Confessions of a Call Center Gal

Five





Thank GAWD it’s Friday night.

I’m so drained that the only thing I can muster the strength to do is flip on the TV. The Vampire Diaries comes on.

Sheesh! Not another vampire show. After Twilight and True Blood, I’m all vampired out.

I chuck the remote to Kars and she switches the channel to E!.

Yay! Our beloved Chelsea Lately is on. It is hands down the best talk show on TV and Chelsea Handler is a Goddess amongst Goddesses; our Queen Bee.

As you can probably tell, I am a huge fan, and so is Kars.

Watching Chelsea is a blast. She’s funny, witty and we learn so much from her. Just by tuning in to her show, we have vastly expanded our vocabulary. For instance, we incorporate words likeshadoobie, coslopus and pickachu into our daily conversations.

In Chelsea-land, shadoobie = poo; Pickachu and coslopus = va jay jay.

So it’s work appropriate and very versatile.

The other day, Hillary the Giant Not Ready Nazi was walking around with her barn door wide open. Kars yelled, “The Führer’s pickachu is peeking out!”

To which I replied, “Holy Shadoobie! Her coslopus is a jungle.”

And no one caught on to a word we were saying.

After Chelsea Lately, we tune in to the Ross Report on Leno, then we hop over to the Daily Show with Jon Stewart. Later on we flip the channel to CBS to catch the Late, Late Show with Craig Ferguson. Love that guy and his bizarre humor. Not to mention, I find his Scottish lilt so incredibly wonky and sexy, even though half the time I’m not even sure I understand a word he’s saying. But let’s face it, Scottish accents are just plain sexy. Slap a Scottish accent on a green ogre and I’ll immediately find him irresistible, case in point—Shrek.

I have an odd propensity for anything Scottish. I’ve always dreamed of living in the Scottish Highlands, speaking nothing but Gaelic, and listening to the sweet, harmonious music of Celtic Thunder.

As much as we love our shows, all we ever do every night is vegetate in front of the tube. We used to have so much more spunk. We’d stay up until two in the morning, chatting about everything and nothing. I kind of miss all that. Since we’ve started working at the call center, we don’t talk anymore. And frankly, after talking on the phones nonstop for eight hours straight, we’re just all talked-out.

My throat is sore, my voice is hoarse, and the last thing I want to do is chit chat.

Midway through the Late Late Show, Kars is snoring loudly on the sofa. I throw an Afghan over her and tuck in the corners. It tends to get chilly down here in Janis’ basement.

Stifling a yawn, I call it a night. After all, I have a student to tutor tomorrow.





Early next morning, I find myself wandering aimlessly around Idaho State U. I root around my bag, retrieve the campus map and study it. Okay, I need to locate the Eli M. Oboler Library.

“Are you lost?” a familiar voice pipes in from behind me.

I spin around. “Mika!” I cry joyously.

His face is flushed from the wind and he is smiling.

I smile back. “Good thing you found me. I had no clue where I was going.”

“Is this your first time on the ISU campus?”

“Uh-huh.” I scan the area. “Where did you come from? You appeared out of nowhere.”

“You see that brick building over there?” He gestures toward it and I nod, squinting in the sunlight. “That’s my dorm.”

I am momentarily surprised. “I had no idea you lived in the dorms.”

Good. That means he and Ingeborg don’t bunk together.

He nudges me playfully. “You ready to be my tutor today?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be. Lead the way my friend.”

He walks at a brisk pace and I try to match his stride.

“So, which dorm does Ingeborg live in?” I ask casually.

“She lives with her parents; her family moved from Bulgaria about a year ago.”

With some hesitation, I ask, “Um…so how long have you two been dating?”

“About six months now,” he says, walking at a fast clip.

I formulate over a dozen questions in my snoopy head, but before I can broach them, we’ve arrived at our destination.

Like a true gentleman, Mika holds the door open and I breeze in. We find a quiet spot in the back of the library and he wastes no time. Unzipping his backpack, he retrieves a stack of papers and slides it across the table. “Here you go. That’s all of it.”

Sifting through the pages, it dawns on me why Mika finds his ESL course so daunting. All his assignments cover the mechanics of grammar and writing: nouns, verbs, pronouns, adjectives, adverbs, prepositions, conjunctions, interjections...Zzzzzzzzzzzz.

In order to become a good writer, one must be a good reader; they go hand in hand like ketchup and fries, like curry and naan, like macaroni and cheese. It is by reading that the mind absorbs the nuances of the language and how it is used.

My dad was a prolific author of numerous books and articles on architecture. To this day, I enjoy reading his work. He could turn a bland subject into a vivacious one by injecting his idiosyncratic humor, double entendres and playful puns.

