Recently, on John Chow's blog, there was an article, a list of boasts if you will, entitled The Internet's Biggest Google Whores. Therein was a an impressive(?) list for all to see: the biggest money making sites on the internet - all because of Adsense.
I have several thoughts on this, but first, I will admit upfront that I'm feeling rather pissy about Adsense these days. I have a moderate website that generates a small amount of income using it. The other day, I got this letter. It says they've closed my account. They've disabled all my ads and given that small income I've earned back to the advertisers. Why? Who knows. They don't really say. Their enigmatic explanation consists of a generic, "It has come to our attention that invalid clicks and/or impressions have been generated on the Google ads on your site(s)."
Thanks, guys. That helps a lot. Invalid clicks? Invalid impressions? From where? From whom? When? Could you elaborate a little further? Maybe it's something I can clear up or figure out. But nope. With no warning, no by your leave or howdy-do, we've just booted you out and made your website look totally screwy. End of story. Goodbye.
What's with this attitude? I'm guilty until proven innocent? Their letter went on to say that I could appeal, but added, "if Google DECIDES to evaluate your appeal ..." Wait a minute. What? These guys may not even deign to LOOK at what I've written in my defense? Does it require too much effort? Will they break a sweat? Miss their morning coffee break?
To add to this spectacular example of customer non-service, google closed their Dear John note with a blurb informing me that this one appeal was all I got. Once their decision was made (IF they looked at what I wrote, that is), that would be It - The Official Decision, The Final Word, Finis, The End, It's Over. Isn't that special.
Now, I've been in customer service for over 20 years, and I've had a website since 1997. I've never seen such rude, arrogant 900 lb. gorilla behavior in my life. I know I didn't do anything wrong on my own site, but does that matter? It very well could be some kid was playing around, revisiting my site and repeatedly clicking on ads for whatever reason. (It's made me wonder if competitors do this to each other. Gee, what a handy way to shut out revenue and cause headaches for a rival site.) In any case, Google doesn't want to know. They're gonna figure it out in their own way and my input is irrelevant.
Which brings me back to talking about adsense whores. Using adsense to make money is, when you think about it, a lot like walking the streets. Your site becomes less about the content you wanted to put up in the first place, and more about key phrases, prime location and displaying your wares in a subtle peek-a-boo tease. I've gotten more headaches trying to configure that combination (so you'll get a more relevant listing of links, and I'll maybe make a few dollars in the process) than I have putting up the information itself. I'm not interested in being a marketing genius, and I can tell you that I definitely do not look good in blue eyeshadow. I'm just a homeschool veteran, a soon-to-be-single-mom, hoping to make a livable income from all this hard-won knowledge. Getting rich would be nice, but it's not the goal. The Goal is providing real homeschooling information from real homeschoolers. Vs just leaving you with that No. 1 site out there run by those who are marketing geniuses, and to whom homeschooling is nothing more than the current hot trend.
So, at the end of 3 months of too many late nights and way too much caffeine configuring my little street corner, I now find myself at the mercy of the 21st Century Internet Pimp, not knowing what the hell I'm defending myself against and not at all sure if The Big Man will have enough interest to stop scratching his cojones and listen to what I have to say. My website may be gone next month, unable to sustain its small self. It probably doesn't help that I'm ranting on blogger, which is yet another of the 900 lb. gorilla's holdings. O well. Too late now.
Maybe it's a good thing Google made off with all my adsense money. Those white go-go boots were looking a mite too appealing. I'm now off to go check out Federated Media and other alternatives to adsense. I only hope that at least one of them remembers what it's like to be a small business and a decent human being.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Friday, December 8, 2006
Looking Scientific
I just found this nifty science gadget today from the National Science Digital Laboratory. Type in any science term you're looking for, like let's say, volcanoes, or earthquakes or chemistry and watch all the results you get! What a great resources for homeschooling parents looking for affordable (cheap! FREE!) curriculum helps.
Go ahead, try it!
Go ahead, try it!
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
Mountains and Valleys
. . . and volcanos. I've been thinking about all three a lot lately. And why it is we can't see them very well, no matter how close they are.
I mean, does anyone ever get married with the thought "someday we'll be divorced"? I doubt it. All you can see is the peaceful, green valley ahead from that vantage point. There are mountains, there are always mountains, but they come later. You scale them one by one, helping each other over the top, as it should be. If you're very, very lucky, you'll never even see a volcano.
This is an analogy, of course. I'm talking about life, not nature's geological formations. Okay, so it's not even a very good analogy. In my state of mind, it's the best I can do.
I'm about to walk (well, run) out on 26 years. There are live volcanos everywhere. Only I couldn't see them. Well okay ... I could, but I thought I could deal with them. Or fix them. (sigh) How foolish can you get? Anyway, I'm leaving. Going to Chilly's house. Gonna invade her life, her space, her precious minutes with LD sweetie. May the diety bless her heart, she's givin' me and mine refuge. Thank you, Chilly.
Is anyone hiring, btw? Former conference coordinator, a usually very organized person, prolific writer (you wouldn't know it from this blog, would you), homeschooling mom, website owner/designer, with a smidge of html and css knowledge. Preferably 60k per year, plus perks.
Hey, it could happen.
In the meantime, does anybody know where I can find this guy? Mr. Pale, Short and Dreamy has been my LD sweetie for [mumble, mumble, mutter] years. Yeah, that long. If you see him around, tell him I'm almost available again, would ya? Who knows. Maybe there really is a happily ever after out there, after all.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Homeschooling in Colorado - I'm Back!
I haven't posted in awhile. Been totally remiss, I guess. But I have a doggone good reason: I've been busy learning how to put my website back online. My, things have changed in the 6 years I've been gone! CSS, style sheets, html editors (I'm using RapidWeaver - please let's hope it's more stable than nVu), php, javascript, and other impressive terms as well.
Rocky Mountain Education Connection, it's called. And I've missed it. It was my life from 1996 - 2000. I found that my kids are grown, but I can't stop being a homeschooler no matter how I try. Or shall I say - Unschooler. It's a part of me. And I love talking about it. So why not do the thing you love best? (well, there are a few other things in life ... but this is a family blog so let's be nice)
I'm tired right now, really too tired to write much. (as ChillyMama will happily attest to) All my writing energy's gone into writing for my website. C'mon over and check it out if you have a minute. It's not your typical homeschool site, that much is for sure. My fun-loving personality's stamped all over it.
I'll try and get back here and blog some more about what's going on there, and in the homeschooling world in general. There have been some things I've found that startle me. If you want a glimpse of what they are, check out the article Cyberspace Changes Everything. In the meantime, is there anything you'd like to know? Have questions? Comments? Post 'em. Let me know. I've been homeschooling for 14 years; I can answer just about anything.
I'll see you soon! (I promise. YES Chilly, I promise!)
Rocky Mountain Education Connection, it's called. And I've missed it. It was my life from 1996 - 2000. I found that my kids are grown, but I can't stop being a homeschooler no matter how I try. Or shall I say - Unschooler. It's a part of me. And I love talking about it. So why not do the thing you love best? (well, there are a few other things in life ... but this is a family blog so let's be nice)
I'm tired right now, really too tired to write much. (as ChillyMama will happily attest to) All my writing energy's gone into writing for my website. C'mon over and check it out if you have a minute. It's not your typical homeschool site, that much is for sure. My fun-loving personality's stamped all over it.
