The fact that my everyday life [from the hours of 8-4:30] is a mirror image of The Office – is beside the point. Last Monday, I arrive at work to find myself in the middle of Customer Service Appreciation week, which was kicked off by my boss wearing a Hawaiian shirt while cooking us breakfast (except he didn’t accidentally grill his foot in a George Foreman). I’m a part of the “fun committee” or in Office terms the “party planning committee.” My manager really pushed to have “Cowboy day” because he had a cowboy shirt that he wanted to wear. We told him nobody had anything cowboy-ish, but he could wear it anyway. He didn’t. Wednesday was hat day, and at the end of the day everyone who was wearing a hat had to line up against the wall and have our picture taken for our department homepage. Every time we were supposed to smile, I held up my name plate in front of my face and no one ever noticed. More on that later.
I have this next conversation about seventeen times a day, and it raises some major concerns in my mind about what century we are living in:
Me: Thank you for calling _____, how may I help you?
Her: Account balance.
Me: OK. your name please?
Me: and your NAME please?
Her: OH….. Jane.
Me: Thank you. The last four of your social?
Her: My husband’s is 5432.
Me: sigh. And the last four of YOUR social?
Her: oh, MINE…. Hmm… let me think.
Her: Well, it’s probably under my husband’s.
Me: You are the one calling. The fact that you can tell me your husband’s information does not help me verify that I’m talking to you. I need YOUR SOCIAL #$%#^%#!!!
Her: Um, ok, it’s um, 7654 I think.
Me: thank you.
And all of this time, I thought it was no longer 1820, and women were actually considered people. But every time I think I understand something… someone has to go and prove me wrong.
On Hippie Day, I went as an anti-hippie and wore this shirt:
If you’re interested in getting your own, or other tasty, tasty shirts visit www.thoseshirts.com
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