Treat me like a stranger and it feels so rough

When my first paycheck arrived, the last vestiges of the clouds of despair parted, a ray of sunlight fell upon the quaint paper check* and the sweet voices of faeries sang an ancient ballad of a bank account not overdrawn.

Aside from the paycheck, the ability to be among bipeds who make great conversationalists and a general sense of being a productive human being**, this job puts a major crimp in my life. No time to read blogs, surf the internet, or work on my Used Dental Floss of the Stars collection.

That's not to say I'm not grateful. I'm ever so. Every time I answered the phone yesterday with "Good (morning/afternoon), (name of the organization), this is Lisa." I felt gratitude for being able to do one of the things I do best - greet people then hand them off. And I don't even have to wear a blue vest to do it.

I'm reminded at this moment that you can't just greet newborns or cats and then hand them off.

"Hello, Baby, this is Lisa, how can your daddy help you?" or "Hi, kitty! You're so cute! Now let's find someone to scoop that litter......"

I'm in limbo because I've been filling in for the receptionist since last Monday so my real job hasn't really began. I've spent so little time at my desk that it's week three and I haven't set my own voicemail or spilled anything on my keyboard. A good start in my experience!

Oh, and before I forget - if you want to know what really matters to a company's customers or an organization's members, answer the phones for a week. There's much to learn.

So while I try to gather what little wits I had about me, I hope you know that I'm missing reading those of you who blog. My rss feed reader got so full, it's going to be on an episode of Hoarders. Google is threatening to expose my search history to my mother if I don't clean out my email. 

This doesn't mean I don't care. It only means that while I'm in the probationary period of this job, I don't plan to get pinched surfing the internet during work hours.

Until I'm a little less consumed, I hope you'll accept my apologies and know that as I'm toiling away at the multi-line phone, I remember how much you all kept me company while I was home being kneaded by cats.

Speaking of - the cats had a fur-shedding row the other day over the proper spelling of the word whoa. Some were dead certain it's spelled w-h-o-a and two others insisted on the spelling w-o-a-h. Thankfully, order was restored before the police showed up at the house. When I got home, I tried to get to the origins of the kerfluffle but no one was meowing. Finally, I took my favorite kitty, the one who isn't so bright, aside and got some answers as she licked at the Mariner's Catch pate I used to lure her into conversation.

"Why do you guys need to use the word whoa anyway?" I asked, my voice like cream.

Her eyes shifted, searching out bewhiskered spies. "It was just a conversation," she said between tiny bites.

Unsatisfied, I pressed her. "Ivy, does it have anything to do with the photos of the horses I found on the google history?"

She swallowed audibly then daintily licked her lips. "Horses?"  Her breath smelled of fishy parts.

I know faux ignorance when I see it. "Ivela, spill or I won't let you sleep in Sophie's room."

She blinked. I could tell she was thinking it over. Her Pillow Pet rests at the foot of Sophie's bed and she does not like to sleep without it.

"It's not a horse. It's only a very large dog......"



*Can't wait for the direct deposit to kick in!
**Which is really nonsense because keeping house and raising kids is productivity.