It was only Monday...
Feb. 14th, 2007 05:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
coffeesnob318Ladies and gentlemen, children and pets, gather ‘round to hear about The Week That I Have Had. Those of you with a large inner world (you know who you are) can imagine this tale in an accent one might find in the Deep South and in a voice slightly lower and more gravelly than I normally use, so that you get the full effect. If you have a mint julep (or bourbon…bourbon works, too) available, that will enhance the experience even further. This is a little story I like to call “And it was only Monday…”
Our saga began shortly after 12:00 on Monday morning. Now, to those with human schedules, 12:00 on Monday morning feels a lot like midnight on Sunday. That’s because it is. But when you work nights, Sunday night feels a lot like Monday morning. And this night was certainly no exception.
Upon arriving at Traditions Hall, I followed my regular routine. I greeted everyone, read the desk log, logged on to the computer, checked GroupWise, completed several small tasks outlined there, and filed work orders from the weekend. By 12:30, my tasks for the morning had been completed, so I moved on to other pursuits to occupy my remaining time as Glorified Watchdog. As I am a creature of habit, I did what I normally do – I checked my personal email, my email from students, and myspace. At 12:45, I realized that this second group of activities took much less time that I had anticipated. Staring at an abyss of more than seven hours ahead of me and being unwilling to face seven whole hours of playing pinball, I wondered to myself, “Self, what else can I do to pass the time?” I decided to check my bank account.
I should have gone with pinball.
It was at 12:47 on Monday morning that I discovered that Automated Bill Payment of Unusually Large Size (ABPOULS) that was scheduled for debit on February 28 (i.e., the last day of the month, as per the agreement) had, in fact, been debited from my account on February 9 (i.e., really not the last day of the month), leaving my account balance perilously low and hopelessly insufficient to cover checks that I had written but that had not been posted yet. I thought, “This can’t be! Maybe the online bank record is in error,” as that sort of thing had happened before. I called the balance hotline, and the balance that they reported was exactly the balance that my account was showing online. The realization of impending doom sank in. The ABPOULS had been prematurely debited, and I was screwed, and there was absolutely nothing I could even say about it to anyone who could do anything about it for another seven hours.
And it was only Monday.
I wish that I could uphold the image that I’m sure you have of me as a mature, levelheaded sage by telling you that I reacted well to this information. But I can’t. Well, I could, but I would be lying. I leapt to my feet in fury. With clenched fist raised high, I hissed a phrase unbecoming the genteel desk staffer that I strive to be. I threw the pencil I was holding onto the floor and stomped on it. In short, I had myself an old-fashioned temper tantrum that any two-year-old would be proud to call his/her own. Luckily, no one was close enough to witness this insanity.
It was not until Sweet, Unsuspecting Part-Timer (SUPT) innocently wandered by, asked me how I was and looked a little scared when I shrieked “Crappy!!!” that it occurred to me that perhaps spending seven hours in tantrum mode was not the best course of action. A distraction was in order. I threw myself into writing my first and second exams for my Dallas classes. Nothing spells calm (and by calm, I mean mind-numbing, seven-hours-of-my-life-that-I-will-never-get-back boredom) like writing a multiple choice test. The aftermath of the fury was productive, although, upon editing, I had to change choice C to the question “Which of the following does your textbook list as a key factor to interpersonal persuasion?” to “interpersonal trust” from “a large gun.” So maybe it wasn’t so much of an aftermath as temporary dormancy.
This dormancy continued through the custodians’ arrival and through greeting Adam and Mel. It even lasted through the chance to wish SUPT a good morning. In fact, it lasted right up until the time that I hit “send” on my phone to dial the Firm Responsible Of Premature Heist (FROPH).