I'll try and get back here and blog some more about what's going on there, and in the homeschooling world in general. There have been some things I've found that startle me. If you want a glimpse of what they are, check out the article Cyberspace Changes Everything. In the meantime, is there anything you'd like to know? Have questions? Comments? Post 'em. Let me know. I've been homeschooling for 14 years; I can answer just about anything.
I'll see you soon! (I promise. YES Chilly, I promise!)
Monday, September 18, 2006
Grandmapoo Are You Listening?
Okay, so somebody named Grandmapoo (yes, I'm serious - and more importantly, curious where this handle came from) contacted me and asked for some more writings. Specifically, humorous ones. It made me wonder. Was I humorous in my other blatherings? Since nobody ever leaves comments, I have only myself to ask. And my answer invariably is, "I have no idea."
So, this one's for you, G-Poo. Not my best effort, I must admit, but then again, I didn't write it. It's a viral joke my other mother in law sent me.
So, this one's for you, G-Poo. Not my best effort, I must admit, but then again, I didn't write it. It's a viral joke my other mother in law sent me.
THE FORGOTTEN WEDDING ANNIVERSARY
Ed was in big trouble. He forgot his wedding anniversary. His wife was very angry.
The next morning Ed got up early and left for work. When his wife
Confused, the wife put on her robe and ran out to the driveway,
and brought
She opened it and found a brand new bathroom scale.
Funeral services for Ed have been scheduled for Friday
Anybody Out There?
This is a test. This is only a test. If this were a real blog, you would be advised to take shelter in the nearest Big Brother Online Facility . . .
Seriously. Okay, not so seriously. I'm just doing this to see if I can get the stupid main page to shorten and ARCHIVE. It's as long as Methusela was old for gawd's sake.
Chilly says if I wrote more, this wouldn't happen. I'm trying, Chilly ol' buddy, ol' chum. But, right now Big Brother Ebay is taking up all my time. People actually make a living at this?
Seriously. Okay, not so seriously. I'm just doing this to see if I can get the stupid main page to shorten and ARCHIVE. It's as long as Methusela was old for gawd's sake.
Chilly says if I wrote more, this wouldn't happen. I'm trying, Chilly ol' buddy, ol' chum. But, right now Big Brother Ebay is taking up all my time. People actually make a living at this?
Thursday, August 10, 2006
411 on the 411
My First Day
It’s early Saturday morning in mid February, cold enough for a sweater, but not a winter coat. Typical Colorado weather. For the front range anyway, which refers to the string of populous cities from Pueblo north to the Wyoming border. It’s also my first day as a directory assistance operator for cell phone users. Five days ago, I was absolutely sure I could do this job. No sweat. Having emerged from what the company euphemistically calls ‘a week of training’, the only thing I’m sure about is that I should go home now.
I'm lurking on the outer perimeter of the call center, which is a sea of light-grey-on-medium-grey, very utilitarian, broken here and there by what looks like bobbing, disembodied heads. A low mumble of twenty voices punctuate the clickety-clack of two hundred fingers typing on old, sticky keyboards. I'm sure you’ve seen those headset wearing operators on tv, the ones who are ‘always standing by?’ That’s a very pretty picture alright, but call centers don’t look anywhere that nice. Or clean. They’re generally on the low-rent side of town.
On the far wall I notice two large digital boards. One has three columns of green numbers. I have no idea what the numbers mean. The other shows six different time zones. Why do I need to know what time it is in Hawaii? We’re only answering calls from six states; Colorado, Utah, Wyoming, Montana, New Mexico and Arizona. Aren’t we?
Glancing around, I don’t see anyone who’d recognize me. Whew, good. I can just walk out and nobody’ll be the wiser. I begin to back up.
Suddenly, an older female with short blonde-grey hair pops up from a cubicle. She’s clutching a sheaf of papers in her hand, looking at me and smiling. I’m not sure which I notice first, her decaying teeth, or her acrylic nails, which are 3" long and a eye-popping shade of neon pink.
“Hi,” she grins as she approaches me. “I’m Claude, one of the supervisors. Is this your first day?”
I smile nervously. Should I say yes? Can I weasel and tell her I’m just here delivering donuts? I hesitate, but I’m not a good liar. Finally, I just nod.
“Great! What’s your name?” I tell her. She looks down the sheet and jots a note. Now that she’s next to me, I expect her breath to smell like her teeth look. They don't, thank goodness.
“Well, looks like you’re it, buckeroo. Nobody else has shown up. Let’s get you a headset.” She strides over to a metal cabinet, opens a drawer, pulls out a black bag and unzips it. “Here you go.” I stand there frozen. I begin my but-but-but protest. Claude just clucks like a mother hen.
“Nonsense. You’ve done customer service before?” I nod and she snorts. “Training-shmaining. You don’t need a week of training to do this crap. It’s easy.”
She shows me how to turn the computer on. I adjust the headset.
“This,” she intones, wrapping those clawlike nails around a little black box, “is how you control the volume and the mute button. See how they work?” She dials the volume switch up and down, and then presses a small button and grins. “You'll find that this Mute button is Your Friend.”
“Now, remember you recorded greetings in training? One for each of the major carriers?” I nod dumbly. It’s all I can manage. “Well,” she continues, “as each call comes in, the right one will play and say hello to the customer for you. We call ‘em ‘VRUs’. Stands for Voice Recording Unit - don’t ask me why." She shrugs. "So. You ready?”
Gawd, no. But, I take a deep breath, dial my operator number into the phone’s keypad. And here it comes. My first call.
“Welcome to Verizon Wireless 411. May I help you?” It’s the greeting I recorded three days ago. It sounds so chipper.
“Yeah!” a deep voice booms. I jump in surprise. Claude barks out a not-so-quiet laugh as she turns the volume down. “I need Majj-O’s!”
“Majj-O’s?” I repeat bewilderedly.
“Yeah!” The man bellows back goodnaturedly. “Majj-O’s!”
Claude hits the mute button. “One word replies won’t work, Remember, talk in complete sentences.” She adds, “Ask him if he means MajhiANo’s.” I nod, still bewildered. What’s a MajhiANos?
“Do you mean MajhiANo’s, sir?”
“Yeah!” he concurs. This man, apparently, likes talking in exclamation points.
I look at the computer screen. It has five boxes to type in:
Name
Address
City
State
Zip Code
Category
Hmmm. I know I need more information. “What city please?”
“Denver!” Which is something I will find that they always say. To callers, no major city has suburbs.
I look at Claude. She nods at the phone. “Thank you, one moment please.”
“Thank you, one moment please,” I say to the man.
“Yeah!”
I shrug at Claude, and she begins whisper-spelling. “M-a-g-g-i-a-n-o-s. It’s a restaurant. Italian. Just opened up.” I’ve never heard of it. Shows you how often I eat out in my own town. I type Maggianos into the Name box, and the local area code (303) into the city field, since I'm not sure which location he'll want. I hit enter, and whaddya know. There's only one.
The script on the screen dictates what I have to say next. “The number you requested is 303-123-4567. Thank you and have a nice day.”
“Yeah! Thanks!” Mr. Exclamation Point pauses. “Are you connecting me?”
“Yes, sir, I am.” And I am, but the script doesn’t tell me to tell him that. Just another one of those call center don’t-ask-me-why things. I connect him.
“Oops.” says Claude, just as I release the call. “You were supposed to say ‘thank you and have a nice day.”
“I did.”
“I know but you have to say it again, at the end of every call.”
