Stuck in Lodi again
Hey kids.
I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. I'm sorry^8(on its side). I've been checking the blog every day from my desk at work, wondering, "When is this jackass going to post something new for God's sake? Oh right, this jackass is me."
I could say that I was waiting for a couple of comments before writing another post, but that would be a lie. (Seriously, though. Write comments. Even to mock me.) (Actually, don't mock me.)
[This is the part where I say that things have been very boring lately and that I don't have anything interesting to say.]
[And this is the part where I commence a long post on a plethora of disparate topics which one might construe as indicating that I do, in fact, have a lot to say.]
Listen, it's only been a week and already the Qpac polling gig is wearing me down. It only took a week.
The problem lies in the very nature of the work. Essentially, I sit in front of a computer screen for hours on end facing an interminable series of rejections. There are plenty of variations--different flavors of rejection, if you will--but the end result is always the same sharp icy blade in my heart. A few examples:
-Ring...ring...ring...ring...ring...ring...ring...ring...
-Ring...ring...ring...ring...ring..."Hello, you have reached...please leave a message."
-Ring...ring...ring..."Hello?" "Hi, my name is Mike and I'm calling from the Q-- U-- Poll, located in..." CLICK.
-Ring...ring...ring..."Hello?" "Hi, my name is Mike and I'm calling from the Q-- U-- Poll, located in H--, CT. We're interested in your opinions about some issues in the news...spiel...speil...would you like to begin the poll?" CLICK.
-Ring...ring...ring..."Hello?" "Hi, my name is Mike and I'm calling from the Q-- U-- Poll..." "HOW DID YOU GET THIS NUMBER!? PLEASE TAKE ME OFF YOUR LIST!!"
-Ring...ring...ring..."Hello?" "Hi, my name is..." "NOT INTERESTED!"
-Ring...ring...ring..."Hello?" "Hi, my name is..." "DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS!? I'VE GOT YOUNG CHILDREN [hysterical sobbing in the background] WHO ARE NOW WIDE AWAKE THANKS TO YOU! DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG IT TAKES ME TO GET THEM DOWN AT NIGHT!?" "Thank you for your time ma'am." "WHY DON'T YOU GO SHOVE..." CLICK (this time on my end).
And that's only a sampling.
I'm left to wonder whether it's something that I'm doing to make so many people so vehemently disinclined to participate in the poll. Is there something about my voice that's unappealing? (Remember when I thought so fondly of my own voice? Those hours spent listening to my voicemail message at my other job?) Don't I sound legitimate? Do I sound like a huckster?
I glance around at the end of every shift to see how many polls other people have been able to complete. The sweet little old lady sitting behind me did 14 tonight; I only got through 7.
I suppose it's in my nature to view my stats as a personal failure. But it's insanely demoralizing. With each passing ring I feel the dread rising thickly from the pit of my stomach into the back of my throat--it's a wonder I can manage to croak out the first few lines of the script when someone actually picks up the phone.
And then there are the real heartbreakers: when I get part-way into the administration of a poll and the person decides to stop, or starts being a jackass.
A vignette from today's shift:
ME: And do you have any children under the age of 18?
GUY ON OTHER END: Huh huh, yeah, three.
ME: And do you have any children who attend public school?
GUY ON OTHER END: Yeah, five.
ME: And do you own or rent your apartment or house?
GUY ON OTHER END: I live in a garbage can.
ME: Thank you for your time, sir.
Fortunately most of my shifts have gone by pretty quickly. Obviously the more polls I complete, the faster it goes. It's really not that bad. It's cash, and it's something, and it's very very temporary.
Speaking of temporary, I've got to keep reminding myself that these are only hold-over positions that I've taken. I can feel myself sinking into a routine, and it scares me. How many weeks have gone by since I started at BNH? Almost four, I think. The weeks have flown by (even though, paradoxically, my shifts at the magazine seem to stretch on into eternity).
It's far too easy to get comfortable with the daily grind, I can tell. Wake up; shower; go to work; get home; read something; watch some television; go out for a drink; go to bed; start over. Living such a compartmentalized existence will make your life disappear.
The worst part, for me, is that this new routine of mine seems to have snuffed out all of my creativity. It's hard to schedule something like writing, or even something like creative thought, into a day packed with so many mundane activities. And it horrifies me. I can see the death of my creativity--of writing, of reading, of appreciating the intricacy and subtlety of things--staring me in the face. I don't want to let it happen, but it's hard to avoid. When I had plenty of time on my hands, it was easy to spend two hours writing a blog post, or piecing together the plot of a short story. Now I find that after working a nine-hour day (poor me), all I want to fill my free time is a beer and maybe an hour of mindless television. This must be how artists die.
