Hung Over

At what age does one gain will-power? Or facial hair?

I mean, I’m 29 now, and on the morning of this past birthday, like all other birthdays before it, I woke up and wondered to myself “Is this the year? Is this the year I finally grow up? That’d be neato. That or a beard – god I’m so tired of this patchy bullshit that I’ve been futilely trying to turn in to an Abe Lincoln style chin-strap since I was 16.”

But alas, year 30 of my existence is shaping up to be little different than any of the previous 29. I still spend way too much time playing video games (damn you WoW), I still have crippling commitment issues, I still run a razor over my face every day while crying softly to myself, and I still can’t manage to find a way to not go out and get absolutely schnookered on school nights. I mean, how many gut wrenchingly awful days do I need to spend under these flickering fluorescent lights here in this taupe cubicle, with ice-picks sticking in to my temples answering phone calls from idiots who I have to pretend to be nice to before I learn that drinking is for young people and weekends?

The sunglassed ride in to work is always dreadful. As I pass by other cars on a deeply overcast day, I have to imagine their drivers know…just…know…that beneath these $10.00 convenience store shades lay the eyes of an idiot.

Here at work my co-workers love every minute of it – except the ones that were out with me – they’re wrapped in fleece blankets sipping soup out of Tupperware bowls. I walk very slowly and wince at everything, hamming it up a bit for sympathy that never comes. But I’ll take ridicule instead…it’s a worthy substitute and, hopefully, enough of it will remind me that beneath its playful exterior, that criticism bears the truth – that I’m a moron.

To make things worse I work in an inbound call center selling communications products to the general public…meaning every 45 seconds or so there’s a beep in my ear and an automated voice that announces “in call” with the same level of enthusiasm that I currently feel about taking that call. It might as well say “BEEEP!! – This is gonna suck.”

That beeping – made especially excruciating by my current medical condition – is invariably followed by six to eight minutes of some slovenly Neanderthal explaining to me all about the problems with his cable TV, which of course means nothing to me, because I work in the sales department. It's a constant source of amazement to me that gems like that gentleman can continually manage to end up choosing the third option, the one for a transfer of high speed internet service, even though the automated leader says quite clearly “for trouble with your service press one”.

Seriously, is anyone surprised that your TV isn’t doing what you want it to when you can’t even “press 1 for trouble with your service” when you are having trouble with your service? I mean, your phone has a 1 button right? And she said “for trouble with your service, press 1”? And you’re having trouble with your service? And you have ears? THEN HOW THE FUCK DID YOU END UP IN THE SALES DEPARTMENT?

I wondered when I got this job why so many of my co-workers were callous towards the people who called in. Now I wonder how they’re still sane. I mean…it’s simply mind boggling the level of idiocy that is allowed to walk around out there without supervision. But I digress.

So my first call today was from just about the most obnoxious kind of caller – one that I have affectionately dubbed “The Snuffleupagus”. You probably know one or two of these people – they are characterized by unnaturally low voices and the ability to make a 4 word sentence last five fucking minutes.

“Hey ……………………… I ……………… called ……… to ask …………………………. if you knew ………………………. um …………………………. anything about ……………………………. well …………………………. hold on …………………… my account number …………………….. you probably need that …………… first ………………….. um …………………….. it’s …………… uh ……………… hold on ………………………………..”

To ice this delicious cake, this particular Snuffleupagus had a Parakeet that was, I have to assume, living inside his phone’s mouthpiece. Every so often this disease ridden avian would utter a screech so loud that it would burst pixels on my LCD screen.

So with half closed eyes and a headache generally reserved for Joe Pesci victims, I get

“So ………………………………………. I ……………… um ……………. SQUAAAACK!! ……………. I have ……………………………. two TVS ………………………… SQUAAACK! ……………… are you there? ....................................... SQUAAAACK! …………. and the second TV ……………………………………………….. has ……………………………………. well ……………………………. the first TV …………………………. has one of those …………………………………. what do you call them ……………………… SQUAAAACK ………………… MARGE? ................................... WHAT DO YOU CALL THOSE THINGS? ............................... (what things?) …………………. SQUAAAA--AAACK ………………… YOU KNOW ………………………. THOSE THINGS UNDER THE ……… SQUAACK!!! …………….. THE TV THERE? .................................. THE BOX? ............................................ (you mean the cable box?) ……………… SQUAACK!!! ……………………. YEAH THE BOX FOR THE TV? .................................. (I don’t know honey, I think it’s just called a cable box) ………………………… is that right? .................... SQUAACK!!! ..................... Sir? ...............................”

At this point, as a defense mechanism, I have drifted off in to pleasant fantasies of suicide.

At some point, the prospect of dealing with those types of phone calls with a hang over will overcome my desire to use liquor to drown out the memories of those types of phone calls, but as you can see, it’s a difficult circle of misery to break free from.

So here I sit, huddled over a cup of coffee weighed down with about half a pound of non-dairy cream powder, cringing over the prospect of what particular tortures the next six to eight minute conversation my enthusiastic automated friend will bring me, and wishing I had a fleece blanket to wrap around myself and some soup to sip on.