“Even if I said it already?” She nods. “Claude, that’ll make me sound like an idiot.”
She shrugs. “Yep. I know. But them’s the rules, buckeroo.”
Call #2
“This is Sprint directory assistance, how may I help you today?” Another one of my chipper greetings.
This one’s easy. They want Home Depot in Lakewood. Hell, I could drive you right over there.
Call #3
"This is AT&T Information. May I help you?" I'll soon discover the good thing about these prerecorded sound bites is that it gives you a chance to take a drink in between calls.
The line is full of pops, clicks and static. “Hi.” says a breathless woman, “Yeah, I need that art place on Broadway.”
“What’s the name of it?”
Claude’s stage-whispering again. “What’s the name of the business? Never say it.” I nod.
“Oh God, I don’t know.” The caller huffs. “It’s that place! You know. The big, brick building?”
Yes, that clears it up. Thanks.
“Is it art supply place?” I prompt. “An art gallery?”
“I don’t know,” the woman caller says again. “They have frames!”
Claude’s whispering again. “It’s probably Meininger’s.”
Another place I’ve never heard of. “Could it be Meininger’s?” I ask as I type, mangling the spelling royally.
“Maybe …” the woman says hesitantly. She seems to know as much about this place as I do.
Claude clues me in on something – if you don’t know how to spell it, add a question mark. Great tip. Except it brings me back four screens full of white pages listings, all businesses, all beginning with the letter M, and all on Broadway. Broadway’s the north/south dividing line in Denver. It’s a lonnng street.
Claude keeps having to remind me to say “thank you, one moment please” every 10 seconds while I'm searching. Dead air is a big no-no. I nod. This is really my day for nodding.
“Is it next to the furniture store?” the woman asks. “If it’s next to the furniture store -- you know the one I mean -- then that’s the place.”
I know just as much about furniture stores on Broadway as I do 'art places'. But I can’t say that.
Instead, I politely read from the text on the screen, “Meininger’s is located at 499 Broadway. Is that the location you're thinking?”
“Oh, I suppose." She's exasperated now. " Just give it to me.”
"The number you requested -"
"Just CONNECT me!" she interrupts.
"Yes ma'am. Thank you and have a nice day."
I connect her and the day moves on.
But, I think this is a long enough posting for now. If anybody has any interest in hearing more tales from an outsourced call center, leave a comment and let me know. Okay?
It’s early Saturday morning in mid February, cold enough for a sweater, but not a winter coat. Typical Colorado weather. For the front range anyway, which refers to the string of populous cities from Pueblo north to the Wyoming border. It’s also my first day as a directory assistance operator for cell phone users. Five days ago, I was absolutely sure I could do this job. No sweat. Having emerged from what the company euphemistically calls ‘a week of training’, the only thing I’m sure about is that I should go home now.
I'm lurking on the outer perimeter of the call center, which is a sea of light-grey-on-medium-grey, very utilitarian, broken here and there by what looks like bobbing, disembodied heads. A low mumble of twenty voices punctuate the clickety-clack of two hundred fingers typing on old, sticky keyboards. I'm sure you’ve seen those headset wearing operators on tv, the ones who are ‘always standing by?’ That’s a very pretty picture alright, but call centers don’t look anywhere that nice. Or clean. They’re generally on the low-rent side of town.
On the far wall I notice two large digital boards. One has three columns of green numbers. I have no idea what the numbers mean. The other shows six different time zones. Why do I need to know what time it is in Hawaii? We’re only answering calls from six states; Colorado, Utah, Wyoming, Montana, New Mexico and Arizona. Aren’t we?
Glancing around, I don’t see anyone who’d recognize me. Whew, good. I can just walk out and nobody’ll be the wiser. I begin to back up.
Suddenly, an older female with short blonde-grey hair pops up from a cubicle. She’s clutching a sheaf of papers in her hand, looking at me and smiling. I’m not sure which I notice first, her decaying teeth, or her acrylic nails, which are 3" long and a eye-popping shade of neon pink.
“Hi,” she grins as she approaches me. “I’m Claude, one of the supervisors. Is this your first day?”
I smile nervously. Should I say yes? Can I weasel and tell her I’m just here delivering donuts? I hesitate, but I’m not a good liar. Finally, I just nod.
“Great! What’s your name?” I tell her. She looks down the sheet and jots a note. Now that she’s next to me, I expect her breath to smell like her teeth look. They don't, thank goodness.
“Well, looks like you’re it, buckeroo. Nobody else has shown up. Let’s get you a headset.” She strides over to a metal cabinet, opens a drawer, pulls out a black bag and unzips it. “Here you go.” I stand there frozen. I begin my but-but-but protest. Claude just clucks like a mother hen.
“Nonsense. You’ve done customer service before?” I nod and she snorts. “Training-shmaining. You don’t need a week of training to do this crap. It’s easy.”
She shows me how to turn the computer on. I adjust the headset.
“This,” she intones, wrapping those clawlike nails around a little black box, “is how you control the volume and the mute button. See how they work?” She dials the volume switch up and down, and then presses a small button and grins. “You'll find that this Mute button is Your Friend.”
“Now, remember you recorded greetings in training? One for each of the major carriers?” I nod dumbly. It’s all I can manage. “Well,” she continues, “as each call comes in, the right one will play and say hello to the customer for you. We call ‘em ‘VRUs’. Stands for Voice Recording Unit - don’t ask me why." She shrugs. "So. You ready?”
Gawd, no. But, I take a deep breath, dial my operator number into the phone’s keypad. And here it comes. My first call.
“Welcome to Verizon Wireless 411. May I help you?” It’s the greeting I recorded three days ago. It sounds so chipper.
“Yeah!” a deep voice booms. I jump in surprise. Claude barks out a not-so-quiet laugh as she turns the volume down. “I need Majj-O’s!”
“Majj-O’s?” I repeat bewilderedly.
“Yeah!” The man bellows back goodnaturedly. “Majj-O’s!”
Claude hits the mute button. “One word replies won’t work, Remember, talk in complete sentences.” She adds, “Ask him if he means MajhiANo’s.” I nod, still bewildered. What’s a MajhiANos?
“Do you mean MajhiANo’s, sir?”
“Yeah!” he concurs. This man, apparently, likes talking in exclamation points.
I look at the computer screen. It has five boxes to type in:
Name
Address
City
State
Zip Code
Category
Hmmm. I know I need more information. “What city please?”
“Denver!” Which is something I will find that they always say. To callers, no major city has suburbs.
I look at Claude. She nods at the phone. “Thank you, one moment please.”
“Thank you, one moment please,” I say to the man.
“Yeah!”
I shrug at Claude, and she begins whisper-spelling. “M-a-g-g-i-a-n-o-s. It’s a restaurant. Italian. Just opened up.” I’ve never heard of it. Shows you how often I eat out in my own town. I type Maggianos into the Name box, and the local area code (303) into the city field, since I'm not sure which location he'll want. I hit enter, and whaddya know. There's only one.
The script on the screen dictates what I have to say next. “The number you requested is 303-123-4567. Thank you and have a nice day.”
“Yeah! Thanks!” Mr. Exclamation Point pauses. “Are you connecting me?”
“Yes, sir, I am.” And I am, but the script doesn’t tell me to tell him that. Just another one of those call center don’t-ask-me-why things. I connect him.
“Oops.” says Claude, just as I release the call. “You were supposed to say ‘thank you and have a nice day.”
“I did.”
