Confessions of a Call Center Gal

Two





I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but TOOT!!! TOOT!!!

We got the jobs! And Lord only knows how. Either Karsynn and I aced our interviews, or Lightning Communications are just really desperate. Whatever the case, I’m not complaining.

Kars fiddles with her iPod and soon ABBA’s Dancing Queen is blaring from the speakers. Bouncing up and down, we pound our jubilant fists in the air and break into our signature celebratory dance. It involves a shimmy, a jiggle, a wiggle, and a smack on the tush.

Today, we celebrate and tomorrow we start our first day of a six-week long training. I know. Six weeks!

Apparently, there’s a lot to learn.





Kars and I have no sense of direction. Although we arrive at the call center fifteen minutes early, it takes us an eternity to locate the training room. We flounce around like two headless chickens, dodging through hallways, trying to orient ourselves, and half an hour later, we find it!

Wheezing and panting, we creep into class. I’m stumbling across the training room when this dreamy looking guy catches my eye.

He’s smolderingly gorgeous. He’s so incredibly hot that clouds seem to part, and he radiates from within like Helios the Sun God. I guess Greek mythology serves a purpose after all. I even hear a choir of angels singing. And a string quartet playing, with several harps strumming fluidly in the background.

Miraculously, despite the fact that I’m lost in my own ancient Grecian musical odyssey, and in my own thoughts of the Sun God, I somehow manage to make my way to the back of the classroom, straight into the empty seat right next to him. Score!

Kars plops down next to me, oblivious to his beauty. She only fancies men with all the B’s—big, butch, burly, buffed, and with bulging biceps aka beefcakes extraordinaire.

I prefer my men lean and tall, with sculpted features. Kars calls them pretty boys, but I beg to differ. They’re just more evolved and look less like apes.

“Class,” a petite, pasty blond guy calls our attention. “I think everyone is here now. I’ll be passing out this sheet of paper. Please write your name down so I know you’re present. My name is Glenn Bland and I’ll be your trainer for the next six weeks.”

I have no idea what transpires after that as all my energy is focused on that piece of paper. I watch it pass from hand to hand, and finally into the hands of the Greek God.

After scribbling down his name, he turns to me. “Here,” he says, arm outstretched.

“Thanks.” I reach for the sheet of paper.

For a brief second, our eyes lock and I feel myself going weak in the knees.

Swoon. He’s even better looking up close.

He has gorgeous green eyes, as green as the Chicago River on St. Patrick’s Day. Before signing my name, I scan the paper for his...Mika Harket.

Hmm, sounds foreign. I wonder where he’s from.

Kars nudges me. “Pay attention. Be a sponge. Soak it in.”

She’s right. I don’t want to be thrown into shark infested waters only to flail away and drown. I need to learn how to swim now. Right now, as a matter of fact.

So for the first hour, I listen intently to Glenn, hanging raptly onto his every word as he drones about T1 and T3 lines, optical carriers—OC12, OC3, routers, networks, internet protocols, error messages, covering every mundane detail under the sun.

I find myself yawning appallingly, trying hard to cover my gaping mouth. Glenn’s voice is soothing; hush and velvety, like a lullaby. By the second hour, I’m dozing off and Kars is miles away in snooze land, leaning against me. Her mouth hangs open and drool seeps out, sopping my hair.

Gently, I extricate myself from the drool monster and rub my temples. Oh God. How the hell am I supposed to survive through six grueling weeks of this mind numbing crap?

Then out of nowhere, Glenn clears his throat. “Now if you’ll get together in groups of four, we’re going to do some fun exercises to wake you guys up.”

I jolt Kars awake from her siesta. She yawns and stretches out like a Siamese cat. “What’s going on?” she asks groggily.

“Groups, we need to get into groups.”

Mika turns to me. “Can we join you guys?”

“Sure!” I flash him a bright smile.

Our team huddles in a circle, and I notice the other girl for the first time. She’s a gorgeous, willowy, blond überbabe, oozing the sex appeal of a Victoria’s Secret model.

Wait. I think they’re called Victoria’s Secret Angels.

We make our introductions.

Kars just grunts her name and I say coolly, “I’m Maddy.”