I wish I could say that I was the polite young lady that my momma raised me to be on the phone with the lovely people at FROPH. But I was tired, and their mistake was cutting into my naptime. Usually on Mondays, if I leave the desk right as Adam gets there and go home, I can wind down enough to fall asleep by 9:30, giving me a whole five hours of rest before I have to be up again to get ready to trek to Dallas for my classes that afternoon/evening. Clearly this was not going to be one of those days. And that pissed me off. So although I did not come across as half as mad as I actually was, I may or may not have used the words “incompetent,” “thief,” and “dumbass,” with one or more of the five people with whom I spoke before the fifth one told me, ten minutes into the phone call, that the one person in the whole damn FROPH who could help me was “busy with another client” and “could I please call back later.”
And it was still only Monday.
I was too riled up to sleep, so I called a couple of people to whom I had written checks to inquire as to the cashing status of said checks. When I explained the situation, enough people were able to hold the checks until the ABPOULS issue was resolved that I was no longer in danger of bouncing any check. Some even offered to hold them for up to two weeks. It’s amazing what people will do for you if you just ask. It probably also helps to have that thinly-veiled-panic-that-could-erupt-without-warning-into-full-on-attack edge to your voice.
Immediate crisis averted, I called back the FROPH in slightly higher spirits. I was patched through very, very quickly to a Mr. Ken So-and-So, the one person who could help me, and he very, very quickly pulled up my account. There was a moment of silence, and then I heard him drawl, “Why, Miss Terry, it does appear that there was an untimely debit to your account.”
I have decided that, in the future, I would like to receive all unpleasant news from charming young men from Georgia. Because although I get some pleasure out of telling angst stories, I don’t enjoy the actual negative emotions that inspire them, so I like to resolve these emotions as soon as I can. And nothing can resolve them faster than talking to a charming young man from Georgia. The words are unimportant. He can phrase it however he likes. But as soon as he pours them out in that sweet and slow like honey drawl, I just can’t find it in me to be mad.
And such was my experience upon hearing Mr. Ken So-and-So say those words. My whole attitude changed during that conversation. I was understanding, patient, and even a little flirty. I was saying “please” and “thank you,” matching him drawl for drawl. I was asking about his wife and kids, not out of actual concern, but to see if he had any, as if this conversation were actually going to go anywhere beyond the phone line. Had there been a casual observer present, said observer may or may not have had due cause to use the word “hussy.”
Having identified the problem, Ken (as we were on a first name basis by now) informed me that he would be referring my case to Another Important Department (AID) for investigative purposes and that I should call back later for an update. This was not the speedy resolution that I had hoped for, but I looked forward to calling him again later.
Two more calls, interrupting my sleep. Two more opportunities for him to tell me that AID had received the form but had not processed it yet. His charm was wearing thin. And it was still only Monday.
So I told Mr. So-and-So (and by So-and-So, I didn’t mean his last name at this point) that I would call back one more time on my way to work, and that I expected some real answers. That third call went something like this:
“Hello Miss Terry.”
“Tell me good things, Ken.”
“You’re not going to like this.”
Fury rising. Anger…taking…over….
“What?”
“They aren’t going to process it until tomorrow. I’m sorry. I will call you as soon as I hear anything.”
Angst!!!
“I work at night. I’ve missed most of my sleep today waiting. I can’t miss another day of sleep tomorrow.”
With genuine concern in his voice (the man is a genius), “Aw, Miss Terry – I didn’t know I was interrupting your sleepin’. I’ll leave a message. You just leave the phone off so you can get your rest.”
And guess who just couldn’t find it inside herself to be mad anymore.
Oh, Ken. You had me at “sleepin’.”
Anyway, after acquiring an obscene amount of caffeine to aid my alertness on the way to downtown Dallas, I ran into what one radio traffic reporter called a snag on the highway. “Snag” turned out to be one hell of a euphemism. What she was actually referring to was the overturned tractor-trailer hauling some 7500+ gallons of denatured alcohol that shut down a few miles of I-35 in both directions. After making about five miles of progress the first hour I was on the road, I reached a decision. Monday had lasted long enough. I was at the end. I called my school, cancelled my classes, and, after turning around, spent another hour getting back to Denton.