“I know but you have to say it again, at the end of every call.”
“Even if I said it already?” She nods. “Claude, that’ll make me sound like an idiot.”
She shrugs. “Yep. I know. But them’s the rules, buckeroo.”
Call #2
“This is Sprint directory assistance, how may I help you today?” Another one of my chipper greetings.
This one’s easy. They want Home Depot in Lakewood. Hell, I could drive you right over there.
Call #3
"This is AT&T Information. May I help you?" I'll soon discover the good thing about these prerecorded sound bites is that it gives you a chance to take a drink in between calls.
The line is full of pops, clicks and static. “Hi.” says a breathless woman, “Yeah, I need that art place on Broadway.”
“What’s the name of it?”
Claude’s stage-whispering again. “What’s the name of the business? Never say it.” I nod.
“Oh God, I don’t know.” The caller huffs. “It’s that place! You know. The big, brick building?”
Yes, that clears it up. Thanks.
“Is it art supply place?” I prompt. “An art gallery?”
“I don’t know,” the woman caller says again. “They have frames!”
Claude’s whispering again. “It’s probably Meininger’s.”
Another place I’ve never heard of. “Could it be Meininger’s?” I ask as I type, mangling the spelling royally.
“Maybe …” the woman says hesitantly. She seems to know as much about this place as I do.
Claude clues me in on something – if you don’t know how to spell it, add a question mark. Great tip. Except it brings me back four screens full of white pages listings, all businesses, all beginning with the letter M, and all on Broadway. Broadway’s the north/south dividing line in Denver. It’s a lonnng street.
Claude keeps having to remind me to say “thank you, one moment please” every 10 seconds while I'm searching. Dead air is a big no-no. I nod. This is really my day for nodding.
“Is it next to the furniture store?” the woman asks. “If it’s next to the furniture store -- you know the one I mean -- then that’s the place.”
I know just as much about furniture stores on Broadway as I do 'art places'. But I can’t say that.
Instead, I politely read from the text on the screen, “Meininger’s is located at 499 Broadway. Is that the location you're thinking?”
“Oh, I suppose." She's exasperated now. " Just give it to me.”
"The number you requested -"
"Just CONNECT me!" she interrupts.
"Yes ma'am. Thank you and have a nice day."
I connect her and the day moves on.
But, I think this is a long enough posting for now. If anybody has any interest in hearing more tales from an outsourced call center, leave a comment and let me know. Okay?
Wednesday, August 9, 2006
Water Pitcher People
I think we can all agree what customer service is supposed to be. Or, at least, what it used to be. But, let's ask the question, does it still mean what it did 20 years ago? Hardly. As a veteran with two decades in the field, I can tell you that the idea behind Customer Service has gotten lost. In this madcap 21st Century corporate world, where suits and skirts drink tall pitchers of water from the comfort of padded chairs around gleaming cherrywood tables, making decisions about jobs they've never held, the goal has become the silent exclamation of excel spreadsheets everywhere: The Bottom Line is Top Priority.
It reminds me of the movie Big, with Tom Hanks. As a 12 year old kid named Josh, trapped in an adult's body, he listens to grownups who think they know exactly what a kid wants in a toy. He's honestly puzzled. "What's a marketing report?" Their water pitcher reasoning makes no sense to him, so he raises his hand and tentatively says, "I don't get it."
I'm with Josh. I don't get it either.
Customer Service used to be handled at the local level, even in big companies. Managers came up from the ranks, having done a variety of jobs in the company, including yours. Armed with front line experience, they knew how it was to answer those phones and write those letters. It was like having an ally and a manager all rolled into one -- a nice balance.
But now the tides have turned. Corporate America's gotten the notion that people in remote conference rooms know what's best for us. The ironic part is that I have friends with those fancy business degrees, and don't get me wrong, they're good people. But all they've got is theoretical training and A Nice Piece of Paper. They have no actual experience. How could they possibly know what my job entails? And even more important than that, most of these folks tell me they could not and would not want my job. They'd rather whip up agendas, conjure magnificent spreedsheets and peruse marketing reports in between sips from their water glass. Okay, great. Somebody's got to do it and better them than me. But now, these clueless people, who've never done my job, who'd never aspire to it, are in charge of telling me how best to do my job. How strange is that? Why does Corporate America think this is such a sensible idea? It's like me opening a car repair shop and telling my mechanics with 20 years' experience, how to rebuild an engine. I may be a great manager type, but I know shit about what's under the hood. How successful do you think my little auto shop will be? Think about it. Would you bring your car to me?
I used to love being in customer service. The satisfaction of having helped people all day long is a wonderful feeling. But, oh Lord, how things have changed. For one thing, most customer service jobs are now in noisy, headache inducing call centers. Secondly, I can't help you like I want. I can only give you the pat answers you don't want to hear. And, I have to do it in record time to get you off the phone; 'cause it's all "hurry hurry! other callers are waiting!" Everything's about numbers; our average call time (ACT), number of calls answered (NOC), callers in the queue (CIQ), how much we help you (QIC). Acronyms R Us.
I feel like a soccer player frantically trying to kick your call into the net so I can yell Score! and move on to the next victim. Er, caller.
Customer service used to be considered the lifeblood of your business, your most important asset. It made or broke your business, because it gave you loyal customers, happy customers, word of mouth advertising. Now it's just considered a financial drain. Did you also know CS reps are considered to be one of the top ten most stressful jobs in the country? Yep. We come in at #4, #7 or #8, depending on who's doing the listing.
On the flip side of the coin we have the customers. Now, most of you are fine, and there are even a few we'd happily reach through the phone and hug, but you know the old adage: one bad apple in every bunch. Dealing with the public has always been an art form, but it's really become a test of patience lately, because of the instant-gratification / you-do-the-thinking-for-me mentality that's so rampant in America today.
You will never truly appreciate how stupid modern humans are until you've worked in a call center for a week. Really. We get asked the weirdest questions. We get asked out on dates, propositioned, threatened, screamed at and often treated like we're the psychic hotline. If you know anybody who works in a call center, and you're looking for a night of comedy without the high admission prices, invite 'em over for a drink. Even better, invite two or three.
Problem is, the combination of all these factors burn people out in a big hurry. The average length of employment in CS call centers is 6-12 months. Is it any wonder you get crap service and a different answer each time you call? By the time they know how to do their job and answer your questions, they're on their way out the door.
Call centers are also not very inspiring work environments. Picture a really large room, maybe an entire floor of an office building, filled with grey cubicles as far as the eye can see, manned by workers hunched over keyboards, tense and stressing over the seconds ticking away while you talk, who don't have time to breathe, stretch or chat with each other for 15 seconds between calls (and if they try, believe me, they get into trouble), who put you on mute so they can hurry and slurp a drink or eat the rest of their cold lunch. The noise level in the center ranges anywhere from a low drone to a rock concert din, depending on what day and time it is. Mondays are nuts. Lunch hour is crazy, and 5 o'clock quittin' time is downright fruity.
When I first went to work for a call center back in '01, I didn't know what one was. All I knew is the job required me to be a directory assistance operator. Great. I can do that. Training was a little sketchy (for some reason, that's the norm in the industry). Everybody else in training had previous call center experience, I was the only outsider to the biz. Our trainer was tired of training by the time he got to our class. So, he had us read from the manual for 5 days. We also told jokes, and took lots of breaks. By the end, only one person out of the fifteen trainees actually showed up for work the first day. Yep, that would be me. But with such iffy training, I was clueless. And terrified. I had NO idea what I was doing.
