Hullo? Hulloooo...

A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

TO OFFICE WORKERS WHO MAKE PERSONAL PHONE CALLS

FROM THEIR DESKS

I appreciate that a work environment can, at times, be soul-sucking.

And time-sucking.

And life-sucking. 

(Yeah. I'm on to something with the suck factor here. You know it.)

Now, it's not always... but some days are just sub-par.

It is with this understanding of sub-par-ocity that I come into this conversation not wholeheartedly vexed, but admittedly somewhat muddled.

You see, I'm slightly confused how you can have so much time during your day to make phone calls that have absolutely nothing to do with your employment.

I mean, sure... I've calculated that about 20% of your time is spent micromanaging your neighbors. A rough approximation, to be certain, calculable only based upon the number of minutes I've wasted waiting for you to explain - in infinite detail - how I can arrive at the answer to a question that would take you only seconds to share.

The other 80% of your time spent here, based upon the numbers I've crunched, are spent on the phone, specifically for things that have nothing to do with your employment.

Of course, sometimes there are exceptions to the "Keep Work At Work and Home At Home" rule. I've been known to step out into the parking lot and field a call with my bank or my doctor, who work only the same hours that I do. On those occasions, of course it's necessary to step away from work and take care of business.

But there's a key factor there I think you might be missing:

Step Away.

I understand that some establishments certainly make scheduling difficult. But when I'm listening to your third iteration of a question regarding your sweetie's next check-up, it starts to wig me out. Honestly, after all the chatter I've heard from you, it's a wonder I can't perform the appointment myself. I feel like you're talking about my besty with whom I've been taking baths together since we were in diapers, so in-depth are the details I can provide to her health.

I also understand that having children in school can be difficult, because school hours are often within working hours. So, on occasion, of course you'll need to spend time talking on the phone with their teachers or even with them to make sure progress is progressing progressively. But when I'm listening to you listening to your offspring babble animatedly about using the blue crayon to color the sky, and then the green crayon to color the grass all while I'm elbow deep in actual work carnage, it corners me into wanting to do terribly unkind things to you with those very crayons. And then your kid would be sad, because one cannot be an artist with rectally entombed crayons.

But I think my biggest gripe is listening to you argue with your cell phone company. Or the bank. Or any other institution by whom you've been taken under contract for your living ease, only for you to make pathetic demands upon them because you cannot fathom someone doing what they do without your complete and total control over the situation.

I don't care that you've never lost your debit card before, or that you're a "model customer" at the bank. I hope they double the fee for replacing that card, and make you shell out ten bucks just for making that phone call.

Because haven't you spent that much already in taking the time to stop work for half an hour just to argue with them on the phone?

I mean... you've certainly wasted that much of mine, disrupting my day with your shenanigans.**1

RaYD,

Sunny

**1 It should be noted that I realize how this makes me sound like a snoop and an eavesdropper. The case, my good ReaderFriend, is exactly the opposite I'm afraid. The conversations are so animated and noisy that they are impossible to ignore. Were I capable, I would auditorally block this individual altogether: It would be totally worth it not just for the phone calls, but for the completely disgusting gargling of post-nasal-drip upon which he imbibes so frequently.

And it makes me gag every time.

Every. Blasted. Time.

Misdial

"I got the wrong number, sorry."

 

What would happen if you didn't accept their apology?

 

Caller - "I got the wrong number, sorry."

 

Sunny - "No, Sir, that's just not good enough.'"

 

Caller - "What?"

 

Sunny - "You called me. But you didn't mean to call me. That's such a waste of my time."

 

Caller - "...."

 

Sunny - "Yeah. You heard what you heard. You suck. You suck at phone calls, and you suck at life. Get stuffed."

And... Check

Remember when I was a wild-eyed stressmonkey right before my summer vacation?

The past week has been more of that... but without the fun 'Going On Vacation' part to look forward to.

See... I'm volunteering my organizational skills as a Wrangler of Wardrobes for a local dance production set to premier its tenth anniversary Christmas show in the middle of December. My home is littered with costume pieces in various states of completion.

And Boyfriend of Amazingness is getting ready to compete this weekend in a medieval tournament wherein he actually has the potential to win the right to crown himself prince - and myself princess - of our fair Kingdom. So my home is also littered with Ye Olde Clothings that I've been rushing to complete so we can look presentable when we make our appearance before the current king and queen on Saturday.

And Halloween is coming up. I cannot be Batman without a little extra assistance in the clothing department.

But I've also got dance classes.

And dates with friends.

And somewhere in my schedule I'm supposed to find time to eat and sleep.

I was feeling pretty frantic.

So yesterday, I got sick.

