned us in Florida?
Me: I told you he didn’t shun us.
Dad: HE IS DEAD TO ME. I don’t want to talk about him anymore.
Me: Man, you are a formidable enemy to have.
Dad: I really am. People should be more scared. Why aren’t people more scared?
Me: I don’t know. Maybe you should grow a big beard and wear a biker-jacket or something.
Dad: I’m not a HELL’S ANGEL. Those are all killers.
Me: I don’t think all. Just some.
Dad: All. I saw it on the news.
OK, off to work, my little Hostess cupcakes. Have a happy Friday! Almost the weekend, hooray!