With lots of hand holding from really really great supervisors, I finally got on the phone, hands shaking, heart in my throat and BS'd my way thru the day. By the end of two weeks, I was an old pro.
Next up: humor. Meaning, a close-up of my first day. And some actual calls.
It reminds me of the movie Big, with Tom Hanks. As a 12 year old kid named Josh, trapped in an adult's body, he listens to grownups who think they know exactly what a kid wants in a toy. He's honestly puzzled. "What's a marketing report?" Their water pitcher reasoning makes no sense to him, so he raises his hand and tentatively says, "I don't get it."
I'm with Josh. I don't get it either.
Customer Service used to be handled at the local level, even in big companies. Managers came up from the ranks, having done a variety of jobs in the company, including yours. Armed with front line experience, they knew how it was to answer those phones and write those letters. It was like having an ally and a manager all rolled into one -- a nice balance.
But now the tides have turned. Corporate America's gotten the notion that people in remote conference rooms know what's best for us. The ironic part is that I have friends with those fancy business degrees, and don't get me wrong, they're good people. But all they've got is theoretical training and A Nice Piece of Paper. They have no actual experience. How could they possibly know what my job entails? And even more important than that, most of these folks tell me they could not and would not want my job. They'd rather whip up agendas, conjure magnificent spreedsheets and peruse marketing reports in between sips from their water glass. Okay, great. Somebody's got to do it and better them than me. But now, these clueless people, who've never done my job, who'd never aspire to it, are in charge of telling me how best to do my job. How strange is that? Why does Corporate America think this is such a sensible idea? It's like me opening a car repair shop and telling my mechanics with 20 years' experience, how to rebuild an engine. I may be a great manager type, but I know shit about what's under the hood. How successful do you think my little auto shop will be? Think about it. Would you bring your car to me?
I used to love being in customer service. The satisfaction of having helped people all day long is a wonderful feeling. But, oh Lord, how things have changed. For one thing, most customer service jobs are now in noisy, headache inducing call centers. Secondly, I can't help you like I want. I can only give you the pat answers you don't want to hear. And, I have to do it in record time to get you off the phone; 'cause it's all "hurry hurry! other callers are waiting!" Everything's about numbers; our average call time (ACT), number of calls answered (NOC), callers in the queue (CIQ), how much we help you (QIC). Acronyms R Us.
I feel like a soccer player frantically trying to kick your call into the net so I can yell Score! and move on to the next victim. Er, caller.
Customer service used to be considered the lifeblood of your business, your most important asset. It made or broke your business, because it gave you loyal customers, happy customers, word of mouth advertising. Now it's just considered a financial drain. Did you also know CS reps are considered to be one of the top ten most stressful jobs in the country? Yep. We come in at #4, #7 or #8, depending on who's doing the listing.
On the flip side of the coin we have the customers. Now, most of you are fine, and there are even a few we'd happily reach through the phone and hug, but you know the old adage: one bad apple in every bunch. Dealing with the public has always been an art form, but it's really become a test of patience lately, because of the instant-gratification / you-do-the-thinking-for-me mentality that's so rampant in America today.
You will never truly appreciate how stupid modern humans are until you've worked in a call center for a week. Really. We get asked the weirdest questions. We get asked out on dates, propositioned, threatened, screamed at and often treated like we're the psychic hotline. If you know anybody who works in a call center, and you're looking for a night of comedy without the high admission prices, invite 'em over for a drink. Even better, invite two or three.
Problem is, the combination of all these factors burn people out in a big hurry. The average length of employment in CS call centers is 6-12 months. Is it any wonder you get crap service and a different answer each time you call? By the time they know how to do their job and answer your questions, they're on their way out the door.
Call centers are also not very inspiring work environments. Picture a really large room, maybe an entire floor of an office building, filled with grey cubicles as far as the eye can see, manned by workers hunched over keyboards, tense and stressing over the seconds ticking away while you talk, who don't have time to breathe, stretch or chat with each other for 15 seconds between calls (and if they try, believe me, they get into trouble), who put you on mute so they can hurry and slurp a drink or eat the rest of their cold lunch. The noise level in the center ranges anywhere from a low drone to a rock concert din, depending on what day and time it is. Mondays are nuts. Lunch hour is crazy, and 5 o'clock quittin' time is downright fruity.
When I first went to work for a call center back in '01, I didn't know what one was. All I knew is the job required me to be a directory assistance operator. Great. I can do that. Training was a little sketchy (for some reason, that's the norm in the industry). Everybody else in training had previous call center experience, I was the only outsider to the biz. Our trainer was tired of training by the time he got to our class. So, he had us read from the manual for 5 days. We also told jokes, and took lots of breaks. By the end, only one person out of the fifteen trainees actually showed up for work the first day. Yep, that would be me. But with such iffy training, I was clueless. And terrified. I had NO idea what I was doing.
With lots of hand holding from really really great supervisors, I finally got on the phone, hands shaking, heart in my throat and BS'd my way thru the day. By the end of two weeks, I was an old pro.
Next up: humor. Meaning, a close-up of my first day. And some actual calls.
Tuesday, August 8, 2006
Being a Drone for the Government (and other places)
I quit my job last week.
And no, I don't have a new one. I'm not even looking yet.
In this economy, you're probably thinking well, that was a nuts thing to do. Maybe. But, staying would be even nuttier. My sanity was sorely slipping. When I described to friends and family what this place was like, they'd say, OMG, why are you staying at all?
Money, I would tell them. I was getting top dollar for my customer service skills.
I've had 3 jobs since 2001, all of them drone-like and completely uncreative. Nothing fulfilling about any of them. The first was at a call center. If you like being a robot, this is the job for you. You get to say the exact same thing, over and over and over, for 700-900 calls per day. And, tsk tsk, no varying the script! They listen, they write you up, they fire people for daring to add a single word. Like "and."
The second was for the state government, namely the drivers' license office. When they interviewed me, they said, "We know we have an uncaring image. We want to change that -- so, we need people like you." There's no fool like an old fool. I believed them. What a fun career this turned out to be! Just look at the perks: Not only do you get paid less than the average office clerk, but you also get laughable benefits. Add in the thrill of paycheck-docking and recorded hearings for making a mistake, and the excitement of getting pulled into court and legally prosecuted 5 years down the road for any work you do today! But wait! There's more! If you're helpful, like me, and you say to some poor soul who's missing one simple thing, and has been waiting 3 long, boring hours, "How far do you live? Tell you what, just run home, get the document, come right back and see me." Yessiree Bob, I got talked to, my wrist slapped, and finally written up for doing such things. Nooo being helpful on the job.
(sigh)
The third and final job was at a call center answering phones for a federal government entity. Argh! Double trouble! WHAT was I thinking? (money, yes I know. [banging head against wall] repeat after me: not worth it, not worth it, not WORTH it!) Now, ladies and gents, I get to be a Telephone Drone working for Drone Central -- complete with outdated software, cheap equipment and screaming customers. GAH. Calgon, take me away!
I can't tell you what fed agency I answered calls for (sensitive security clearance and non-disclosure agreement and all that jazz), and that's a shame. I could really tell you some stories. Or wait ... maybe I will. In disguised form. My next blog is going to be about "being on the other end of customer service" anyway. You would not believe what it's like being on this end of the phone.