Not a headcold, but more of a Worry-Yourself-Into-A-Tizzy.

I had been sick to my stomach for days...

And I wasn't sleeping...

And Boyfriend of Amazingness was thinking about having me tranquilized and put in a padded box.**1

So I took eight hours of sick time and got All The Things done.

• (2) Cloaks; created
• (1) Chemise; hemmed
• (3) Costume skirts; assembled
• (2 sets) Costume legs; assembled
• (1) Batman costume; completed
• (1) Boyfriend of Amazingness costume; completed
• Miscellaneous shopping; completed

And to top it off... I folded two loads of laundry before I left for work this morning.**2

So I'm feeling pretty jazzed about how much Ta-Da is reflecting on my To-Do list.

Which can lead me to feel pretty silly.

(I swear, I have a work-related point in here somewhere.)

Which is probably why I erupted into a fit of The Giggles when a client called in to talk to an EngineerFriend, and I said "I'll put you right through."

I imagined myself going all Hulkette and tossing the client straight up through the ceiling and into the cubicle of the person they were calling.

Which led me to this:

Photo Courtesy of Family Guy.

And how can you not giggle when you think of the Kool-Aid Man busting all up through your workplace?!

The EngineerFriends wouldn't know what to do.

(I, of course, would give him a high five and invite him out for a drink.)

**1 If you're reading this, honey... You don't have to deny it. I was thinking about locking me up, too.

**2 Boyfriend of Amazingness does our laundry. From pick-it-up-off-the-floor-where-I-discarded-it-in-a-pre-sleep-shamble to bring-the-laundry-basket-full-of-clean-clothes-back-upstairs-to-the-bedroom. All I have to do is fold it and leave it on the bed, and then we both put our stuff away before we go to sleep. Suck it, Every-Other-Girl-In-The-Universe. He's all mine.

Vagaries *UPDATE*

Remember last week, when we addressed the Random Caller of Ultimate Vagueness?

Well, I was pleasantly surprised this morning to see that Dear Abby (of newspaper fame) addressed it recently as well.

Direct from Our Friendly Local Paper**1...

"'DEAR ABBY: Over the past month, I have accidentally dialed a couple of wrong numbers. Because no one answered, I didn't think it was necessary to leave a message. Abby, both times the recipient of the wrong number called me to find out why I had called. The first time it was an irate mother demanding to know why I was calling her kid's cellphone. She threatened to call the police if I ever called again. The second individual also angrily demanded to know why I was calling. I feel their reactions were unwarranted.

'Would you agree? What is the best way to respond if it happens again? - Honestly Mistaken in Plano, Texas.'

'DEAR HONESTLY MISTAKEN: People call wrong numbers every day. A misdial can occur if the caller is in a hurry or has poor vision, and it should not be a cause for panic or rudeness. If it happens again, the best way to respond is, 'I misdialed. I'm sorry that I bothered you.' Then end the call.'"

At least I know I've got Abs on my side.

**1 I read it every morning when I'm covering the morning break for the Front Desk Attendant. I should note that I've also got five stars in my horoscope today. The paper says so. It must be true.

Vagaries

Dear Random Caller,

I appreciate that it can be frustrating to see a call come in and be unable to answer it, but then not receive a voicemail. See, as the operator of a switchboard, handling that is kind of my job. So I get it. Really. 

So I feel comfortable explaining that, if someone calls you and then doesn't leave a voicemail, you need not call them back.

No. No exceptions. That's all there is to it - They don't bother to leave you a message, you don't waste your time tracking them down. Ta da!

Now I know it's tempting. You might be able to actually find the person who called you and have a terribly fulfilling conversation.

But I can almost guarantee that's what won't happen.

What will happen is that you'll reach my switchboard, where you'll promptly make your statement: "Someone called me from this number, and didn't leave a voicemail."

And I'll respond with "I'm sorry, but this is a switchboard." I could connect you with any of one hundred and sixty employees within this building based on the information you provided.

Now, this can go one of three ways.

The first optional response from you is my ideal: "Oh. I guess I'll just wait and see if they call back, then." No muss, no fuss, and we both get on with our lives in a relatively expedient fashion.

The second is less ideal: You offer some sort of specific about yourself, and I'm able to pinpoint who you need to speak to. For instance, you'll tell me that you live in a town where I know we do a lot of work. Or that you work in a school where only a handful of employees' children attend.  I'll transfer you as best I can, and we'll get on with our day.

The third is my least favorite. You offer something vague with a heavy dose of attitude that gets both of us riled up, and neither of us headed on the conversational path we should be travelling.

So while I commend you on your lifestyle of cheerleading and lobster selling, I can't direct your call. It doesn't matter how grumpy or inconvenienced you are. I'm sorry, but it just doesn't work that way.