Needless to say, he spurred my interest and fostered my love of writing. He made writing seem cool and consequently, I came to enjoy the thrill of crafting a story.

And he instilled the importance of reading in me from a very early age. Every weekend, he drove me over to the Book Stall on Chestnut Court and there, he let me go hare wild. It was such a thrill! I grabbed armfuls of books...Enid Blyton, E.B White and Nancy Drew when I was younger; and when I was slightly older, Agatha Christie. Detective Hercule Poirot taught me to become a better listener, to pay attention to what people aren’t directly saying. Crime novels aside, I got hooked on comics too, especially Betty and Veronica. That was my one guilty pleasure; I loved the entire Riverdale gang: Archie and Jughead, Big Ethel, Reggie, Midge, and even Moose.

My dad also immersed me in the works of Jane Austen, Emily Brontë and Charlotte Brontë. Oh how I adored Anne of Green Gables; and when I turned thirteen, he bought me my very first teeny bopper romance—Sweet Valley High, and I learned that a good storybook trumps any dry textbook.

After flipping through Mika’s assignments, I slam the stack of papers on the table with surprising force. “Enough of this!” I balk. Mika looks slightly taken aback, but I’ve garnered his full attention. “Look, I know your teacher thinks it’s important that you learn about verb conjugations and noun declensions, and they are important, but…” I pause to articulate my thoughts. “When I was a kid and I wanted to learn how to ride a bike, I just hopped right on my BMX and eventually I figured it out. Now what I did not do was hunker down and study the mechanics of putting a bike together. By plunging in and riding my bike, I was able to enjoy the wind in my hair, the sun in my face, the scent of freshly cut grass. It was fun,” I say with exuberance. Getting a bit carried away, I add, “I remember how much I loved zigzagging along the road on my pink BMX, avoiding potholes, popping wheelies.” I find myself smiling fondly at the memories.

So, where was I now? What was I trying to say?

Oh yes, I need to tie it all in. “So it’s the same thing with the English language. The best way to learn and enjoy it is to read something that grips you. It can be a mystery, a sci-fi, a thriller, anything. And once you’re hooked, there’s no turning back.”

Mika leans back and hesitates, “Reading’s not really my thing though.”

I blanch and pound my fist on the table. “That’s because you haven’t found the right book,” I say with a firmness that surprises me.

The corners of his mouth twitch.

I flash him a perfunctory smile. “What types of shows do you watch on TV?”

He drums his fingers on the table. “The History channel. I dig war movies, documentaries, anything to do with World War II. I just like facts.”

“What else?” I encourage him to continue.

“Top Gear. It’s a Brit show about cars.” After a beat, he adds, “I like watching Anthony Bourdain and Andrew Zimmern on the Travel Channel.”

“That’s a pretty good start.” I stand up and grab my things.

He slides his chair back. “Where are you going?”

“We are going to the county library.”





The very minute we troop into Marshall public library, I’m like a woman on a mission. I head straight for the computer kiosk and after a quick search, I march to the book aisle, scan the shelves for the title, locate the book and thrust it into Mika’s hands.

He reads the title out loud. “A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier.”

I give a scholarly nod. “True story about a young kid engulfed in Sierra Leone’s civil war. And it’s not too long; only a little over two hundred pages. It’s the perfect book for you,” I say, trying my best to sell it to him.

“I’m sold.”

Next, I drag Mika to the periodicals and step back, giving him some space and time to explore. After perusing the aisles for ten minutes, he has made his selections; two copies of Motor Trend and the most recent issue of AutoSpeed.

Mission accomplished.

While Mika registers for his library card, I idly browse the aisles. Surreptitiously, I pluck a steamy historical romance from the shelf.

After giving the cover a cursory glance, I flip it over and read the blurb on the back.



Scottish Laird Iain McLean is forced to wed Dundee lass Adamina to settle an ongoing dispute between two clans. Whilst the reunion may have brought peace to the Highlands, Iain finds himself at war with his own emotions. Strong willed and sensual, Adamina battles her fierce attraction for Iain, determined to remain his wife in name only. At the outset, Iain only seeks the pleasure of sharing his bed with Adamina. But he is soon lured into a love so absolute and a passion so deep that he finds himself torn between a woman and his clan, facing duplicity, betrayal and ultimately, redemption.



Well hello Laird Iain McLean! Sizzle. My whole body tingles with anticipation. I can’t wait to snuggle under the covers tonight and read all about the sexy Scottish Laird who ravishes his feisty, fetching, bonnie lass. This book sounds like a delicious romp across the Highlands.

Satisfied with my choice, I sail over to the checkout line.