I used to write for a living, did I tell you? Yes, a published freelancer, that's me. And that's what I want to do again. Words are my passion. Writing is my life. I've been out of it for oh, 6 years. Thanks to those who read my current drivel, as sad as it may be at the moment. It'll get better. You're letting me practice scraping the rust off and I appreciate that.
So. Three cheers I say, to all the bloggers/writers out there! Three cheers to the undying, creative human spirit! Don't give up!
And no, I don't have a new one. I'm not even looking yet.
In this economy, you're probably thinking well, that was a nuts thing to do. Maybe. But, staying would be even nuttier. My sanity was sorely slipping. When I described to friends and family what this place was like, they'd say, OMG, why are you staying at all?
Money, I would tell them. I was getting top dollar for my customer service skills.
I've had 3 jobs since 2001, all of them drone-like and completely uncreative. Nothing fulfilling about any of them. The first was at a call center. If you like being a robot, this is the job for you. You get to say the exact same thing, over and over and over, for 700-900 calls per day. And, tsk tsk, no varying the script! They listen, they write you up, they fire people for daring to add a single word. Like "and."
The second was for the state government, namely the drivers' license office. When they interviewed me, they said, "We know we have an uncaring image. We want to change that -- so, we need people like you." There's no fool like an old fool. I believed them. What a fun career this turned out to be! Just look at the perks: Not only do you get paid less than the average office clerk, but you also get laughable benefits. Add in the thrill of paycheck-docking and recorded hearings for making a mistake, and the excitement of getting pulled into court and legally prosecuted 5 years down the road for any work you do today! But wait! There's more! If you're helpful, like me, and you say to some poor soul who's missing one simple thing, and has been waiting 3 long, boring hours, "How far do you live? Tell you what, just run home, get the document, come right back and see me." Yessiree Bob, I got talked to, my wrist slapped, and finally written up for doing such things. Nooo being helpful on the job.
(sigh)
The third and final job was at a call center answering phones for a federal government entity. Argh! Double trouble! WHAT was I thinking? (money, yes I know. [banging head against wall] repeat after me: not worth it, not worth it, not WORTH it!) Now, ladies and gents, I get to be a Telephone Drone working for Drone Central -- complete with outdated software, cheap equipment and screaming customers. GAH. Calgon, take me away!
I can't tell you what fed agency I answered calls for (sensitive security clearance and non-disclosure agreement and all that jazz), and that's a shame. I could really tell you some stories. Or wait ... maybe I will. In disguised form. My next blog is going to be about "being on the other end of customer service" anyway. You would not believe what it's like being on this end of the phone.
I used to write for a living, did I tell you? Yes, a published freelancer, that's me. And that's what I want to do again. Words are my passion. Writing is my life. I've been out of it for oh, 6 years. Thanks to those who read my current drivel, as sad as it may be at the moment. It'll get better. You're letting me practice scraping the rust off and I appreciate that.
So. Three cheers I say, to all the bloggers/writers out there! Three cheers to the undying, creative human spirit! Don't give up!
Midlife Turnaround
Well, here I am, back from the depths of .... somewhere. I don't want to use any negative terms here (I've been falling into that too easily, as Chillymama can attest. Why does the woman put up with me?) - so we'll just call it a chasm. I'm not all the way out yet, still climbing up the sides, but dammit, I've got a toehold now. Which is ten toes more than I had before.
A couple of thanks, besides to Chilly and my other buds (you know who you are), go out to two special inspirations: the article "What I Love About Menopause" by Marcelle Pick OB/GYN on the nicely unusual, homey-feeling Women to Women web site, and to Sue Shellenbarger, author of "The Breaking Point: How Midlife Crisis is Transforming Today's Women." I read the book last night, and it was good. Not a fantabulous book, mind you, but good. About 30-40% of it is that "research has shown that 16% of women blah-blah-blah and 22% of men blah-blah-blah" mind-numbing statistical stuff I can only take in limited quanties. The remaining 60% concentrated on stories of midlife craziness, told by fifty different women who have lived to tell.
And that's the part that enlightened me. The living to tell part. 'Cause for a long while there, I wasn't at all sure anyone ever made it out of this stage alive.
A couple of weeks ago, in mid-July, I did a crazy, wonderful midlife thing. I hopped on a plane (a very tiny one -- my! jets have been downsized since the last time I flew -- 1979?) and headed home to the midwest for a visit. Now I know many of you are asking, the midwest? Why? The reason I know, is that many of my own friends were asking the same. Well, the short answer is, Colorado has become the new California. Sad but true. And yours truly is from the midwest. Wisconsin, specifically. I miss the friendly people, I miss the water, I miss the more laid-back life. I'm not a city girl. Never have been.
Anyway, I loved it! Humidity and all. It was so green, it almost hurt my eyes. The people were friendly. Most everyone smiled at me. Geez, whatta change!
And if I wasn't afraid I'd freeze my tushie off so far north, La Crosse, WI would be my bullseye of choice. Right now, I'm being a little more cautious and looking at the more southern locale of Rockford, IL. Any midwesterners out there that would like to comment? Clue me in? (Set me straight? a few of my friends silently mutter. The girl's lost her mind.)
Perhaps. :-)
A couple of thanks, besides to Chilly and my other buds (you know who you are), go out to two special inspirations: the article "What I Love About Menopause" by Marcelle Pick OB/GYN on the nicely unusual, homey-feeling Women to Women web site, and to Sue Shellenbarger, author of "The Breaking Point: How Midlife Crisis is Transforming Today's Women." I read the book last night, and it was good. Not a fantabulous book, mind you, but good. About 30-40% of it is that "research has shown that 16% of women blah-blah-blah and 22% of men blah-blah-blah" mind-numbing statistical stuff I can only take in limited quanties. The remaining 60% concentrated on stories of midlife craziness, told by fifty different women who have lived to tell.
And that's the part that enlightened me. The living to tell part. 'Cause for a long while there, I wasn't at all sure anyone ever made it out of this stage alive.
A couple of weeks ago, in mid-July, I did a crazy, wonderful midlife thing. I hopped on a plane (a very tiny one -- my! jets have been downsized since the last time I flew -- 1979?) and headed home to the midwest for a visit. Now I know many of you are asking, the midwest? Why? The reason I know, is that many of my own friends were asking the same. Well, the short answer is, Colorado has become the new California. Sad but true. And yours truly is from the midwest. Wisconsin, specifically. I miss the friendly people, I miss the water, I miss the more laid-back life. I'm not a city girl. Never have been.
Anyway, I loved it! Humidity and all. It was so green, it almost hurt my eyes. The people were friendly. Most everyone smiled at me. Geez, whatta change!
And if I wasn't afraid I'd freeze my tushie off so far north, La Crosse, WI would be my bullseye of choice. Right now, I'm being a little more cautious and looking at the more southern locale of Rockford, IL. Any midwesterners out there that would like to comment? Clue me in? (Set me straight? a few of my friends silently mutter. The girl's lost her mind.)
Perhaps. :-)
Saturday, June 3, 2006
Insomnia Cafe
The menopause symptoms are getting better. Well, amend that: first they got a whole lot worse, and then they got better. First, I went to see my family doctor and got worked up the wazoo for seemingly everything. I waited and waited, and finally heard back. "Your cholesterol's a little high, the doctor wants you to take Brand X mutivitamin, Brand Y calcium, and suggests using Brand Z progesterone cream for awhile."
That's it? I'm literally going bananas, and that's all you have to suggest to me?
Yep. That's it.