“Mika,” he says with a casual nod.

And in a girly, high pitched ring, the Victoria’s Secret Angel chimes, “My name iz Ingeborg.”

Whoa! She sings like a nightingale, but what a name!

Meanwhile, Kars is making a highly unsuccessful attempt to suppress a snort. I studiously ignore her, trying my best to be gracious to our newfound friends.

I decide to make some small talk. “So, Mika, where are you from?”

“Belgium,” he replies with a faint accent.

Kars pipes in with her big mouth, “Hey, you guys make the best chocolates ever!” She pauses for a beat and then adds, “Or is it waffles?” Suddenly she has an epiphany and answers her own dim witted, asinine question, “Oh I know! You guys make the best Belgian chocolate waffles!”

I make an apologetic grimace.

God. Kars can be so embarrassing at times.

I turn to the überbabe. “Where are you from, Ingeborg?”

“I’m from Pazardzhik, vhich iz in zouthvest Bulgaria,” she singsongs sweetly.

Instinctively, I shoot Kars-the-loose-cannon a quelling look.

Uh-oh. I can see the wheels whirring about in her head, but before I can intercept, Kars blurts, “Bulgur wheat!”

Ingeborg squints and shoots Kars a peculiar look.

Thankfully, Glenn shimmies over and briskly hands out four sheets of paper. “Guys, I want you all to work together and figure out these brain teasers.”

After taking a minute to study it, I glance at my teammates. “Okay, first one—Hamlet Words. Anybody?”

Karsynn yawns and bats her eyelids like she’s not remotely interested. I’m pretty sure she knows the answer but she just can’t be bothered. I, on the other hand, have a man I want to impress. I need to bowl Mika over with my wit and intelligence.

I jerk my head at Ingeborg, but she looks lost in space.

Mika shrugs. “Sorry, I don’t know the answer either.”

“Okay then, how about...a play on words?” I eye my teammates, trying to gauge their responses.

They nod approvingly, and so I jot down the answer.

I move on to the next teaser. “Second one. Hmm, there’s just nothing there.”

I get two blank stares and another big yawn from Kars.

“Let’s see, how about...a blank slate? Or tabula rasa?” I suggest.

Ingeborg gives me a puzzled look, as if I had just been speaking ancient Sanskrit. “Vhat did you say? Did you speakity Spanish?”

“Tabula rasa?” I repeat. “No, it’s Latin for ‘blank slate’.”

Ingeborg shakes her head. “Szorry, I don’t gezt it.”

“It’s the concept of a young mind that hasn’t yet been affected by experience,” I find myself explaining.

“Yep, learned that in my psych class,” Karsynn quips with a scholarly nod. “The whole nurture versus nature thingamajig.”

“Kars,” I say in a teasing voice. “Why thank you for gracing us with your presence.”

She ignores my jab and tilts her chin at Ingeborg. “Do you want to hear more about this whole tabula rasa theory?”

“No!” I say a little too quickly. “Let’s get back to the exercise, shall we?” I coax, giving her a tight-lipped smile. If I allow Kars to go on with her psychobabble, we’ll never see the light of day.

Kars was a Psych major, which is pretty ironic since she’s quite possibly the nuttiest girl I know. Her nickname in college was ‘psycho-bitch,’ which she naively accepted as a compliment.

She thought it was due to her mad skills in psychoanalyzing, but the real reason she got her nickname is that she freely doled out her psych advice to anyone who’d listen. And as her BFF and roommate, I was forced to listen.

Seriously, I couldn’t wait for Kars to get her Psych diploma so I could call her a certified lunatic.

I steer Karsynn back to the task at hand, and in ten minutes, we’re done! All around us, the other teams are still hard at work.

“Maddy, you’re pretty good at this,” Mika remarks.

I flip my hand in a oh-think-nothing-of-it gesture, but inside, I’m basking in his praise.

Twenty minutes later, Glenn goes over all the answers with the class, and our team slays the competition.

For the grand prize, we are each awarded a Kit Kat bar.

Mika takes a bite of his candy bar and I catch him watching me with an unreadable expression on his face.

I look away.





After class, Kars confronts me. “All right, Miss Flirty Pants, what’s going on with you and Mr. Belgium?”