Because as much as it would tickle the locals for me to page the office with an "If anyone called a random grumpasaurus about ordering some peppy lobsters, they're on line four..." The odds of it receiving anything but pithy sarcasm in retort are almost infinitely against you.

Thanks for your time, though. It's been a pleasure.

RaYD,

Sunny

Sweet Spot

Every building has an acoustic "sweet spot." 

Not, as you might think, the spot from which your voice sounds most amazing and announcer-like (although one must admit that room dynamics MUST have something to do with Old Spice Man's *fantastic* vocal carriage)...

No. 

In fact, I'm talking about the spot from which you can *hear* everything.

In one of my hometown libraries, this spot is directly on top of the StoryTime table. The table is just slightly off-center under a barrel ceiling, and being in proximity to the Sweet Spot means that you can hear every crackle of the old patron's wheezing, every swish of the librarians corduroy pants and every sniffle of the drippy-faced child playing with the well-loved castle playset. 

(Sidenote: I realized the intensity of this Sweet Spot as I was trying to learn poi while standing on top of this table. The rest of the library was empty, other than my teacher and the librarian... who had given us a full "go ahead" with the project ((with the caveat that if one of us fell, she was NOT going to clean it up.)) and was looking blissfully in the other direction.)

In my car, this is the driver's seat. From that position, every note that passes my lips sounds as if it were plucked from the golden lips of a spring songbird. I can sing along to any song - even in harmony - and put forth only the highest quality of sound from my perfect form.

And at work... It's at the back desk.

The Back Desk is the third of three desks at the Reception Area. 

The first desk, of course, is mine. It is in the closest proximity to the elevator and the lunch room, and is therefore ideal for people watching (but is almost always too far detatched from the action to provide optimum listening-in on goings-on.)

The second desk sits beside me, across an aisle, and is reserved for "Reception Back-Up." When I'm supremely busy, when my coworkers want to chat or when I'm out of the office, those others who are qualified (and consider themselves worthy - not above my lowly position) will take the helm and lead us fearlessly into battle from this station. But, it's just on the opposite side of a fake wall from a huge (and horridly chatty) CopierDemon.** And that's not entirely ideal either. Between the chatter around the copier, and the chatter OF the copier, it's kind of like trying to listen to what your parents are saying on Christmas Eve after they've sent you to bed "in anticipation of Santa" when they've turned up the volume on the Christmas movie that they won't let you watch and started talking about your presents. Especially the one they forgot to get you.

But anyway.

Point being, it's hard to hear from that one.

But from the Back Desk...

If you stand in just the right spot, you hit acoustic *gold.*

So, you're sitting at the Back Desk. And you're kind of bored, because you're finished with your "real" work for the day and the phone's been dead for hours (hypothetically, of course... I would never admit to down time for realsies...) and you decide that maybe there'll be something exciting behind the bookcase. Because, usually, bookcases have exciting things behind them.

So you stand in the corner and lean a little.

And realize that you can hear the whispered phone conversation next to the copier.

I don't know what it is about this spot. As I mentioned before, the Second Desk is almost drowned in noise from the accursed beast, and you can't hear what the person in front of you is saying (much less what the person on the other side of the wall, standing next to the stupid thing is whispering to her neighbor about). But from next to that bookcase, it was clear as day. The machine trucking along like it was its job, the computer beside me whirring and a page over the intercom, and still - as if they were whispering to me - I could hear...

"Did you see her makeup today? What a mess!"

Well. Maybe some whispers are better off unheard.

**No, seriously. It talks all the time. blah-blah-blah-JAM-blah-blah-BEEEP-blah-blah-blah-blah-CRUMPLEPAPER-blah.

The Trained Monkey

There are some points about my job that are particularly stressful to me.

One is keeping track of who likes which pens, and keeping the correct stock of each. This is bothersome because everyone likes different stuff, and they change parties all the time, and I just can't keep up. So while I currently have a 200-box backstock of ballpoints and can't keep a single erasable in the office, next week the needs will change and the 150 erasables I ordered will go untouched as they move on to The Next Big Thing... which will probably involve something with the gels I threw out a month ago.

One is cleaning the coffee pots when they get burnt on. This is, in general, the topic for another post... But let me state that (as a non-coffee-drinker), while I don't dislike the smell of coffee, the feeling of crusty goo under my fingernails as I scrape the pots clean is something that I simply don't enjoy.

And finally...

I don't like being yelled at.

Most specifically, I don't like being yelled at when the Yeller doesn't even realize what they're doing.