Argh! Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I bit the bullet and called my homepathic consultant, Jana Shiloh. She's not a doctor, but she studied with one for 8 years to learn all about homeopathics. And she's treated my entire family for various whatnots over the last 13 years, including my son who was diagnosed with cancer at the age of 19. 5 years later, he's still in remission. I trust this woman.
Biggest problem is, homeopathy's expensive. But then again, so is losing my sanity.
Jana and I talked for a long time. Homeopathy's takes a good deal of talking, information gleaning, I guess you could call it, cause it's a holistic (whole-body) diagnosis. 1.5 hours later, she prescribed a remedy. I took it, and wow! holy smoke! within 24 hours -- an almost-normal person!
Two days later, I'm on the phone to her. HELP. I've been hit with horrible (and I do mean horrible), black depression. She asked, did you happen to ingest anything that would counteract the remedy? I think back. Hmmm .... well ... I'd had one small cup o' joe this morning. Yuppers, that'll do it, she says. Take the remedy again, and no more coffee. Ever.
Okay, so I'm semi-normal again (as normal as I'll ever be). The hot flashes have abated, the night sweats have turned into just night warms, my moods have evened out pretty well. But, I've had to give up coffee in the process. :sigh: O well. It was either that, or keep trying to assemble the gun.
The only symptoms that still remain strong are the wavering mental fog and the insomnia. I'm going to talk to Jana again this coming week about both, but in the meantime, let me just throw out a rhetorical question: why does this insomnia happen anyway? I'm old, I need sleep. It's not like I feel refreshed after 5 hours. Gawd no! My brain wants desperately to go back to sleep, but my body won't let it. Or, is it the other way around?
Anyway, there I am, awake at O-Dark-Thirty in the morning. I'm too tired to do anything, it's too early to do it even if I wanted to, it's too early to get ready for work, but way too late to go back to sleep. What a dilemma. I've seen other women talking about it in menopause forums all over the 'net, so it's pretty universal. And, one gal made a comment that really stuck with me, "The problem with waking up so early is that I think too much."
She's got something there. Introspection can be a good thing. But, it's like anything else; more is not necessarily better.
Now, if so many women are going thru this, and it's been going on for thousands of years, why aren't at least a few stores open at 3:00 A.M.? Huh? What about movie theaters? Why is television such a wasteland in the wee hours? Let's not even start with middle of the night radio talk shows. I can't believe some marketing genius hasn't come up with a way to engage our collective sleepy attention. (Okay, I know that's the point of informercials, but c'mon, get serious. One night of watching 'em has exceeded my personal lifetime limit.) After pondering for several days, I think I've come up with a solution. How about I open up a homey, little gathering place for all of us insomniacs?
We'll call it The Insomnia Cafe. Or maybe, the OhWhyNotI'mUpAnyway Inn.
Of course, I'd have to live above it, so I could schlump down the stairs in my jammies and robe at 3:15 a.m. to let you all in. You shuffle on in in your jammies, too. Getting dressed is up to you. (Well, maybe except for in the winter. Heehee.) It'll be like a slumber party in reverse. We'll have coffee, various teas, OJ, healthy and not-so-heathly munchies. We'll sit around and talk. Or maybe, just stare into our cups and listen. How about some music? Not Led Zepplin, I couldn't take LZ in the middle of the night anymore. The Shirelles? Patsy Cline? Johnny Mathis? Bobby Vee? Memorable songs from our youth.
What else? Oh, how about some mindless, little things to do, for those of us who aren't in the mood for talking? Arts and craft projects, perhaps, a la PostSecret?
I keep remembering things I used to do on the internet, in the early 90s, before the internet exploded into such an ad campaign. Remember BBS's (bulletin board systems)? They were fun, and they were local, so you got to know folks in your own area. They had a small variety of games: Trade Wars, Major MUDD, and Trivia. Most every evening, 10-12 folks would gather inside the Trivia game, chatting and laughing while we played the game. The game was multiple choice, and slow enough, that you could fit a fair amount of conversation in between answering.
Hmmm. Another thought just occurred to me. Could something like this be done in cyberspace?
I wonder ....
That's it? I'm literally going bananas, and that's all you have to suggest to me?
Yep. That's it.
Argh! Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I bit the bullet and called my homepathic consultant, Jana Shiloh. She's not a doctor, but she studied with one for 8 years to learn all about homeopathics. And she's treated my entire family for various whatnots over the last 13 years, including my son who was diagnosed with cancer at the age of 19. 5 years later, he's still in remission. I trust this woman.
Biggest problem is, homeopathy's expensive. But then again, so is losing my sanity.
Jana and I talked for a long time. Homeopathy's takes a good deal of talking, information gleaning, I guess you could call it, cause it's a holistic (whole-body) diagnosis. 1.5 hours later, she prescribed a remedy. I took it, and wow! holy smoke! within 24 hours -- an almost-normal person!
Two days later, I'm on the phone to her. HELP. I've been hit with horrible (and I do mean horrible), black depression. She asked, did you happen to ingest anything that would counteract the remedy? I think back. Hmmm .... well ... I'd had one small cup o' joe this morning. Yuppers, that'll do it, she says. Take the remedy again, and no more coffee. Ever.
Okay, so I'm semi-normal again (as normal as I'll ever be). The hot flashes have abated, the night sweats have turned into just night warms, my moods have evened out pretty well. But, I've had to give up coffee in the process. :sigh: O well. It was either that, or keep trying to assemble the gun.
The only symptoms that still remain strong are the wavering mental fog and the insomnia. I'm going to talk to Jana again this coming week about both, but in the meantime, let me just throw out a rhetorical question: why does this insomnia happen anyway? I'm old, I need sleep. It's not like I feel refreshed after 5 hours. Gawd no! My brain wants desperately to go back to sleep, but my body won't let it. Or, is it the other way around?
Anyway, there I am, awake at O-Dark-Thirty in the morning. I'm too tired to do anything, it's too early to do it even if I wanted to, it's too early to get ready for work, but way too late to go back to sleep. What a dilemma. I've seen other women talking about it in menopause forums all over the 'net, so it's pretty universal. And, one gal made a comment that really stuck with me, "The problem with waking up so early is that I think too much."
She's got something there. Introspection can be a good thing. But, it's like anything else; more is not necessarily better.
Now, if so many women are going thru this, and it's been going on for thousands of years, why aren't at least a few stores open at 3:00 A.M.? Huh? What about movie theaters? Why is television such a wasteland in the wee hours? Let's not even start with middle of the night radio talk shows. I can't believe some marketing genius hasn't come up with a way to engage our collective sleepy attention. (Okay, I know that's the point of informercials, but c'mon, get serious. One night of watching 'em has exceeded my personal lifetime limit.) After pondering for several days, I think I've come up with a solution. How about I open up a homey, little gathering place for all of us insomniacs?
We'll call it The Insomnia Cafe. Or maybe, the OhWhyNotI'mUpAnyway Inn.
Of course, I'd have to live above it, so I could schlump down the stairs in my jammies and robe at 3:15 a.m. to let you all in. You shuffle on in in your jammies, too. Getting dressed is up to you. (Well, maybe except for in the winter. Heehee.) It'll be like a slumber party in reverse. We'll have coffee, various teas, OJ, healthy and not-so-heathly munchies. We'll sit around and talk. Or maybe, just stare into our cups and listen. How about some music? Not Led Zepplin, I couldn't take LZ in the middle of the night anymore. The Shirelles? Patsy Cline? Johnny Mathis? Bobby Vee? Memorable songs from our youth.
