I think I’m going to have to change my name. If I hear my name uttered by my coworkers one more time, I’m going to become so irate that I’ll make The Incredible Hulk look like Mister Rogers.
It wasn’t always like this, I used to love my unique name. When someone in school said, “Finch”, I knew they were talking to (or about) me, and not one of 157 other girls. Not like the poor, unfortunate “Sarah”s in my class. From grade school to high school, I attended class with no less than three and upwards of 17 various “Sarah”s. But there was only one Finch. I reveled in my singularity. Now however, I wish I could slip into the persona of a ubiquitous “Sarah”.
“What could have caused such a dramatic shift in your love for your name?” I hear you asking, even though the bonds of time and space that separate us. Well, I’ll tell you, because I know you would be unable to ever sleep again unless you knew the answer to your burning question.
The answer is this: I became a coach at the call center where I work. In this positions, I assist other workers with their calls, take calls from customers demanding to speak with a supervisor, and pretty much handle any other task that is too complex for an average worker and too menial for upper management. Basically, anything that no one else wants to do, the policy is “Well, Finch can do that!” So not only am I troubleshooting computer programs, making infinite copies and taking attendance, but also I’m rebuilding client case files from scratch, fetching and carrying food for my coworkers and cleaning out the fridge in the break room. All this on top of my regular work assigned to me and answering questions for my coworkers.
Which brings me to “Hey Finch”, A phrase which I hear approximately 5,843 times during the workday and extending into the night, into my dreams. Yes, I have nightmares of endless “Hey Finch”s which resound ceaselessly from my coworkers in a cacophonous ululation like a Greek chorus of the damned. You might think I’m being overly dramatic, but you’d be wrong. If anything, I’m being understated, reserved, and rational in my description of this shrieking hell into which I have been plunged.
And it gets worse. While I’m responding to one “Hey Finch” request, I’ve got at lease two other “Hey Finch”s being hollered at me, while five simultaneous “Hey Finch”s vie for my attention via phone, 17 “Hey Finch”s bombard my inbox, while one sly “Hey Finch” manages to slip in via IM from my boss. I’m surprised I don’t get a handwritten “Hey Finch” tied to the leg of a pigeon, or parachuted in though a ceiling tile, or plastered across a hot air balloon. One day, a thousand years in the future, when my office building is nothing but rubble, archaeologists will find the entrance to a prehistoric cave. And in that cave they will discover an ancient crude pot with strange hieroglyphs chiseled upon it. And after years of study, the archaeologists will determine that, roughly translated, the inscription reads: “Hey Finch”.
Ah, but I can dream of a day when all of this will change–a day when greeting me with “Hey Finch” will be punishable by a vigorous thrashing for the first offense, and by an attack from an assortment of unsavory creatures (piranhas, anacondas, those really thick looking black spiders, crawdads, etc) for each subsequent offense. Yes, were I to become a supreme evil overlord, everyone from my lowliest minion to my most trusted advisers would know the severe penalties attached to an errant “Hey Finch”. The only one who might even conceivably be permitted to utter “Hey Finch” would be my consort, were I to have one. Alas, I am currently consort-less, but if I were not, he alone would have have the permission to “Hey Finch” me. And the only reason they would be able to commit an act which would usually incur my wrath is because they would be incredibly, mind-bogglingly, slap-yo-mama hot. I’m picturing no less than Tom Hiddleston levels of hotness, here. But everyone else–no such luck.
When those who are lowlier than my consort refer to me or call upon me, they will be permitted to use such appellations as “Your Supreme Awesomeness”, or “Oh Mistress, My Mistress”, or “Finch the Superb, Dominatrix of All She Surveys”. Or maybe just “Finch.” If it’s Casual Friday. But no matter what, the world would know that I am Finch the Superb, She Who Shall Not Be “Hey”d.
We’re having a bunch of corporate big wigs come and visit us tomorrow. As such, since management thinks all workers are a slovenly hoard of miscreants, we received an email outlining unprofessional things which management has noticed, and which should not be done while the Most Favored and Revered VIPS are among us. These things included:
-No putting feet on desk (I have no idea how this is being accomplished without someone being a contortionist)
-Not wearing shoes at all times. (Ok, yes I take my shoes off at work, but my feet get hot and it’s not like I walk around like that.)
-Workers slouched down in desk chairs.-
I had to wonder why the list was so small, because there are things that we workers do every day which are far more unprofessional. So, I have compiled a list of daily work activities that seem questionable, but that as of yet have flown under management’s radar.
– Hunching over the keyboard, pounding keys and uttering a low but constant stream of profanity.
-Slumping forward, head on arms, weeping softly,
-Staring blankly into the middle distance while contemplating the poor life choices that led to this point.
-Shrieking in pain as we attempt to remove our headsets, which are clinging, bat-like, to our hair.
-Growling demonically at our computer systems’ frequent crashes
-Leaping up out of our desk chair, our fists clenched in our hair, howling wordlessly at the uncaring acoustical tiles and by proxy, the uncaring sky above.
So I guess all those responses are perfectly normal for working in a call center. Perfectly. Normal.