“Nothing,” I say innocently.

Kars is too perceptive. “Maddy! Don’t play dumb with me.”

My face twists into a Cheshire cat grin. I find myself bubbling and fizzing with joy.

Just then I spot Mika and Ingeborg holding hands as they make their way across the parking lot. They look intimate. He whispers something in her ear and she laughs, nuzzling against his chest.

POP! The bubbles burst and the smile drains from my face.

“I guess Mr. Belgium is taken,” Kars states the obvious.

I stare forlornly at the beautiful couple. “Guess so. Anyway, who am I kidding? I can never compete with Ingeborg. She’s so organic-ly and rustic-ly beautiful. Like an Anthro model strolling barefoot through a field of wildflowers. Me? I’m just plain ol’ boring Maddy.”

“You’re cute!” she bleats. “You are. You look like a pretty Dutch milkmaid. In clogs. Milking a cow in a red barn.”

“Thanks Kars,” I say with a hint of sarcasm. “I feel so much better now knowing that I look like a dowdy milkmaid.”

She thumps my back. “Just kidding. Actually, you look a little like whatsherface, that chickadee from 500 Days of Summer.”

“I wish…” I sigh wistfully.

My gaze follows the couple and I catch Mika planting a quick kiss on Ingeborg’s bee-stung lips. “She’s a knockout. Heck, she even puts Gisele Bündchen to shame.”

“Well at least you have a prettier name than her. Jeez Louise, Ingeborg? What the hell were her parents thinking? They were naming their daughter for Pete’s sake, not an android. C’mon, what’d they name her brother? Cyborg?”

“It’s probably a pretty name in Europe…just lost in translation here.”

Suddenly, Karsynn lowers her voice and her demeanor turns dark and sinister. “Bwah ha ha ha. My name is Igor Draganov, descendant of Ingeborg Draganov and I VILL BREAK YOU!” she intones in a heavy Russian accent.

Like mean schoolgirls, we explode into a fit of giggles.

Karsynn drapes her arm around my shoulder. “You know, I’ve always wanted to say that.”

We set off down the pavement, tripping merrily over tiny cracks on the sidewalk. Ah...thank goodness for best friends.





The next several weeks of training seem to fly by. Kars, Mika, Ingeborg and I continue to sit in the same row, and the four of us have developed an easygoing, relaxed sort of comradeship.

In spite of myself, Ingeborg has quickly grown on me. She can be a tad whiny at times, but I can’t begrudge her. She’s sugar, spice, and everything nice, with an extra heavy dose of naiveté.

She’s Phoebe from Friends, and who wouldn’t want a Phoebe in their circle of friends?

I’ve come to understand why Mika is completely smitten by her. Because I surely am.

And Mika has been a huge help. He picks up all the training material in a snap, aces the troubleshooting exercises and blitzes through the exams.

As for me, I barely scrape through. I hate exams.

I hate the pressure of cramming everything in, and having to spit it all out at a moment’s notice, so sitting next to Mika has come in handy. Whenever something is too ‘technical,’ all I have to do is turn to Mika, and he graciously obliges.

I’ve learned that Mika is still in college. After high school, he took some time off to backpack round Asia and Europe. And he’s now in his junior year at Idaho State U, pursuing an undergrad degree in civil and environmental engineering.

He’s a green-eyed stud with a green heart.

Every day that I’m in class, I’m keenly aware of his presence, my heart having a tendency to leap whenever I watch him at odd moments of the day. Like right now…

Abruptly, I’m jolted out of my reverie when I hear someone in class calling his name.

Dammit. I’m falling hard for this guy.

But there’s no harm in just looking. Right?

Sometime later, my eyes gravitate back; I find myself studying his prominent, chiseled cheekbones. I’m being extra discreet, when suddenly he looks up and catches my eye.

Flustered, I focus all my attention on Glenn.

I need to put a kibosh on this. I must stop obsessing over this man. Pssh! Who needs men?

They’re just extra baggage, merely placed here on earth to help women procreate.

“I am a woman of substance,” I chant in my head.

After class, Mika disarms me with his sexy, boyish grin. “See ya, Maddy.”

