Hey, what’s up? If you’re reading this, it’s probably because you got left behind when the rapture came and all of your Mormon friends got taken away.
What, you didn’t see that episode of Family Guy? Or South Park? I can’t remember which raunchy cartoon it was that said the Mormons got it right…
Anyway. On to more important things. Like, why I’m blogging sober on a Friday night.
“Toni, why are you blogging SOBER on a Friday night?”
Because I’m unemployed and therefore unable to afford liquor, and I’m in a place where I know roughly 10 people other than my husband, therefore I have nothing better to do on Friday night. Thanks for rubbing it in, asshole.
Actually, I started writing this blog so I could tell you two things.
I see you leaning towards the screen of your looted Mac (pretentious much? Isn’t the whole point of owning a Mac being able to tell people that your computer cost three times as much as everyone else’s?) in rapt attention as you wait for the life-changing lesson that will inevitably follow.
Shit, I forgot what I was going to say first.
Give me a minute, I’ll remember…
I think it might have been something about my inability to finish anything other than a sandwich. Yeah, we’ll go with that. See, I have all these big plans for things, like books and a website to meet other pathetic losers who are stuck at home Friday night because they’re new in NC and don’t know anyone, and all sorts of diet/exercise plans, and I’ve never finished any of them. Not one. Hell, I can’t even finish cleaning my house in one try. Usually, half of my house is clean one week, the other half the next.
I’m being generous about my cleaning skills. They’re more along the lines of the whole house is a mess most of the time, and occasionally a room or two gets cleaned.
So yeah. I need to work on that whole willpower thing. It’s not that mine is inadequate… it’s that I just don’t possess anything that could be even slightly construed as willpower. Unless, of course, you count awesomeness. I’ve got lots of that.
Now that you’re all completely in awe of my awesomeness (check out that awesome alliteration!), I’ll tell you the other thing I came here to tell you about.
(Insert creative segue here…)
In 2006, I started a job as a switchboard operator. I got the job completely by chance… It was through a temp agency, and I hadn’t checked in with them in 6 weeks when they called me about the job. They had decided that I would be perfect for it; they described me as “bubbly” on the phone.
For the record, I have never, ever been described as “bubbly” in person. Or even “fit to be out in public.” But that’s beside the point.
Obviously, I took the job. It was employment, and part of my job description was playing on the internet all day. Woot! My training was pretty basic. They covered how to talk to the customers, how to record their info, and who each type of call should be directed to. What they didn’t really cover was what to do in the event of an irate (and possibly mentally deficient) customer. Sure, they warned me about the “bad” calls, but they didn’t really give me much guidance as to what to do in those situations.
Fast forward two weeks. Keep in mind that I was still a temp at this time, and still worried that one day they’d tell me not to come back. We had a new customer whose service was a pain in the ass to hook up. It took a few days, but everything finally got dealt with and they were just waiting for their scheduled installation. A woman and her boyfriend were listed on the account, both of whom had been nice in their impatience. After fielding quite a few calls from them over the course of a few days, I recognized the name and number when it came up on the caller ID.
Me: How may I direct your call?
Her: I need to speak to a manager. (Note: this wasn’t the woman whose name was on the account. And I knew why she was calling.)
Me: What is this in regards to?
Her: Tell them it’s about marketing. (Really? Make it a little more obvious that you’re lying. And also, how many managers will actually take a call about marketing?)
Me (rolling my eyes): Sure, hold on just a moment please.
I tried to transfer the call to 4 different managers, but the only one who was available told me to transfer the call about “marketing” to his voicemail. I switched back over, and no one was on the line. Not surprisingly, she called back a few minutes later.
Me: None of the managers are available at the moment (since I had just tried them all), would you like to leave a voicemail?
Her: No, I need to talk to someone.
I’ll save some time here and not type out every fucking word… and also, it was 5 years ago so I don’t remember *all* of the conversation. She reiterated how desperately she needed to talk to someone RIGHT NOW, blah blah blah, and refused to believe me when I told her no one was available.
Her: I may have a little bit of an accent, but I’m not stupid. (Dude, did I just get accused of being racist over the phone? Yes, yes I did.)
Me: (I told her for the 42625465387th time that no one wanted to fucking talk to her.)
Her: What is your name? I’m gonna report you to the Chamber of Commerce.
Of course, I refused to tell her my name. Why would I tell anyone that who just called me racist… over the phone? Fuck that. Surprisingly, I got a little sarcastic.
I know, you’re shocked. Hey, desperate times call for desperate measures!
Anywho, she actually called the Chamber of Commerce. I had to explain to my manager what had happened, you know, how someone who wasn’t on the account (therefore I didn’t have to do shit for her) wanted me to lie to the managers about why she was calling. And that whole I-hung-up-on-a-customer thing too. Oops. Apparently that’s frowned upon unless they’re cussing at you.
The bitch also called AGAIN, and then she came into the store.
I’ll admit it, I hid.
What did I learn from all this, you ask?
1. Apparently I don’t need to know what color someone is to hate them for their race.
2. Everybody was on my side. Ha!
3. There was a very racist statement here. Then I realized that ending the blog that way would cancel out the funny. So, I’ll put in this picture of adorable kittens instead!
Just think… when your heathen grandchildren ask you what you were doing the night before the rapture someday, you can tell them about this blog.
Meet Harley (a.k.a. Bub, a.k.a. “fucking cat, I oughta beat you for that”):
He’s a 7 month old womanizer. He’s already got two pretty little tiger striped girls wrapped around his tail.
First, there was Phoenix. She was robbing the cradle with Harley. Baths, cuddling on the couch, and the occasional throw-down, all-out brawl: they had quite the exciting relationship.
Then Maggie came along. She’s almost an exact replica of Phoenix, only younger.
Bub was smitten.
Poor Phoenix. She’s terribly jealous. Alas, she just can’t compete with a younger, yet-to-be spayed little vixen.
We didn’t plan on keeping Maggie. But my husband fell in love with her too, and now she’s here to stay.
When we brought her home, I thought she was too young to get pregnant. Then I found out that cats can get knocked up at 4 months old!
Ha, good thing we figured that out before she got knocked up. We got Harley neutered in order to keep our little zoo down to 5 cats.
Let’s have a moment of silence in remembrance of Bub’s nuts…
Now, Harley’s inability to reproduce hasn’t dissuaded Maggie at all. She’s constantly waving her ass in Bub’s face, trying to get him to do things that they’re both waaay too young to be doing.
And they’re exhibitionists. They prefer to tease each other in the middle of the living room with a full audience.
Fucking cats, man. Get a room.
*Don’t forget to have your whorish cats spayed and neutered, folks.