These past few weeks have provided proof of a fact that I've always known to be true: I'm not going to find what I want in the workaday world. Even though I don't really know what I want, I know that it's not behind a desk or on the other end of a phone line or glaring at me from a computer screen.
One of my favorite times of day lately has been the fifteen-minute ride home from Qpac. After four hours of soul-deadening rejection, I roll down all the windows in my '98 Maxima (beige, leather interior), crank up the Beatles or CCR, and race the wind down the serpentine wooded roads between the campus and my (dad's) house. I almost forget that I'm driving through nondescript suburban southern Connecticut and not somewhere special like the Green Mountains or an Appalacian hollow.
At this point in my life, at this moment right now, I think the one thing I'd like more than any other is a long empty road to drive on--cool air streaming through open windows, stereo cranked up high--with no particular destination in mind and no reason to stop for anything. And maybe somebody interesting (and halfway-decent looking) riding shotgun.
But that's just me.
I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. I'm sorry^8(on its side). I've been checking the blog every day from my desk at work, wondering, "When is this jackass going to post something new for God's sake? Oh right, this jackass is me."
I could say that I was waiting for a couple of comments before writing another post, but that would be a lie. (Seriously, though. Write comments. Even to mock me.) (Actually, don't mock me.)
[This is the part where I say that things have been very boring lately and that I don't have anything interesting to say.]
[And this is the part where I commence a long post on a plethora of disparate topics which one might construe as indicating that I do, in fact, have a lot to say.]
Listen, it's only been a week and already the Qpac polling gig is wearing me down. It only took a week.
The problem lies in the very nature of the work. Essentially, I sit in front of a computer screen for hours on end facing an interminable series of rejections. There are plenty of variations--different flavors of rejection, if you will--but the end result is always the same sharp icy blade in my heart. A few examples:
-Ring...ring...ring...ring...ring...ring...ring...ring...
-Ring...ring...ring...ring...ring..."Hello, you have reached...please leave a message."
-Ring...ring...ring..."Hello?" "Hi, my name is Mike and I'm calling from the Q-- U-- Poll, located in..." CLICK.
-Ring...ring...ring..."Hello?" "Hi, my name is Mike and I'm calling from the Q-- U-- Poll, located in H--, CT. We're interested in your opinions about some issues in the news...spiel...speil...would you like to begin the poll?" CLICK.
-Ring...ring...ring..."Hello?" "Hi, my name is Mike and I'm calling from the Q-- U-- Poll..." "HOW DID YOU GET THIS NUMBER!? PLEASE TAKE ME OFF YOUR LIST!!"
-Ring...ring...ring..."Hello?" "Hi, my name is..." "NOT INTERESTED!"
-Ring...ring...ring..."Hello?" "Hi, my name is..." "DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS!? I'VE GOT YOUNG CHILDREN [hysterical sobbing in the background] WHO ARE NOW WIDE AWAKE THANKS TO YOU! DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG IT TAKES ME TO GET THEM DOWN AT NIGHT!?" "Thank you for your time ma'am." "WHY DON'T YOU GO SHOVE..." CLICK (this time on my end).
And that's only a sampling.
I'm left to wonder whether it's something that I'm doing to make so many people so vehemently disinclined to participate in the poll. Is there something about my voice that's unappealing? (Remember when I thought so fondly of my own voice? Those hours spent listening to my voicemail message at my other job?) Don't I sound legitimate? Do I sound like a huckster?
I glance around at the end of every shift to see how many polls other people have been able to complete. The sweet little old lady sitting behind me did 14 tonight; I only got through 7.
I suppose it's in my nature to view my stats as a personal failure. But it's insanely demoralizing. With each passing ring I feel the dread rising thickly from the pit of my stomach into the back of my throat--it's a wonder I can manage to croak out the first few lines of the script when someone actually picks up the phone.
And then there are the real heartbreakers: when I get part-way into the administration of a poll and the person decides to stop, or starts being a jackass.
A vignette from today's shift:
ME: And do you have any children under the age of 18?
GUY ON OTHER END: Huh huh, yeah, three.
ME: And do you have any children who attend public school?
GUY ON OTHER END: Yeah, five.
ME: And do you own or rent your apartment or house?
GUY ON OTHER END: I live in a garbage can.
ME: Thank you for your time, sir.