Bugger! The only librarian on duty is still assisting Mika.

I stand behind him and remain as quiet as a church mouse.

Sensing my presence, Mika turns round and notices the book in my hand. “What’cha got there?” he asks casually.

“A book,” I say innocently, biting my inner lip.

“What book?” he asks with a flicker of curiosity.

I grip the book tighter. “Just one of the classics…Jane Austen,” I inform him with an air of Olde English eloquence, and with the prudence of a matronly, spinsterish aunt.

“You’re all set,” interrupts the mousy librarian.

Thankfully, he returns his attention to the front desk.

My shoulders begin to relax and I sigh with relief.

Phew! Saved by the librarian.

Suddenly, Belgium boy does the unthinkable.

He whips back unexpectedly and pries the book out of my clenched fingers. After a mad skirmish and scuffle, Mika reigns victorious, book in his hand.

“Eeeps!” A shriek escapes me and I lurch forward, determined to wrestle the book back for dear life.

Alas, it’s too late.

Mika is reading the title out loud. “Interesting...The Scottish Laird’s Virgin Bride.” His voice is playful yet tormenting, and I catch a faint glimmer of enjoyment on his face.

I fix him with a sharp, chilling stare.

Unfazed by my daggers, Mika studies the cover. The corners of his mouth begin twitching uncontrollably, and I find myself cringing and burning with shame.

Laird Iain McLean, fully decked out in a red kilt and tartan, is pictured frolicking in a celestial forest with a scantily dressed woman, whom I can only presume to be his wife, Adamina.

My face flushes hotter and hotter with utter humiliation.

Impulsively, I snatch the book back, and with as much dignity as possible, I check out my smut novel and stalk out of the library without so much as a glance back.

Mika is soon beside me.

But I am so crippled with embarrassment that I can scarcely even look at him. Awkwardly, I pretend to be preoccupied with the contents of my bag. To make matters worse, we dropped off my car at home and took Mika’s car to the library, which means I’ll have to ride home with him. Oh, the agony.

I slide into Mika’s car and remain mute.

Seconds later, the engine roars to life and we’re coasting down the freeway in his low rider Impala. The air remains heavy with my silence and Mika mistakes my embarrassment for anger.

His expression softens. “Are you mad at me?”

I smile weakly in return and shake my head.

He shifts gears and looks meaningfully at me. “There’s nothing wrong with dirty romance novels.” After a beat, he adds, “You’ll have to let me know if that’s a good one...maybe I’ll read it.”

I bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from smiling. “You’re not going to read it.”

He grins. “You’re right. I probably won’t be reading The Scottish Laird and his Virgin Bride any time soon.”

I laugh, and the more I think about it, Mika’s right. There’s really nothing wrong with reading trashy romance novels. It’s like eating junk food every once in a while, like an In-N-Out burger and fries with a milkshake. I crave it every so often and it hits the spot, no pun intended.

Consuming coming-of-age novels just gets old and stale after a while. Plus ‘healthy’ literature and serious fiction plays havoc with my mind. Just last month, I read The Lovely Bones and it was so dark and depressing that I almost put a gun to my head and pulled the trigger.

After reading that novel, I just had to escape to a happy place; somewhere far away, up in the Scottish Highlands. And thus, I turned to Harlequin.

Some of Harlequin’s historical titles are remarkably well written and meticulously researched, and they continually open my eyes to new facets of history. I have learned more history from romance novels than I have from eighteen years of schooling. Hmm. I realize now that I overreacted.

I flick Mika a sideways glance. “So, any plans this weekend?”

He keeps his eyes on the road. “I’ll be hitting the slopes up at Pebble Creek. We’re supposed to be getting a ton of fresh powder tonight. It’s going to be epic!”

“You’re going skiing?” I ask airily.

He puts on an indignant air. “Um, no. I’m going boarding.”

“Oh, sorrrrry,” I say with a trace of sarcasm. “I didn’t mean to ignite the feud between you riders and skiers.”

He rewards me with a wry smile. “Skiers? Could you possibly be referring to those wanker two plankers with prissy poles who deck themselves out in neon onesies?”

I giggle. “So, when you’re not tearing down the mountain in your plastic tray, your assignment from me this week is to read the book and mags in your spare time.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says, pulling his car into Janis’ driveway.

Yes, I still live there with Karsynn.

Mika stalls the engine and turns to face me. “Thanks again, Madison.” And for a little while, his gaze lingers.

“Anytime,” I say in a stilted voice, inching out of my seat. I step out of the car, slam the door, and fly down the path.

Wrestling with the lock, I throw a glance over my shoulder.

Mika waves at me through the lightly tinted windows.

I wave back.