When I got home, I didn’t even go upstairs. I set the alarm on my cell phone and landed on the couch. I grabbed a few hours of desperate sleep – the sleep of a person who had had a crazy week. Even though it was only Monday.
Our saga began shortly after 12:00 on Monday morning. Now, to those with human schedules, 12:00 on Monday morning feels a lot like midnight on Sunday. That’s because it is. But when you work nights, Sunday night feels a lot like Monday morning. And this night was certainly no exception.
Upon arriving at Traditions Hall, I followed my regular routine. I greeted everyone, read the desk log, logged on to the computer, checked GroupWise, completed several small tasks outlined there, and filed work orders from the weekend. By 12:30, my tasks for the morning had been completed, so I moved on to other pursuits to occupy my remaining time as Glorified Watchdog. As I am a creature of habit, I did what I normally do – I checked my personal email, my email from students, and myspace. At 12:45, I realized that this second group of activities took much less time that I had anticipated. Staring at an abyss of more than seven hours ahead of me and being unwilling to face seven whole hours of playing pinball, I wondered to myself, “Self, what else can I do to pass the time?” I decided to check my bank account.
I should have gone with pinball.
It was at 12:47 on Monday morning that I discovered that Automated Bill Payment of Unusually Large Size (ABPOULS) that was scheduled for debit on February 28 (i.e., the last day of the month, as per the agreement) had, in fact, been debited from my account on February 9 (i.e., really not the last day of the month), leaving my account balance perilously low and hopelessly insufficient to cover checks that I had written but that had not been posted yet. I thought, “This can’t be! Maybe the online bank record is in error,” as that sort of thing had happened before. I called the balance hotline, and the balance that they reported was exactly the balance that my account was showing online. The realization of impending doom sank in. The ABPOULS had been prematurely debited, and I was screwed, and there was absolutely nothing I could even say about it to anyone who could do anything about it for another seven hours.
And it was only Monday.
I wish that I could uphold the image that I’m sure you have of me as a mature, levelheaded sage by telling you that I reacted well to this information. But I can’t. Well, I could, but I would be lying. I leapt to my feet in fury. With clenched fist raised high, I hissed a phrase unbecoming the genteel desk staffer that I strive to be. I threw the pencil I was holding onto the floor and stomped on it. In short, I had myself an old-fashioned temper tantrum that any two-year-old would be proud to call his/her own. Luckily, no one was close enough to witness this insanity.
It was not until Sweet, Unsuspecting Part-Timer (SUPT) innocently wandered by, asked me how I was and looked a little scared when I shrieked “Crappy!!!” that it occurred to me that perhaps spending seven hours in tantrum mode was not the best course of action. A distraction was in order. I threw myself into writing my first and second exams for my Dallas classes. Nothing spells calm (and by calm, I mean mind-numbing, seven-hours-of-my-life-that-I-will-never-get-back boredom) like writing a multiple choice test. The aftermath of the fury was productive, although, upon editing, I had to change choice C to the question “Which of the following does your textbook list as a key factor to interpersonal persuasion?” to “interpersonal trust” from “a large gun.” So maybe it wasn’t so much of an aftermath as temporary dormancy.
This dormancy continued through the custodians’ arrival and through greeting Adam and Mel. It even lasted through the chance to wish SUPT a good morning. In fact, it lasted right up until the time that I hit “send” on my phone to dial the Firm Responsible Of Premature Heist (FROPH).
I wish I could say that I was the polite young lady that my momma raised me to be on the phone with the lovely people at FROPH. But I was tired, and their mistake was cutting into my naptime. Usually on Mondays, if I leave the desk right as Adam gets there and go home, I can wind down enough to fall asleep by 9:30, giving me a whole five hours of rest before I have to be up again to get ready to trek to Dallas for my classes that afternoon/evening. Clearly this was not going to be one of those days. And that pissed me off. So although I did not come across as half as mad as I actually was, I may or may not have used the words “incompetent,” “thief,” and “dumbass,” with one or more of the five people with whom I spoke before the fifth one told me, ten minutes into the phone call, that the one person in the whole damn FROPH who could help me was “busy with another client” and “could I please call back later.”
