Caught in the truth

Sometimes people think they have uncovered a great secret, and when I don't play into their game they are confused and dumbstruck momentarily. I quite enjoy these instances.

Sweet (and sick) receptionist: Good morning, how can I help you?

Mr. know-it-all: Yeah, I just got off the phone with your customer service department and he informed me that he is located in Phoenix, Arizona.

SR: Yes.

Mr.: So you're admitting that your customer service department is in Phoenix, Arizona?

SR: Yes, that's where our call center is located.

MR.: You mean to tell me that it is in another state?

SR: Would you rather it be in the Dominican Republic like it used to be?

MR.: silence...

SR: If you would like to speak to someone here in Michigan about your bill I can transfer you.

MR.: Are they in Pontiac?

SR: Yes. They are in the next department

MR.: In Pontiac, Michigan?

SR.: Yup.

MR.: Well, I guess.

SR.: Just a moment.

MR.: ....... uh, thanks

It's not a top secret government mission that our call center is located in a different state. Were you expecting me to deny it and try to cover it up? If you were, I'm sorry I disappointed you.

Oh, hello again...

This is the first post in what could be a long series of funny/awkward/ridiculous interactions I've experienced while answering the phone for a local newspaper.

A while back I received a call from one of our semi-regular callers, we'll call him "Rich". He calls pretty frequently to ask if certain things are in the paper that day, because heaven forbid he actually buy a paper and look for himself. His requests are usually about celebrities, and because we are a small midwest newspaper, my answer is usually no.

One day, "Rich" called looking for an article about a famous actor who had died of a heart attack. I glanced through the paper and found that it was actually included.

After explaining to him that he would have to talk to someone in a different department to order a copy of the paper I transferred him to said department.

"Rich" is a nice enough guy. From what I have gathered, he sounds to be somewhere in his 40's and lives with his father I believe. He is always polite and kind to me on the phone (which can be a relief from the angry calls I also receive) and tries to pass along tips of celebrities in case we would like to cover them. But sometimes I get the feeling he may not be all there.

So, after I transferred him to the correct department, I didn't expect to hear from him again until the next celebrity death he would call to report. Boy, was I wrong! Over the course of the next hour I spoke with "Rich" 5 times. The conversations went something like this:

1. He called back to let me know that the woman I had transferred him to had not answered and to ask if he should have left her a message. I told him yes, and transferred him back.

2. Then he called to let me know that he had left a message and to ask if she would call him back. I said yes and let him go.

3. About 15 minutes later he called to inform me that he had not yet spoken with the woman and that he was getting in the shower, in case she called back. I said that he would likely have a missed call or a voicemail if she did. He seemed hesitant, but agreed and hung up.

4. After his shower he called back to check if she had called him while he was in the shower. I informed him that she is in a different part of the building and I had no idea if she had tried to call or not and transferred him back to her.

5. Then he called back to set the record straight that he had gotten a hold of her and was able to order the paper that he was looking for. He thanked me for my help and was happily awaiting his paper.

After this whole fiasco I felt exhausted and as if I needed a nap.

Picking my battles

Can you bring cookies to this event? Can you watch my kids on short notice? Can you stop and pick up this? Can you prepare that? Can you attend this meeting? Can you come to that? Will you cover my shift? Can you come pick me up?

These are just a few of the things that I have been asked this week alone. Don't get my wrong, I enjoy being helpful. But sometimes it gets to be too much. It's easy to be overwhelmed with the needs and wants of those around us.

Had you asked me to do something for you a couple years ago, no matter how last minute it was, I would have completely rearranged my schedule, cut into my sleep time and gone without meals in order to help in whatever way I could. But I have learned over the years that there will always be a need, and I can't always be the one to meet it. I used to feel awful if I had to tell someone no, but now I find it quite liberating! I like to be in control of my time and schedule. I will do what I can for those I love, but I know that sometimes it is best for everyone involved if I decline.

About a year ago, I was asked to babysit for a family that I didn't know very well. Being a single, 20 something girl in a large church leads to many requests to babysit for people that I often don't know at all. (I help out in the nursery a lot, so I know people's kids better than I know the parents.) When I was asked to babysit, I knew right away that I should turn it down. I was tired and cranky and coming down with something. But I needed the money, so I accepted the job. The kids were perfect angels until the moment after their parents pulled out of the driveway, then it was pure frustration. The oldest was running around screaming and tearing things up and pushing his little sister down. The little girl was crying and clearly starved for attention... And I wanted to cry with her! I made dinner, he refused to eat. He went to the bathroom and refused to wipe himself. We brushed our teeth and they both flat out refused. Deciding that brushed teeth was the least of my worries, I put them to bed a little earlier than their parents had suggested. I was so done. I shut their doors and sat down in the living room to cry.

I should have said no. It would have saved a lot of frustration and tears. But I am stubborn. I like a full schedule. I like the thanks for helping out. I like to be the one to save the day or give parents a night out. (Maybe, deep down, I hope that because I babysit so parents can go on dates karma will come back around and give me a babysitter when I'm married and want a date night.)

I have learned that I cannot always do these things. I can't put my mental, emotional, and physical well-being on the line to help someone else all the time. And I have learned that if I say no, someone else will be willing to step in and meet that need just as well as I could have, or usually better. I have learned to pick my battles and that it is perfectly acceptable to say no when I need to.