Fortunately most of my shifts have gone by pretty quickly. Obviously the more polls I complete, the faster it goes. It's really not that bad. It's cash, and it's something, and it's very very temporary.
Speaking of temporary, I've got to keep reminding myself that these are only hold-over positions that I've taken. I can feel myself sinking into a routine, and it scares me. How many weeks have gone by since I started at BNH? Almost four, I think. The weeks have flown by (even though, paradoxically, my shifts at the magazine seem to stretch on into eternity).
It's far too easy to get comfortable with the daily grind, I can tell. Wake up; shower; go to work; get home; read something; watch some television; go out for a drink; go to bed; start over. Living such a compartmentalized existence will make your life disappear.
The worst part, for me, is that this new routine of mine seems to have snuffed out all of my creativity. It's hard to schedule something like writing, or even something like creative thought, into a day packed with so many mundane activities. And it horrifies me. I can see the death of my creativity--of writing, of reading, of appreciating the intricacy and subtlety of things--staring me in the face. I don't want to let it happen, but it's hard to avoid. When I had plenty of time on my hands, it was easy to spend two hours writing a blog post, or piecing together the plot of a short story. Now I find that after working a nine-hour day (poor me), all I want to fill my free time is a beer and maybe an hour of mindless television. This must be how artists die.
These past few weeks have provided proof of a fact that I've always known to be true: I'm not going to find what I want in the workaday world. Even though I don't really know what I want, I know that it's not behind a desk or on the other end of a phone line or glaring at me from a computer screen.
One of my favorite times of day lately has been the fifteen-minute ride home from Qpac. After four hours of soul-deadening rejection, I roll down all the windows in my '98 Maxima (beige, leather interior), crank up the Beatles or CCR, and race the wind down the serpentine wooded roads between the campus and my (dad's) house. I almost forget that I'm driving through nondescript suburban southern Connecticut and not somewhere special like the Green Mountains or an Appalacian hollow.
At this point in my life, at this moment right now, I think the one thing I'd like more than any other is a long empty road to drive on--cool air streaming through open windows, stereo cranked up high--with no particular destination in mind and no reason to stop for anything. And maybe somebody interesting (and halfway-decent looking) riding shotgun.
But that's just me.
posted by temporarily unemployed at 22:01
12 Comments:
If you get cabin-fever this summer & want to take a random wkend road trip, give a call. :-)
<3, L
i think you should become a teacher, for serious...
Back that suggestion up, sucka. Why do you think I should teach?
Because teaching would give you a lot of time to read and write and be creative. Furthermore, it doesn't require much staring at a computer screen or sitting in an office, and it would give you a lot of time to pursue interests beyond the strictly professional. These things seem to be important to you, so I think you could be a good fit.
I'm sure there are jobs besides teacher that you'd like. This is just one idea...I think you're definitely cut out for it, though.
When doing the polls, I think it's important that you don't sound like a machine. Sometimes, the phone calls are recordings and that makes people (like me) angry. How long do the polls take? 7 in 4 hours sounds pretty depressing. Are they political ones?
I predict that you'll reach a point when things get so boring and mindless that you'll start having more creative energy.
I think all of the points about teaching are very good ones. You make a very convincing case. I don't know what it is that makes me afraid of that path. The feeling that I might get stuck, maybe? Or maybe it's something a friend's dad once said: "Those who can, do; those who can't, teach." Kind of a lousy thing to say, but I probably won't ever forget that he said that.
I know that I could learn to be a decent teacher, and I'm sure that I'd find it fulfilling. It'll just be a matter of sucking it up and doing it.
I think your friend's dad was actually modifying a line from "The Wedding Planner." The line is "those who can't wed, plan." Maybe you should become a job planner. You could find jobs for other people.
That overused statement is a joke in the vein of any silly doctor/lawyer/politician joke. It's obviously not meant to disparage teachers, only to ridicule them lightheartedly. After all, teaching, in itself, IS doing.
In fact, that statement is highly applicable to people like sports coaches, who are often not as talented as the people they're teaching. But if we're talking about academics, it's clearly nonsense. The greatest scholars in the world are also teachers, in any field.
There's a rejoinder to that teacher saying, which I heard in some other context (I think it was movie or TV show set in a high school): "Those who can't teach, teach gym."
that would be a quote from annie hall. it may be in something else as well, but it is for sure in that movie.
~C
Ding ding ding! Now I remember. ~C gets the "Better Movie Quote Recollection Than Mike" Award.
Comments!
I would love to go on pretty much any trip, but I'm not quite sure who cupcake is...Liz? I will definitely come visit you:)
~C
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