“Bye!” I say with feigned indifference, but inside my heart is lurching into somersaults. Team China Olympic acrobatic flips.

Sigh. I certainly don’t need a man, but I’d be much happier if I had one. Especially one like Mika.





On the last week of training, Glenn the bland trainer drops the stinkin’ S bomb on us. “Class, now as part of your job, you will have to sell.” And just in case we aren’t paying attention, he reiterates, “Sales is part of your job. I cannot overstate this enough. Don’t just take what I’m saying with a grain of salt, take it with the whole shaker!” he bellows frenetically, causing his entire fragile frame to quiver.

You can hear the low groans and moans sweeping through the class, an infinite tide of dissent the size of a tsunami wave.

Glenn has just given way to infamy.

Unperturbed, he forges on, raising his voice ten decibels so as to be heard over the mounting uproar. “Now, before you offer a product or service, you must always use the TSR script. It stands for Telemarketing Sales Rule.” Glenn pauses for effect. “The TSR script is a FTC regulation. Essentially, you are asking the caller’s permission to sell to them.” He stops and surveys the room. “Any questions?”

No one gives him eye contact.

There is a unanimous shaking of heads. My incensed classmates resemble an ugly mob that’s gearing up to crucify Glenn.

Tank, an ex UFC fighter, lets out a guttural, ominous growl. Siaosi, the five-hundred pound Samoan slash Sumo wrestler, sits very still with a hungry stare on his face, as though he’d like to roast Glenn on a spit. It’s just my trite observation, but I’m pretty sure I’m spot on.

Glenn, feeling the heat and hate vibes emanating from the class, clasps his hands together in prayer. “Class, settle down and pay attention. Listen, this is the TSR script that you are required to say in the course of every call: If I see a product or a service that may be beneficial to you, is it okay if I mention it later on? If the caller says NO, then do NOT attempt to sell. But if the caller says YES, then it is your green light to pitch your sales offer and SELL, SELL, SELL!” His chest heaves and his eyes assume a sort of feral look.

There’s something unnerving and unsettling about Glenn as I watch the wildness, the madness in his eyes...almost like he’s possessed. Sweet, docile Glenn has morphed into someone I hardly even recognize. It’s as if aliens have invaded his mind, body and soul.

This, I think cynically, trying to still my rising panic, is not good. Sales is not my forte. It makes me feel uneasy and queasy, grimy and greasy, like I’m coated with ‘Car Salesman Slime.’

Over the next several agonizing hours, I learn all about the rainbow of products offered by Lightning Speed. Products that enhance our callers’ lives (Riiiight, Surrrre), help them save time and money, and make their lives that much better.

Narrowing my eyes at Glenn, I remain skeptical.

It all sounds rosy posy, but it stinks to high heavens.

Um, wasn’t this whole economic collapse caused in part by greedy businesses? By banks and credit card companies that gave out loans, mortgages and credit to folks who could not afford it?

Sell to help enhance the customers’ lives?

Pssh! More like sell to enhance the deep pockets of the CEOs, the big fat cats and their shareholders. All they care about are BIG dollar signs to line their already stuffed pockets. They don’t give a rat’s ass about the customers.

You can sugarcoat sales just like you can dress up baloney and call it prosciutto. But you know what? It’s still baloney.

I grit my teeth, as Glenn is far from finished with his sales lecture. Next on his agenda is ‘bundling’.

Lightning Speed Communications has a binding contract with Skylight Network, a satellite TV company, and somehow we have to convince our callers to include their Skylight services on their DSL and cell phone bills. And, we have to promote (force it down their throats) Skylight Network if the callers are not subscribers.

Profiling plays a big role in this sales farce. We’re expected to do some digging around; if the caller is a DSL subscriber and his cell phone is serviced through our competitor, then we must push him our cell phone service.

“Anyone have any questions or concerns?” Glenn asks with slight apprehension.

Karsynn’s hand flies up in the air.

He darts her a nervous glance. “Yes, Karsynn?”

“Um, why do we have to sell? Shouldn’t that be the job of the marketing department? We are customer service agents; we are NOT sales agents,” she huffs and crosses her arms.

“Yeaaaahhh! Um-hmmmm!” Everyone echoes her sentiments.