Simple acts of kindness

On a cold winter day he made his way to the nearest store and slowly stepped through the doors as they glided open of their own accord. He had dressed deliberately, but secretly, in his finest black pants and gray sweater with the faded green and blue argyle pattern along the buttons. It had always been her favorite. Checking that his hair was laying right in the framed mirror near the front door, he had slipped out as quietly as he could and made his way to the bus stop on the corner.
The clerk, in her official blue vest, watched as he browsed through the selection of bouquets near the produce.
"Can I help you, Sir?" she asked, noting the way he seemed to be carefully examining each bouquet, one at a time.
"What is your favorite flower?" he asked, looking up at the fresh faced young girl.
"I like daisies the best. What kind are you looking for?"
"Stargazer lilies," he said. "Do you have any?"
"Well, there's one in that bouquet, and one in that other one over there with the pink carnations. And one with the white roses, to your right," she said, pointing at each bouquet as she spotted them.
"You don't have one with just stargazer lilies?" he asked.
"I don't think so," she said in an apologetic tone. "Are they for your wife?"
"Yes ma'am. I get her a bouquet of stargazer lilies every year. I usually order them from the florist, but this year we just don't have the money. I was hoping you'd have them," he said, looking slightly discouraged.
"How long have you and your wife been married?"
"67 years come spring," he said smiling at the clerk. "Probably before your parents were even born."
The clerk smiled and nodded.
"We met when I came back from my basic training and I knew I wanted to marry her right then," he said. "She said she'd never marry a military man, but I knew I was going to marry that bright eyed girl." The clerk noticed that as he told their story a single tear had begun to form in the corner of his wrinkled eye and she began to tear up a bit too.
"So how did you win her over?" she asked.
"I wrote her letters the whole time I was gone. At first her responses her friendly, but nothing more. Then, as I told her about the dangers I was facing while in the war-torn country and my belief that God had it all in control, her letters started to read a bit differently. When I finally got leave to come home, she met me at the port with a sign that said, 'I can't imagine life without my military man.' That was 68 years ago today."
By the time he was done telling his story, the clerk knew what she was going to do. She pulled every bouquet the store had that contained a stargazer lily and asked him to wait right there. She ducked behind the counter and began to pull them apart, separating the lilies from the rest of the bouquets. When she had wrapped up the newly formed bouquet, she walked around the counter and handed it to the old gentleman who was standing with his hands in his pockets looking around, enjoying the flower arrangements around him.
"Here you go, Sir," she said with a bright smile.
"Thank you so much. My Joan will love these so much. How much do I owe you?" he asked, reaching in his back pocket for his wallet.
"This bouquet doesn't technically exist, so it's on the house," she said.
All he could say is "God bless you," as the solitary tear finally made its way down his crinkled cheek. He gave her a warm hug and slowly made his way out the front door and boarded the waiting bus.

The Story of an Hour

The Story of an Hour by Kate Chopin is one of my favorite short stories. It was this story that piqued my interest in literature. The imagery and creative writing is so great. I can't believe that in such a short space so much can be said and felt. I attached it below for your reading pleasure!

"The Story of An Hour"

Kate Chopin (1894)

Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death. It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.

She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.
There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.

She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.

There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.

She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.

She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.

There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.

Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will--as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under her breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.

She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.

There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.

And yet she had loved him--sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!

"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering.

Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhold, imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door--you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake open the door."

"Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.

Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.

She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.

Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.

When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease--of the joy that kills. 

Dear people in the Public Relations field

Dear people in the Public Relations field,

I applaud your work in getting the word out about your clients' events, accomplishments and so on. However, PROOFREAD! You may think that you never make a mistake, always have the correct date and format, and never make a typo, but you are wrong in that assumption. There is no shame in proofreading, I promise. No one will look down on you for taking the extra minute to look over your press release to ensure accuracy, they will, however, look down on you for multiple mistakes in your press releases. If you want anyone to take you seriously, proofread!!

Do us all a favor and double check that your day and date match, that your event does not begin at 3:30 a.m. and end at 5 p.m., and, for goodness sake, if you want to send an important press release about the concerning lung cancer epidemic, don't accidentally type "lunch cancer". The serious tone of your writing will take a turn for the worse when the reader begins to giggle upon reading your horrible mistake!

Sincerely,
Ashley 

Step #1 to getting out of this funk

Last night I sat with my computer on my lap, nestled comfortably in my ugly mustard yellow arm chair, staring at a blank screen. I wanted to write. I had the time and attention span to write. I even had the proper amount of caffeine in my system to write. But I lacked one key factor, I did not have the inspiration to write.

This gray cloud has been hanging over my head for far too long. I want to give it an eviction notice, but I can't find a way to do it. I wish it would go for a walk to get some fresh air, and in its absence I could sneak into it's place and haul all of its belongings to the curb and change the locks. Then maybe I could write again.

I usually find inspiration by writing about a place or experience that is familiar, but right now, I wouldn't even want to skim, let alone read, those familiar experiences myself. My mind and writing have burrowed down to a dark, cynical place deep within me and I don't like it. Nobody wants to read that. Not even my mother, and biggest fan, would make it more than a few pages in that book. People want to read books that make them feel good about themselves, or stories that help them to escape the crap of their own life and lose themselves in a new world that a book creates. Nobody wants to lose themselves in the book that is written from the crappy place I have been mentally lately.

What it comes down to is that I need some new adventures. I need to travel and explore and just do what I love with people that I love to be around and forget my troubles. These adventures don't need to be anything grand. I don't have to go to far away places and do things that I have never done before, though that would be fun too. I want to again fall in love with where I am and who I am with already. It has been too long since I've played the tourist. A small cash flow and this dreaded winter weather haven't helped either.

Maybe this weekend I will take some time for myself. Maybe I will go to a downtown cafe in some other nearby city and just sit and listen to the people around me and write. It will very likely be crappy writing, but at least I will have gotten words on a page, and that is always step #1.