And it was still only Monday.
I was too riled up to sleep, so I called a couple of people to whom I had written checks to inquire as to the cashing status of said checks. When I explained the situation, enough people were able to hold the checks until the ABPOULS issue was resolved that I was no longer in danger of bouncing any check. Some even offered to hold them for up to two weeks. It’s amazing what people will do for you if you just ask. It probably also helps to have that thinly-veiled-panic-that-could-erupt-without-warning-into-full-on-attack edge to your voice.
Immediate crisis averted, I called back the FROPH in slightly higher spirits. I was patched through very, very quickly to a Mr. Ken So-and-So, the one person who could help me, and he very, very quickly pulled up my account. There was a moment of silence, and then I heard him drawl, “Why, Miss Terry, it does appear that there was an untimely debit to your account.”
I have decided that, in the future, I would like to receive all unpleasant news from charming young men from Georgia. Because although I get some pleasure out of telling angst stories, I don’t enjoy the actual negative emotions that inspire them, so I like to resolve these emotions as soon as I can. And nothing can resolve them faster than talking to a charming young man from Georgia. The words are unimportant. He can phrase it however he likes. But as soon as he pours them out in that sweet and slow like honey drawl, I just can’t find it in me to be mad.
And such was my experience upon hearing Mr. Ken So-and-So say those words. My whole attitude changed during that conversation. I was understanding, patient, and even a little flirty. I was saying “please” and “thank you,” matching him drawl for drawl. I was asking about his wife and kids, not out of actual concern, but to see if he had any, as if this conversation were actually going to go anywhere beyond the phone line. Had there been a casual observer present, said observer may or may not have had due cause to use the word “hussy.”
Having identified the problem, Ken (as we were on a first name basis by now) informed me that he would be referring my case to Another Important Department (AID) for investigative purposes and that I should call back later for an update. This was not the speedy resolution that I had hoped for, but I looked forward to calling him again later.
Two more calls, interrupting my sleep. Two more opportunities for him to tell me that AID had received the form but had not processed it yet. His charm was wearing thin. And it was still only Monday.
So I told Mr. So-and-So (and by So-and-So, I didn’t mean his last name at this point) that I would call back one more time on my way to work, and that I expected some real answers. That third call went something like this:
“Hello Miss Terry.”
“Tell me good things, Ken.”
“You’re not going to like this.”
Fury rising. Anger…taking…over….
“What?”
“They aren’t going to process it until tomorrow. I’m sorry. I will call you as soon as I hear anything.”
Angst!!!
“I work at night. I’ve missed most of my sleep today waiting. I can’t miss another day of sleep tomorrow.”
With genuine concern in his voice (the man is a genius), “Aw, Miss Terry – I didn’t know I was interrupting your sleepin’. I’ll leave a message. You just leave the phone off so you can get your rest.”
And guess who just couldn’t find it inside herself to be mad anymore.
Oh, Ken. You had me at “sleepin’.”
Anyway, after acquiring an obscene amount of caffeine to aid my alertness on the way to downtown Dallas, I ran into what one radio traffic reporter called a snag on the highway. “Snag” turned out to be one hell of a euphemism. What she was actually referring to was the overturned tractor-trailer hauling some 7500+ gallons of denatured alcohol that shut down a few miles of I-35 in both directions. After making about five miles of progress the first hour I was on the road, I reached a decision. Monday had lasted long enough. I was at the end. I called my school, cancelled my classes, and, after turning around, spent another hour getting back to Denton.
When I got home, I didn’t even go upstairs. I set the alarm on my cell phone and landed on the couch. I grabbed a few hours of desperate sleep – the sleep of a person who had had a crazy week. Even though it was only Monday.
