[work]

Another entry dedicated to my job. I'm starting to mark entries as such, so that people may skip them if they so wish as soon as they see the header.

We opened up a call center this summer.

What it basically does is answer phone calls from people all over the country, using a nationally recognized and heavily advertized 1-800 number. Most, though not all, of these phone calls are involving abortion. The operators make appointments for our offices and answer any questions people might have about the procedures. Eventually, we're going to even have other providers listed with us. It'll use a website where they'll pay to be listed. I'm not quite sure how that's all going to work, although I do know all the bugs have been cleaned out of the system. We just haven't started soliciting other providers as of yet.

So, we have this phone room and it employs probably about twenty people. Call volume can get extremely heavy at times and because of this, the administrative staff all had call center phones installed at their desks and we're expected to be logged on and taking calls every minute that we're sitting at our desks.

I fought this idea for a very long time. I hate talking on the phone with a burning passion that rivals that of a thousand fiery suns. I didn't want to answer the phone and for quite some time, I even avoided it. Angel knew my feelings on the matter and protected me from it for some time, but it got to the point where we were all needed to pitch in. So, I was officially drafted to be the second wave.

See, the phones ring upstairs in the call center first. If no one is available to take the call, it is immediately routed downstairs to administration to me and two other women. If all of us are also busy, it is then routed to the rest of the office.

We were all trained extensively on protocol and abortion related information. I actually enjoyed this quite a lot because it's something I hold an avid interest in.

I'm not logged in for my entire shift, like I'm supposed to be, because that is nigh on impossible. I'm up and down from my desk far too often and I can't remember to always log in. However, I've been making up for this by having my phone logged in from about 4 or so to when I leave, which is usually around 7.

And after taking a slew of phone calls, I've discovered something.

I actually like it.

The exchange of information pleases me. And the idea that I am helping a person do something very difficult is an idea that makes me happy. It's challenging, because I have to constantly be well-mannered and compassionate, despite any kind of bad day I might be having (and I get to employ all of that customer service training that I've gone through over the years, something which I excel at).

Some of the calls make me want to scream bloody murder. Like the genital warts lady, which I can't disclose the particulars about that call for privacy issues. But, I can state that it was almost an hour long call and I sincerely thought, more than once, that it was Angel testing my patience and reactions.

Some of the people in the actual call center aren't very good at what they do. And it irritates me to no end to hear how they treat patients with such callousness, or how they hang up on people for no good reason other then boredom and spite, or how they don't care to learn the correct information or terminology.

This actually pushes me to answer the phones even more. Because then I know at least one more person is being given the treatment that they should be given. They hear a friendly voice on the other end of the line, one that treats them kindly. Sometimes, even with humour. I've made more then one patient actually laugh, which, in my mind, is no easy feat given the subject matter.

I'm glad that answering the phones isn't my full-time job, though. The idea of doing that ten hours a day, every day, would probably kill my good manners in short order. I can't sit still long enough for that kind of thing and despite the mental stimulation, I don't think it would be quite enough for me. And knowing myself, I would start to backslide.

I feel ridiculous for talking about my employment so often. I should most likely start to carry around a little sign:

Hi, I'm Tara. I work for an abortion provider and I talk about my job far too much.

heh.

(no subject)

Irritation abounds.

I applied for a loan refinance about two weeks ago. Money is extremely tight, probably the tightest it's been in a long while, and I have three animals that need vet visits. Also needed is money for the holidays and money to gut this apartment into something acceptable. I've refinanced my loan before, when my mother applied for bankruptcy and I paid the thousand dollars it took to do so. It went smoothly and the only thing which took an extended amount of time is getting my father up here on a day where he can sign the paperwork (he's my co-signer).

Two weeks ago, I called the bank my loan is housed in and asked them for an application to refinance again. They faxed it to me and in response to my questions about my father filling out the papers, they told me it wasn't necessary and if they needed any information from him, they would call me. Fabulous. This makes getting the application in even quicker, because I could just fill it out and fax it back.

Which is exactly what I did that day.

I receive a phone call today from the bank informing me that my application has been denied because I have a lot of open credit and my bills seem to exceed my paychecks. I flip the fuck out. Ask them if my co-signer was even taken into account with this decision.

And apparently, he was not. Why?
Because he wasn't on the paperwork.

You shit-fucking bastards. You TOLD me he didn't have to be on there.

So now, I have to resubmit my application with my father's information and signature, then go through the entire process over again. And the woman I spoke to on the phone acts like I'm some kind of lying dullard. Oh, well it couldn't have possibly taken two weeks. Well. It did. Check your fucking records for when I originally submitted these papers.

I hung up, laid down on my bed, and cried like a little bitch for a good hour.

I had woken up this morning, already feeling like crap, and decided to go into work late. It was asked that I work on Saturday anyway, so I figured any missed hours would be sufficiently made up by that. Now on top of feeling like ass on the half shell, I've got this load of stress dumped on my head.

There's too much going on, too much input into my brain, and I'm not sure if I can take it all. I'm already at my limit emotionally from everything that happened with my mother and I'm already walking around most of my days like a zombie. Two nights ago, Mom's best friend from when she was growing up called me. I had called her the day after Mom died, to let her know, but I got her answering machine. She was only just getting back from being away on vacation for a month when she called me. And I had to dredge everything back up for her, despite how much it hurt to talk about it. I think that's probably what put me into the funk I woke up with this morning, because it was creeping around the edges all day yesterday too.

I'm not hiding from my feelings, but I DON'T want to talk about it with anyone right now. It won't do me any good. It's not as if I'm in need of a solution. Conversation is not going to make me heal faster, it's not going to uncover some unknown truth that will suddenly fire all the lights in my head and I'm magically not going to be grieving anymore. The only solution to the pain I'm going through is to wait it out. Time is what I need.

My not discussing what happened on November 12th is very deliberate on my part. It's MY memory. There's no need to share it. Sharing it isn't going to make me feel any better. And pulling it all out into the open again for my mom's friend did nothing but make me upset.

Mind you, I don't blame her. She has every right to know what went on. And there was no way for me to avoid it. But, it doesn't stop me from feeling any less shitty and upset. It hurts to talk about it and I only do it when I have to.

Saturday night, I gave Angel free run of my mother's closet. She picked out everything she wanted to take and we bagged it up. All of the other clothes are going to a battered women's shelter on Monday, except for a couple of cashmere sweaters I refuse to part with. We laughed as we did this, and Angel talked about how she wished she could have met my mother. That didn't hurt at all. It felt like honouring her, in some way. And I'm going to take today and bag up the rest of the clothes for Monday.

I don't know. I have a lot going on in my head right now, some of which I'm actually willing to talk about with people. But, I don't know how to verbalize it all. It's too much. Too big. And it stings around the edges.

In time, it'll come.

(no subject)

Bedroom is now torn apart, then back together again.
Clothing rack, dismantled.
Clothes, bagged and in my car (that was a hoot).
Storage unit, cleaned out and rearranged.
My clothes, washed and put away (for once).

Not all of the laundry is finished, mostly because I'm unsure if I'll have enough quarters. The only stuff left to wash is all the linens from the past few weeks. And that can wait.

The only thing left to do is drive to my office and pick up my loan application, which I left on my desk.

hoom.

I suppose I'll spend the rest of the night knitting. Maybe clean some more.