Glenn responds like a preprogrammed robot, “Selling is still part of your job.”

Tentatively, I raise my hand. “I’m sorry, Glenn, but if a ninety year old grandma has no idea how to use a computer and has no desire to, then I’m not going to push our DSL service on her. I just don’t think it’s right.”

Glenn looks at me plaintively. “If you don’t pitch a sale, you’ll be marked down on the call in the event you’re monitored; and if you consistently fail your monitors, that can lead to termination. Understood?”

I sink back and stew, burning with frustration.

I can’t believe the security of my job is already hanging in the balance, my future here entirely dependent on how much I can sell. Pretty skewed terms if you ask me.

I’ll do it. But I wish I could actually see the callers so I could do a *wink* *wink* *nudge* *nudge* and say, “This is all a ruse, DON’T DO IT! If you don’t have the funds to purchase a product or service, or if you don’t need it, don’t get suckered in. Caveat emptor! Let the buyer beware!”

Meanwhile, Glenn is gripping the edge of the desk with such force that his knuckles are white. “Look, I am not the bad guy here.” He breathes out a weary sigh. “And neither is Lightning Speed Communications. This is reality. In the business world, it is all about sales. I don’t make the rules, that’s just how it is.”

My expression softens. Aw, Glenn almost seems like a normal person now. Then gradually, his voice grows so eerily soft that I almost have to strain my ears to listen.

Uh oh, not again!

Glenn’s beady eyes fixate on us and his pupils dilate, swirling around and around in circles, like an evil Svengali. He chants in a hypnotic voice, “Always remember…service equals sales...the sale begins when the customer says ‘no’.”

Overcome by fatigue and boredom, I momentarily lapse into a sort of hypnotic state as I stare at Glenn’s crazed yet magnetic eyes, entranced by his cult leader-like voice.

Something stronger inside me takes over. Shaking my head, I snap myself out of the trance.

Hah! I answer to no Svengali, and I refuse to be brainwashed.

Despite Glenn’s efforts to blur the lines of distinction between service and sales, it is simply not working.

I remain silent and skeptical.

Service equals sales?

What the hell is he talking about?

Service equals service. Period.

And when the customer says ‘No’, he or she means ‘No’. I’m sorry but ‘No’ does NOT mean ‘Yes’!

Glenn is beginning to sound a bit like a rapist.

The rapist pauses for a long minute, appearing to be deep in thought. Eventually, he says, “Now class, think of it this way—people will always buy whatever it is that they want to buy. All you need to do is make them want to buy it; that’s salesmanship in a nutshell. Make them want it badly enough. Make them desire it. Make them crave it. And you do this by selling the features, and by making it sexy. Sell them the feeling that they’ll get from buying that product or service, and always remember to make it sexy!”

Glenn gives a crisp nod of satisfaction. “Now, do you get it?”

That was bullshit. Well, it was pretty amusing, temporarily brow wrinkling, but bullshit nonetheless.

Sell the feeling? Make it sexy???

It’s not like we’re selling Marc Jacob purses, Balenciaga bags or Louboutin shoes here. We’re a DSL slash phone company!

Glenn’s eyes shift across the room. “Do you get it?” he repeats.

Silence ensues.

I grudgingly acknowledge the sharp undercurrents of truth to what he’s saying. Of course I get it. I may not like it, but I get it.

But there is no time to sulk or mull, nor bemoan the fact that we’re forced to sell. Before we know it, we’re in ‘nesting.’

‘Nesting’ is a period when we’re all thrown on the phones, but our trainer is tucked safely by our sides, ready for our beck and call. And we have other more knowledgeable agents known as ‘team-leads’ to hold our hands and guide us through this whole intimidating process.

This is what ‘nesting’ is like: I answer the phone, sometimes nervously, others, with fake confidence. The caller asks me a question. I have no idea what he is talking about and/or I don’t know the answer. I yell for help.

Here’s my scenario:



Me: Thanks for calling Lightning Speed (my voice quivers). My name is...(what the heck is my name again?) err...Maddy, how can I help you?

Caller: I need help with blah, blah, blah.

