Let's Play 20 Questions

On second thought, I'd rather die. Unfortunately, as a receptionist, 20 Questions is a game you will inevitably play over and over during your incarceration. This is because the "smart" people that you work for will believe that you either know as much about the project as they do, and therefore should be able to do their little assignment by simply snapping your fingers, or that you have the ability to read minds no matter what distance you are from them. Of course, neither is true.

The last game of 20 Questions I played was with a guy who reminds me of Rain Man, so his nickname will be Ray. I have been making coffee back in the kitchen (a task I loathe), and when I returned to my desk, Ray was bee-lining towards it from the other directed with a stack of paper in his hand. "You weren't at your desk, so I was just going to leave this for you." "This" was a stack of 2 documents, an Overnight Express shipping recepit, and a post-it stuck to the top with a note from Ray, simply stating:

Receptionist--
Can you send these out? Project Numbers 1001 and 1002. Thanks.
--Ray

Yeah, thanks Ray. Now because you didn't fill out our handy-dandy, "no need to clarify 99% of the time" transmittal forms, it's time to play 20 Questions before you leave the office for a meeting that will last for probably over two hours. Remind yourself that I am talking to Rain Main Incarnate, so there is lots of stuttering and pausing...
Me: "There are two project numbers...do you want one transmittal with both numbers on it or two separate transmittals?"
Ray: "Uhhh...uh, y-yeah... Two transmittals, so we can have them in each of the files." (Because I can't just make one transmittal with both numbers and save it in both folders? Goody, more work for me.)
Me: "Ok, and what exactly are these documents? What am I sending?"
Ray: "Oh, it's right here [flips through to the first page of the document, reads off the title]."
Me: "And is there just one of each?"
Ray: "Uhhh...Uh, yeah..."
Me: "And is this [points to Overnight Express receipt return address] who I'm sending it to?"
Ray: "Uhhh...No! No! Not this person... This address, but send it to Bob Smith at this address. That person is probably just some secretary or something." (Uh, yeah, cause I'm just the receptionist...or something...I am getting even more excited to procrastinate as much as possible on this for you, Sir.)
Then, having run out of patience after only four questions and finally being overwhelmed by the nervous energy flowing from Ray's incessant moving and anxiety to leave for his meeting, I say "Ok" and settle into my task.

Barely five minutes into the first transmittal, I realize that I have forgotten to ask perhaps the second most important question of 20 Questions: Transmittal Edition--"How do you want this sent--what service, how fast?" Sh*t, I say to myself. Well, its the perfect excuse to procrastinate. If he had just filled out the transmittal form, this would've been done in minutes.

Having Ray out of the office means two things will happen: I will have more, unpressured time to complete transmittals and other little things for him. Thumbs up. But I will also have to field at least three calls from his cell phone, asking frantically for someone as if it were a life and death matter. Because Ray is just like his cinematic counterpart and has trouble with normal human interaction, all of his calls sound like this:
Me: "Good morning/afternoon, Company Name."
Ray: "Hi Receptionist, this is Ray."
Me: "Hi Ray!"
Ray: [awkward pause where Ray sometimes sounds as if he is choking on air] "Oh, Hi... C-can I talk to, uh, This Person?"
While I was twiddling my thumbs with nothing else to do but practice my mind-reading skills, I was lucky enough to receive one of these calls from Ray. But the add to the awkwardness, I snuck in my question after he had asked for This Person. And his answer was only too annoying: "Oh...uh...uhhh...whatever, I guess." "Does it need to be there quickly or does it not matter?" "Uhh...uh...it doesn't really matter, I guess." I can hear in his voice that we wants to get off the phone with me and back to This Person as soon as humanly possible.

I need to write about 20 Questions With Phone Calls, but I am suffering from a slight case of postprandial hypoglycemia and must find out a way to nap at my desk.

A Little Road Rage...

If you think my receptionist rage is bad, you should see my road rage, yet the commute is probably my favorite part of the whole day. I am all by myself, I can listen to my favorite music, sing at the top of my lungs, and play the same song 15 times if I want to. And I just like driving.


As an avid lover of driving, I also believe that your car says a lot about you, even if its some junker your parents bought for you when they were finally sick of driving you to soccer practice. So on the daily commute I look around at the various stickers, personalized license plates and even license plate frames. It was the latter that sent me on a mini-rage last week.

