Dear Indian-Call-Center-Guy

Dear Indian-Call-Center-Guy

Listen, I know you're in love with me because you call my house every 30 minutes and can never bear to leave a message on my machine. It's cute in it's way but see I work in an office and will never get to pick up the phone as you call over and over and over again between the hours of 10 and 3. So stop.

And hey I know you really wanna talk with me because I can get you that nice commision that may someday allow you to buy a nicer tie, but if you don't leave a number. It's not gonna happen.

Furthermore, this romance is completely inappropiate. I'm a married woman. You can't keep calling me by my first name, we're not buddy-buddy. You're not my friend, and this fantasy in which you get to refer to me and my husband as your good relations needs to end. It's Mrs. to you buster.

One thing you need to realize Mr. Call-Center-Guy-in-India is that unlike 99% of the people you will talk to today, tomorrow, and Sunday I actually am one of those unfortunates who lost their job because of your eager willingness to be paid $3 an hour for a crappy customer service position. Before you came along I had a little desk and a little phone and got paid a nice salary to enter information quickly and correctly into a very complicated system. Have you ever been layed-off to find yourself without an apartment or a place to crash in New York City? No? I have. Thanks. So if you can't ten-key type the way I can ten-key type into your dumbed down version of a bare-bones database...then you need to double check. It's not only a matter of customer service to keep my number from going from 123 to 759...it's a matter of professional pride. Stop messing up!

And while we're on the subject of professional skill. It's called a call center for a reason. People will be calling you, and since you work for a company who only sells goods in a very small county in the United States, and for that matter goods that require a certain amount of knowledge of English to enjoy, you should expect people to call you and speak our particular form of English. It's called white-bread. If you do not KNOW English but still insist you can perform this job, do not try and cover up you inability to understand the sentence "Please enter my name onto the Do-Not-Contact list." by answering with the few words of Eubonics you picked up listening to Snoop Doggy-Doggity. Thanks.

In short Mr. Guy-in-India-who-stole-my-job-which-I-actually-liked-because-it-allowed-
me-to-do-detailed-oriented-work-in-a-friendly-environment-
rather-than-the-crappy-job-I-had-to-take-afterwards-
where-I-spent-long-hours-spreading-tar-on-hot-roads get your freaking act together or the next time I will do my entire transaction in morse code with a high pitched whistle.

Love always,
Katy

P.S. Thanks for ruining my Purple Socks with Yellow Flowers Day.