Me: Um, yes...I can assist you with that. But um...do you mind holding while I…err...do some research?

Caller: Of course I mind, but go ahead.



Then I frantically wave a checkered flag until Glenn or a team lead comes to my rescue. That’s nesting in a nutshell. We’re just dazed, lost and confused the whole time, crying HELLLLP!

Everything made sense in class, but on the phone, I suddenly feel like a fish out of water. I haven’t the faintest clue what I’m doing. My troubleshooting consists of taking tentative shots in the dark.

Thank God for Glenn and the team leads, they’re our saviors.

But I quickly discover that they’re not the biggest life savers.

As it turns out, the biggest life saver is not a person, but an inconspicuous, yet highly significant button on the phone—the ‘Not Ready’ button.

This discovery was huge and all-encompassing, parallel to stumbling upon the Holy Grail. I owe it my youth, I owe it my sanity, and without it, I’m certain I would’ve aged tenfold.

When I’m in ‘Not Ready,’ it means a call cannot come through, because hey—I’m not ready to take one!

How fab! It’s meant for completing technical tickets, and for emergencies (I think); but most of us just end up staying in ‘Not Ready’ to take a breather from taking call after call, after call, after call. The ‘Not Ready’ button is revered as a Godsend, and is hailed amongst us as mankind’s greatest invention, the pinnacle of human achievement, even better than sliced bread.

During my ‘nesting’ period, I keep a diary and here it is, unveiled in all its nightmarish gory.



Maddy’s Nesting Dairy:

Number of calls taken = 488

Number of pills popped = 2 bottles (Tylenol Extra Strength)

Number of times I felt like shoving my head in the oven = 1000



Day 1 of nesting – I hate, hate, hate being on the phones. Feel utterly hopeless and confused. Sometimes instead of pushing the Hold button, I accidentally jab the Release key right next to it. I blame my fat fingers. Also, I stay in ‘Not Ready’ a lot. It is my haven. By the end of the day, I feel like going home and SHOVING MY HEAD IN THE OVEN!



Day 2 of nesting – Good news: I did not shove my head in the oven. Bad news: I’m still alive, back in this garish call center, being repeatedly abused over the phone.



Day 3 of nesting – Things are improving. Occasionally I feel lost, but I’m learning to use my ‘resources,’ aka the knowledge base. Transferring calls to other departments, or worse, conferencing calls with a third party is all a blurry mystery to me. Still using ‘Not Ready.’ If it’s there, why not use it, right?



Day 4 of nesting – Feel more comfortable on the phone and with the phone buttons now. The calls are going smoothly. My ultra-secret weapon: bullshitting. I make certain I sound 100% sure that I know what I’m doing, even when I haven’t the foggiest idea, because once the callers sense I’m unsure, they pounce on me like a pack of wolves and question every single thing I tell them. But now that I’m on BS mode, everything is just fine and dandy. Well, all except for the fact that an 8 hour shift is equivalent to 8 hours of callers bashing me nonstop.

Don’t feel the urge to jab ‘Not Ready’ as much now; am becoming slightly more competent.



Day 5 of Nesting – Hey, this is a piece of cake! Don’t need to resort to BS as much, but I whip it out when desperate measures call for it. Suddenly, things are starting to click. I actually know what I’m doing. ‘Not Ready’ is only used when I feel I deserve a much needed break. Hmm. Perhaps I’ll go home and bake myself some chocolate chip cookies in the oven.





On the very last day of nesting, I’m like a bird, ready to sprout my wings, leave my nest and soar. After logging on to my phone, I whack the calls, one by one, out of the ball park!

I skip the ‘selling’ part, since I’m not held accountable for my sales quotas, at least not yet.

But I’m pumped! I feel a thrill, a rush of adrenalin like I’m flying a plane solo for the very first time. I am Amelia Earhart. Let’s hope I don’t crash this plane. Bring ‘em on!



Beep!

“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications, this is Maddy. What can I do for you today?”

“Habla español ?”

“Hola señor! Um, como estas. Sorry...no,” I say in my broken, hacked up Spanish. “I…err…no habla espanol. Uno momento por favor.” Then I promptly transfer the call to the Spanish queue.