On this particularly normal day, I noticed a dark blue CR-V or something that was slightly annoying me with its numerous lane changes on an already frustrating ramp from the 94 west to the 5 north. When she settled on the right lane and inched ahead of me, her rear license plate frame (LPF) attracted my attention for whatever reason.





Ok so its not really that big of a deal, but look at those palm trees. Just look at them! Ew. They look like f*cked up marijuana leaves or something. Plus, EVERYONE who thinks they are all cool and Southern Californian have this stupid LPF. She's probably some import from Arizona or the midwest and still calls it "Cali" when she goes home to visit the parentals for Turkey Day. *shiver* (Nothing makes me more nauseous that people calling California "Cali".)


This would also have been a non-event had I not seen another more enraging LPF. This time, the offender was a Mercedes, so you know that mofo has got enough money to get a decent LPF if he wanted it. But no, it was one of those freebie "I'd rather be..." LPF's from Sport Chalet. As your car is an expression of your personality, I was also willing to accept that Mercedes Driver would "rather be cycling", since I have my own that says "I'd rather be swimming." (The veracity of that statement is debatable, but that is for another post.) But this guy had actually taken the time to use a black magic marker to color over "Chalet"...LIKE WE DIDN'T KNOW IT WAS FROM THERE!! Seriously?? You are not ABOVE Sport Chalet, dude, if you are just going to Sharpie out the second word. Plus, you can still see 'CHALET' under the purple-black sheen of the marker ink against the solid black plastic behind it. But really, you drive a Mercedes, get one of your flunkies to go online and order you a personalized LPF that simply says "I'd rather be cycling" if you have so much against Sport Chalet. Come to think of it, he probably sent his flunkies to get that Sport Chalet LPF in the first place--God forbid he step foot in something as low-class as a sporting megastore!! Can someone please get this guy in a Wal-Mart, so he can see what low-class really like? Oy vey!!


Now its time to go eat my delicious sesame seed bagel and check out DListed.com for a while. I'm sure I'll be back later to post more; it feels like a slow Monday.

Welcome to my Personal Hell.

Hi there. I'm a receptionist. How did I get here you ask? Shirley Chisholm has your answer: "The emotional, sexual, and psychological stereotyping of females begins when the doctor says, 'It's a girl.'" Enter me, April 14, 1987, shortly before 3 A.M.

I was 19 when I got my first real, taxes-and-a-paycheck job--as a receptionist. I had just finished my first year of college, and my mom got me a part-time gig at a law firm. Yeah, last time I ever do that shit. Lawyers are douchebags. Sorry, Lawyers of the World, but accept your fate and move on. You are an essential part of the Justice System and all that, but I will never work for you again. Some people like to be treated like garbage or The Invisible Woman, so I will let them take care of your spoiled asses.

I spent three months practically chained to the front desk, frantically answering 50 calls a minute and transcibing voicemail messages from cranky old men in the pre-Bluetooth days (which means horrific static and wind noise as clients left our lawyers messages while they barrelled down the freeway on their way from one fancy meeting to the next...I am convinced that I was forced to transcribe these not for legal records, but simply because the lawyers were too good to translate them themselves). I was utterly confused by the fact that I could not leave the desk at any time, but I still had to take the mail to every single lawyer's office. I was scolded on multiple occasions for not answering the phone fast enough, always because there were one or two cranky clients ahead of the third call which happened to be the biggest prick partner I've ever had the horrible luck to meet.

I hated it so much that I took the entire summer off after my sophomore year. I didn't have money but I had my sanity. The feeling of psuedo-poverty was stronger than the dread of being a receptionist again, however, because I went to work with my sister at an architectural firm while the office manager was on maternity leave and my sister (the receptionist) moved into her position temporarily. Although working with my sister was total bullshit because we practically hate each other, this was definitely an improvement on the lawyer situation. Apparently, people are capable of working in an office and being nice at the same time. Wow!!! It's not perfect, but I'll get to that later.

My sister got pregnant in the early fall, so by the time I graduated, I had a nephew (who, although he was an accident, is still fucking adorable and totally awesome ;) and a temporary job at the same place I'd worked the previous summer. Considering this horrific economy, I had majorly scored and staved off unemployment at least for two and a half months. And although I was no longer working with my sister (hooray!), I was starting to get to the end of my rope with the job. Nothing a good rant or two can't fix.

Under pressure from my friends and a few of my coworkers, I have begun this blog as a way to publicly display my crazy rants...from commuting to conference calls.


Next post: License Plates and Less Is NOT More.