01/01/2014
Fall was eventful, and winter is turning out to be too.
My old roommate told me to apply at the gig she works at. It’s a huge telemarketing firm. Depending on the department, there are sales or customer service positions with headsets and cubicles to boot. They finally called me back at the top of October. I first applied there before I moved in with her in April.
When my current job called, I had just received a promotion from the door to door sales job I was working. I didn’t do too bad at it, and actually quite enjoyed the work. I was there in August, so the heat of summer was starting to wane and the days were long and beautiful. I’d pound pavement in rich neighbourhoods talking to business owners. I got to dress to the nines every day and I really liked the other girls at the office. We spent two hours at the office talking about personal development and then they sent us out into the field. The quotas were so low I’d be done by noon and blow the rest of the day either asleep in my car or enjoying a lavish meal at a restaurant nearby. I had to report to the office no earlier than 5:30 with my applications and stats. We’d take road trips to prospect.
I was cleaning up my old bedroom at my parents’ house the day my current job rang me.
"Can you come in for an interview tomorrow at noon?"
"Are there other times available?" The new office was up the street from the old one, but my territory was in a backwater town an hour away. I needed time to get there.
"How about four?"
"Perfect."
I don’t remember exactly why, but I spent the entire day of my interview irritated and sad. I think I was frustrated because I had to wait an hour before the HR person finally showed up and retrieved me from their lobby. Or perhaps it was a day I didn’t sell anything. Anyway, I likely rolled my eyes through the entire interview.
The department head came up and met me. He is a young man with a ruddy, round face and cruel eyes. His sat in a chair across from me and said brusquely:
"Do you have an insurance license?"
"LIfe, accident and health."
"Have you sold insurance before?"
"Yes."
"Any felonies?"
"No."
"Can you start Monday?"
I was floored. I regained my composure enough to say, "Yes, of course."
"I’ll have Tamara send you an offer letter. Congratulations."
"That’s it?" I blurted out, albeit in the silly feminine voice I use with men I want things from. "Shortest interview I’ve ever had."
Cherry Face shrugged his shoulders and quipped, "I’m a pretty straight-forward kind of guy. You’re qualified. Come Monday at 9:00 am."
"Thank you, sir."
I am on a team with ten other people. My team is all 20+ years old than me except for the young guy that sits near the door. We wear both sales and customer service hats. We are not the insurance carrier, but a third-party administrator (TPA) . We work with the elderly and with union members. It’s skull-crushingly dull, but it pays the bills, so I will remain there as long as I don’t have something better or more lucrative lined up. Most everyone else there also freelances on the side. I’m struggling to return to freelancing with the long hours at the day job.
This is the first job where there’s a benefit package and a 401k I can opt into. However, I’m gaining weight from all of the sitting, lack of sunlight and foods my co-workers bring to share with the class. I had a brilliant idea yesterday: buy one of those little spin cycles that can be placed under the desk so I can cycle the Tour de France while still taking calls and losing the 96 pounds I need to shed this year. I need it, desperately.
In October, my mum had met a lady who wanted someone to live with her so she can keep her Section 8 Voucher. The terms of her lease was that she had someone living there in case of an emergency due to the fact that she has many dehabiliting conditions, including Parkinson’s disease. I was fine with renting the room with her. I split the bills and drove her to the grocery store, the doctor’s office and thrift shopping when I was home. I thought everything was going well, but she became increasingly more critical about the stupidest things (how I did laundry, what I did with my food, what placemats I used in the dining room) until last Saturday, when she finally told me I needed to move because "she didn’t want to keep telling grown people what to do". That was the only explanation she gave me after taking rent money for January and having me drive all over creation on my day off to help her with her needs. That was the only explanation I got after dropping everything and spending all night in the emergency room with her while the doctor attending told her that her pain was vague and she needed rest and gave her Vicodin despite the fact she can’t take it with her heart medication. That was the only explanation after she spent many nights up talking to me about how she’s leaving me everything in the house.
I said in my quietest voice, "I’m sorry it’s not working out." Then I stalked out of the room as she stared blankly at the television; I was shaking with anger. I called my mother and told her I was coming home. I changed my address back to my parents’ house with the postal service and my job. I packed up my books, clothes and dishes and drug them to my car. Then I yanked the key off of my key chain, , slammed the door and sped off into the night. When I arrived home, I deleted our text messages and put her number on my "blocked" list.
I’ve spent the last few days at my parents’ house. They’re offering for me to stay put here for as long as I like, rent-free, as long as I clean the house and come in at a certain hour. This sounds like an excellent deal, until you see what filth my parents’ house is entombed in. I spent three hours today cleaning the kitchen, half of that time cutting through years-old kitchen grease on the stove (and I could have gone three more hours had I done the walls). I don’t see this working out past spring. For now, however, I have a safe place to park my car and shower, so that’s all I can ask for right now.
I bought a car two weeks after I landed the new position. It’s a 2007 Ford Fusion with a stick shift. It has less than 80,000 miles on it. It’s the nicest thing I’ve ever driven. It’s the car I’m gonna drive to Alaska.
I’m still learning ASL and I’ve gotten quite fluent in it, to the point where I’m strongly considering going back to school for it. In the internim, I’m just going to try to learn it for the ministry’s sake and keep going.
I’m considering an out-of-state move when it warms up. I don’t know where yet though.
I’m out of words but not out of heart.