It’s pathetic really, since I took Spanish in high school, but other than that, I can only say random Spanish words like burro (donkey), mijo (my son), vamanos (let’s go), papichulo (hot daddy), chica (girl), quien es tu papi (who’s your daddy?) and la princesa (the princess).

Oh, and I can count to ten—uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco…

Okay, I guess I can only count to five.

I am completely incapable of carrying on a conversation in Spanish. Fortunately, that’s what the Spanish queue is for and they get paid more than I do because they’re bilingual.

So, TRANSFER call.

Beep!

“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications, this is Maddy. How can I help?”

“G’day. Me name is Poida Woite. And I need some help with me password.”

How awesome! An Aussie from Down Under!

I peer at his name on my computer screen: Peter White.

“I can help Mr. White, but first—”

“Poida,” he interjects kindly. “Just call me Poida.”

“Okay, Peter,” I say amiably. “I’ll just need to ask you a couple of questions for verification.” And once that is out of the way, I tackle the task at hand. “Now you mentioned earlier on that you needed help with your password?”

“Aye mate,” he huffs in affirmation, like pirate Captain Jack Sparrow. “I’d like to change it to Inicondi88.”

“Now, Peter, let’s make sure that I’ve got this right. Is the first letter I like igloo?”

“Norrr, I as in int,” he corrects.

Int??? What the heck is int????

“Um, you mean I as in India?” I persist.

“Nyet! I as in ipple,” he says, agitation creeping into his voice.

Pause.

Now I’m even more confused. What the hell is an ipple?

“De fruit!” His voice rises with frustration. “Ipple de fruit! I for the first letter of the ilphibet!”

“Ohhhhhh.” I stifle a laugh. “A as in Apple. Yes. Gotcha! So you want your password to be Anaconda88?” I confirm.

“Ibso-bloody-lutely!” he exclaims with a mixture of relief and exasperation.

My mouth twitches at the corners.

I reckon that they don’t speak English in Down Under; they speak Strine.

Peter chuckles heartily. “Bloody hell, Sheila, I was beginning to think ye were a muppet. Ye dun’t know i dunny from i bottom dollar. More is the pity, the great Ozzie vernacular is fizzing ind only i galoot like ye ne’er tire of diddling me, mekin me seem silly as i two bob watch.”

O-kay, I didn’t understand nearly half of what he was saying. Something about a puppet, I gather.

“Puppet?” I ask perplexed. “Did you just call me a puppet?”

“Muppet.” He emits a throaty laugh. “Muppet means idiot.”

An idiot? Who is the idiot here? At least I can pronounce the letter A. I’m sorry but ‘A’ is not pronounced ‘I’.

Crikey! After that call, I have this sudden urge to throw some shrimp on the barbie. Perhaps I’ll even adopt a dingo and name him Mitch. On second thought, I’ll name him Poida.

Beep!

“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications. This is Maddy, what can I do for you today?”

“Halo. My name is Klaus Klum and I am locked out of my account,” says the caller in a heavy German accent.

Guten Tag. He hails from Doytchland!

And I’m half-wondering if he is related to Heidi Klum.

Aside from kinder, dachshund, ausfahrt, du arschgefickter hurensohn, fahrvergnügen and ich bring dich um, the only other German word I know, I learned from Heidi on Project Runway.

Oh, I can’t wait to flex my German skills. I’ve been waiting to say that word since the day I learned it on the Bravo channel.

Now is my chance. Patiently, I bide my time.

Before the call ends, Mr. Klum bellows, “Dahnk-uh shoon.”

“You’re welcome,” I say graciously. This upcoming moment is pivotal. “Thanks for calling sir and...Aufiderzein.”

I said it! What a momentous occasion!

Next time, I’ll kick it up a notch and say, “YOU’RE OUT! Aufiderzein.”

Maybe I’ll get a Russian, and we can discuss Pushkin and Matryoshka dolls.

I’m proud to say that I have quite the collection of Russian nesting dolls, which incidentally, are all made in China.

Hey, this job really isn’t so bad after all. Although I’m sitting at a tiny desk in a crappy, cramped up cubicle in a windowless call center located in Pocatello, Idaho…I feel so globalized. I am connected to the world.