Confessions of a Call Center Gal - By Lisa Lim Page 0,56
digress. Truth of the matter is, I am just peeved that I have to work on a holiday. On the bright side, my best buddies are also working alongside me on this abomination.
“Psssssssssst. What you got there, Ingeborg?” I catch a whiff of alcohol as she sashays by holding a Hello Kitty water bottle.
“Sssshhhhhhhh, don’t tell anyone. It iz vodka, not vater,” she whispers conspiratorially.
Kars and I raise our Snapple bottles in silent salute, the very ones we filled with some cheap red wine called Fat Bastard.
We bought it at the liquor store for only twelve bucks a pop; and it is seriously the best wine you can purchase at that price.
“Cheers! We’ve got some wine ourselves.” Kars clinks her Snapple bottle with mine and we slosh back our wine.
“Salud,” says Ingeborg and knocks back her vodka. “It iz nice you zitting by us today Karzynn.”
Karsynn so happens to be sitting in the cubicle next to me; Truong has a ton of seniority so that lucky duck has the day off. Nearly all of the cubicles are empty since only a handful of us are working today. The only supervisor in charge is Dawson Darling, and he is a man who lives up to his good name, the antithesis of Hillary the Giant Not Ready Nazi. Suffice it to say, he’s super laid back and we love him to death.
Ingeborg takes another swig. “Tee-hee-hee, isn’t this vild?”
Kars and I chug down our Fat Bastard in acknowledgement.
“Ingeborg, I just love your accent,” I say with utmost sincerity. “I’m going to start talking like you tonight.”
Ingeborg shrugs. “Go ahead, I am horn-nerd.”
Eyeballing Kars, I say in a grave and serious tone, “Kars—vat vud you like to do zoonight?”
“Vat-evahh, Mazziee,” she manages between sputters; and for some odd reason, this strikes us as hilarious. We find ourselves hooting hysterically like a pair or hyenas.
It must be the alcohol. It’s really not that funny, yet we’re still laughing and convulsing so hard, our sides are splitting.
To celebrate Christmas, Karsynn and I shared three bottles of Fat Bastard right before coming into work, so we’re undeniably a little buzzed now. But we didn’t drink and drive. Being the responsible citizens that we are, we took a cab to work as a Christmas present to ourselves.
Mika appears to be the only sober one around. Striding over, he grins at us with frank amusement. “You girls are hammered; I can smell the alcohol from a mile away.”
It doesn’t take long for Mika to notice my choice of attire. And when he does, he stands stock still with a deer-in-the-headlights sort of look. “Nice sweater, Maddy,” he says in an unnatural and stilted voice. Then he turns to Kars and manages an uneven smile. “Um, you too, Kars.”
And the more Mika stares, the more his face contorts. I watch it go through several alarming transformations. Eventually, he turns to me, as if hoping I’d offer some sort of explanation for this colossal calamity.
“It’s Ugly Christmas Sweater Day,” I announce gaily.
And much to my surprise, tracking down an ugly Christmas sweater proved to be a challenging task. Goodwill and Salvation Army were completely sold out! They’ve become such a popular fad that they’re selling on eBay for fifty bucks a pop. And I refuse to pay more than five dollars for an ugly Christmas sweater.
Luckily for us, Karsynn’s grandma Dottie keeps a closet full of ugly Christmas sweaters. Dottie happens to be quintessentially quirky, but I find her absolutely adorable.
Last Sunday, we dropped by Dottie’s condo and found her curled up on the sofa, numbing herself with a bottle of Southern Comfort. And she was snugly swathed in a Snuggie, looking like she was wearing a robe backwards.
The Snuggie is quite possibly the dumbest invention ever, yet at the same time, super ingenious! Hell, I wish I came up with the Snuggie. It’s a commercial hit and I’d be laughing all the way to the bank.
Dottie was simply over the moon to see us. And while I tactfully avoided any reference to her Snuggie, Kars blurted, “Granny, what’s up with that big cape you’re wearing? You look like Darth Vader.”
And without missing a beat, Dottie said in a deep baritone-d James Earl Jones voice, “Luke, I am your father.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Ninety year old Dottie was a Stars Wars buff.
Then Kars burbled, “You look like a member of an evil cult.”
At that, Dottie became visibly affronted. Apparently Dottie was a devout Catholic, and she fully resented the