Here's how it usually goes:

When I make a phone call to an employee, a series of tones sound on their phone. (Doesn't that make it seem like I work in a big fire department? That would be cool... But it's nothing like that. It goes "BUUUP BUUUP BUUUP" - not a "beep" and not a "boop," but a "burp" without the "r".)

I then make some sort of announcement to state that I am calling. Sometimes I'll just say "Hello?" Other times I get more clever, and say the Employee's name. But I always try to make some sort of statement regarding the fact that I'm calling, because the tones can fade into the background and go unheard. (And no one likes to be on the receiving end of an EngineerFriend rendition of "Can't Touch This" as they sing along to their headphones, blissfully unaware that they are broadcasting.)

It is at this juncture that all hell can break loose.

Sometimes the EngineerFriend just sits there, waiting for me to continue with my monologue about who called them and why. However, as I am not a fan of distributing unwanted information, I do try to await acknowledgement of my phone-presence before proceeding. So those phone calls go like this:

BUUUP BUUUP BUUUP:

Sunny: Hello?

Engineerus Waitus: <silence>

Sunny: Hello?? Friend??

Engineerus Waitus <loudly, and with unmasked agitation>: WHAT?!

This rattles me. I often forget who is calling, or where they are from, or what they wanted, or any combination of these that leave me looking like an incompetent gibbon in a cute skirt. And then I have to go back to the caller, ask the information I had forgotten, and start the angry circle again.

Sometimes the EngineerFriend realizes they are being spoken to and responds, but then reaches for the phone halfway through my monologue in order to be prepared for their incoming conversation, but in doing so cuts off my speech so they can't hear everything. Those calls go like this:

BUUUP BUUUP BUUUP:

Sunny: Hello?

Engineerus Interruptus: Hi!

Sunny: Hi! I have So-And-So from... 

Engineerus Interruptus: <picks up handset> What? 

Sunny: on the line for... <realization dawns> Oh. Sorry. I have So-And-So from... 

Engineerus Interruptus: Great! Where's he from?

Sunny: Blargh.

This is less unsettling than being agitated at, but still leads to unfortunate gibbondom as I babble in incomplete sentences, competing with E.I. for the right to finish my sentences. 

However, the particular specimen I was dealing with today was Engineerus Hollerus, or The Yeller.

And his phone calls go like this:

BUUUP BUUUP BUUUP:

Sunny: Hello?

Engineerus Hollerus: <top of lungs, immediately adjacent to phone> YES?!

Sunny: <jumps> Oh! Umm... <collects self> I have So-and-So of This Company on the line.

Engineerus Hollerus: <like a normal human> Okay. Thank you!

I think this is my least favorite of all. He yells loudly enough so it vibrates the speaker against my ear, leaves my auditory receptors tingling (in the bad way) and usually gives me a headache. Now I'm an incompetent gibbon in a cute skirt with a penchant for Advil.

So today, after the Mother Of All Awful Meetings, I transferred a call to him. And got hollered at. And decided that I had reached the end of my auditory rope, and that something needed to be done.

So I confronted him.

(This is a big deal. I don't confront. I passive-agress, and I beat-around-the-bush, and I babble to other people who confront for me... But I don't make waves. I'm much more of a ripple sort of girl. The only thing in my life that should have waves are large bodies of water and potato chips.)

And *that* conversation went like this:

Sunny: Hi! Do you have a minute?

Engineer: Of course! For you? Anything!

(He's a bit of a character.)

Sunny: I just wanted to check on your phone. Is it working okay?

Engineer: Oh! I'm glad you came in! Actually, when I dial out, watch this...

<dials a random number, like 5439761584364, and then registers surprise when it doesn't work>

Oh. Well. When I make a phone call, it starts out really loud and then gets really quiet.

Sunny: Oh! So is this a common problem for your phone? The volume is an issue?

Engineer: Not always, just at the beginning of a conversation.

Sunny: I'm glad you brought that up. Stop yelling at me.

From here, he began on a monologue about how his coworkers immediately adjacent to him have been telling him that he's too loud, and how his wife tells him all the time that the phone hasn't done anything to him, and that he should stop yelling at it.

From which I took away "Don't get your hopes up, kid. I'm a yeller."

But I remain optimistic. The world is full of people who are exorbitantly loud (like drive-through yellers... and cell-phone-on-the-train yellers...) , and I am trying to do my part to reduce this number by one. I'm making a difference, world! Maybe he'll turn over a new leaf, and start addressing me like a real person instead of a half-deaf robot.    

Or maybe a real gibbon will come in and take my job, and I'll keep getting my paychecks, so I'll be free to move on to bigger and better things... like teaching small children the rules of society.

Rule Number 47 For Surviving Successfully in Society: Don't yell into the phone, or you'll risk the wrath of a disgruntled Receptionist.