What else? Oh, how about some mindless, little things to do, for those of us who aren't in the mood for talking? Arts and craft projects, perhaps, a la PostSecret?
I keep remembering things I used to do on the internet, in the early 90s, before the internet exploded into such an ad campaign. Remember BBS's (bulletin board systems)? They were fun, and they were local, so you got to know folks in your own area. They had a small variety of games: Trade Wars, Major MUDD, and Trivia. Most every evening, 10-12 folks would gather inside the Trivia game, chatting and laughing while we played the game. The game was multiple choice, and slow enough, that you could fit a fair amount of conversation in between answering.
Hmmm. Another thought just occurred to me. Could something like this be done in cyberspace?
I wonder ....
Monday, May 29, 2006
Menopause Anyone?
Okay, okay, I’m here. Coming out of my shell. Blogging. Good grief, I'm blogging? I didn’t even know what the term meant until just a couple of months ago. Chillymama had to explain it to me. In detail. Using small words.
I’m a 49ish woman who, for lack of a better (and more succinct) term, basically up and died about 5 years back. Life blew up in my face, and I, as any sane person would, retreated to the bomb shelter. In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t such a sane decision after all. One’s mental bomb shelter is sort of like being institutionalized; you get used to it and forget what daylight looks like.
Part of what brought me out is menopause. Maybe that sounds weird, but when the symptoms hit with hurricane force and I felt like I was on the verge of going completely crazy AND about to die, I found I didn’t want to do either. Surprised the hell out of me. Some primal thing deep inside rose up and fought back. I still don’t know if I’m winning the battle. Maybe.
Isn't Menopause like The Ultimate Cosmic Practical Joke? Lord! And then, I marvel that it was invented by Mother Nature. Really? Are we sure? One woman would do this to another? On purpose?
Don’t get me wrong, I like being a woman. But, being a female has its pain in the ass moments. Way back when, at the ripe ol’ age of 14, I had the winning combination of a flat chest, greasy hair, puberty plague, growing hair in places I didn’t think it was meant to grow, while possessing all the maturity and social graces of an iguana. Then suddenly, Whammo! it’s here! Which meant tender boobs, zits that bloomed and spread like dandelions, and periods that ruined every pair of undies I ever owned. Lost my virginity (ouCH) at 15, to the wrong guy, for all the wrong reasons. Got married years later, conceived and passed two bowling balls, one of which was backwards, the other, upside down and backwards. Hello, stitches. And do you have a really soft pillow I can sit on perhaps? Oh, thank you. 6 weeks to sex, did you say, doctor? (frightened look) Umm, er… Oh wait, lookee -- a severe uterine infection. Nevermind. And :sniff: golly, isn't that an unforgettable aroma.
Ten years pass, and what do you mean that pain I feel is my uterus falling out? How can it just fall out? Isn’t it attached or something? Several months later: Hello doctors’ office? – yes, it’s in my underwear now. Surgery? Why YES, thank you, I’ll be right there. Hi again stitches. Long time no see.
So I haven’t had a period for eons. Thank heavens for small miracles. But then, just when I get to remembering how to be an adult again (health is good, kids are grown, I can pursue a career wholeheartedly), here comes a curveball: Night sweats, hot flashes, 5 hours’ sleep max (leaving me to roam the house like some cranky ghost at 3:00 A.M.), mental fogbanks, and joy of joys, I’m once again sprouting hair in places I never thought possible.
Puberty Backwards, x 10. Ain't life full of surprises.
As to what Chillymama was talking about in her post re: our idea -- I was off on the internet recently, looking for sites for women over 40. I didn’t find much, (well, porno sites), except for 1) a gardening site with a rather static menopause forum thrown in for good measure, 2) a lot of ‘expert psycho-speak’ and 3) sites aimed at boomer women who go to spas and seem to have a plethora of disposable income. What’s out there for the rest of us not-so-rich people? Anybody know of a place? Because, if there’s no comfortable central place/site/store out there, we were wondering if there was enough interest to create one.
???
As for sex. Hmm. I wonder where I left my instruction manual ….
In the meantime, I live vicariously thru Chillymama and her honey's exploits. So Chilly, blog away, darlin’. Tell us, tell us …
I’m a 49ish woman who, for lack of a better (and more succinct) term, basically up and died about 5 years back. Life blew up in my face, and I, as any sane person would, retreated to the bomb shelter. In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t such a sane decision after all. One’s mental bomb shelter is sort of like being institutionalized; you get used to it and forget what daylight looks like.
Part of what brought me out is menopause. Maybe that sounds weird, but when the symptoms hit with hurricane force and I felt like I was on the verge of going completely crazy AND about to die, I found I didn’t want to do either. Surprised the hell out of me. Some primal thing deep inside rose up and fought back. I still don’t know if I’m winning the battle. Maybe.
Isn't Menopause like The Ultimate Cosmic Practical Joke? Lord! And then, I marvel that it was invented by Mother Nature. Really? Are we sure? One woman would do this to another? On purpose?
Don’t get me wrong, I like being a woman. But, being a female has its pain in the ass moments. Way back when, at the ripe ol’ age of 14, I had the winning combination of a flat chest, greasy hair, puberty plague, growing hair in places I didn’t think it was meant to grow, while possessing all the maturity and social graces of an iguana. Then suddenly, Whammo! it’s here! Which meant tender boobs, zits that bloomed and spread like dandelions, and periods that ruined every pair of undies I ever owned. Lost my virginity (ouCH) at 15, to the wrong guy, for all the wrong reasons. Got married years later, conceived and passed two bowling balls, one of which was backwards, the other, upside down and backwards. Hello, stitches. And do you have a really soft pillow I can sit on perhaps? Oh, thank you. 6 weeks to sex, did you say, doctor? (frightened look) Umm, er… Oh wait, lookee -- a severe uterine infection. Nevermind. And :sniff: golly, isn't that an unforgettable aroma.
Ten years pass, and what do you mean that pain I feel is my uterus falling out? How can it just fall out? Isn’t it attached or something? Several months later: Hello doctors’ office? – yes, it’s in my underwear now. Surgery? Why YES, thank you, I’ll be right there. Hi again stitches. Long time no see.
So I haven’t had a period for eons. Thank heavens for small miracles. But then, just when I get to remembering how to be an adult again (health is good, kids are grown, I can pursue a career wholeheartedly), here comes a curveball: Night sweats, hot flashes, 5 hours’ sleep max (leaving me to roam the house like some cranky ghost at 3:00 A.M.), mental fogbanks, and joy of joys, I’m once again sprouting hair in places I never thought possible.
Puberty Backwards, x 10. Ain't life full of surprises.
As to what Chillymama was talking about in her post re: our idea -- I was off on the internet recently, looking for sites for women over 40. I didn’t find much, (well, porno sites), except for 1) a gardening site with a rather static menopause forum thrown in for good measure, 2) a lot of ‘expert psycho-speak’ and 3) sites aimed at boomer women who go to spas and seem to have a plethora of disposable income. What’s out there for the rest of us not-so-rich people? Anybody know of a place? Because, if there’s no comfortable central place/site/store out there, we were wondering if there was enough interest to create one.
???
As for sex. Hmm. I wonder where I left my instruction manual ….
In the meantime, I live vicariously thru Chillymama and her honey's exploits. So Chilly, blog away, darlin’. Tell us, tell us …
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