Guess what? I got a job. And I’m here. Now.
I join the great tradition established by blogger big’uns like master Tony Pierce—of taking time when you might otherwise be working and instead writing b.s. you copy onto the internet. Cept I’m not working for a super-secret intelligence organization protecting the innocent, but answering phones.
I’m Robert again. It’s not as bad as I thought it’d be. People get your name right the first time.
It’s a pretty laid-back job, relatively speaking. No spouts of molten shrimp or light-sensitive chemicals you can spill that remove your skin. I sit in a chair and direct calls, very appropriately. As an associate of a 5-star, 5-diamond resort I cannot say “hi.” I say “hello.” It’s a good gig but I have to memorize a lot of things. For instance, the extension for the Gary Player golf bag room is different than the extension for the Pete Dye bag room. Also, there happen to be about 3000 such individual extensions.
But hey, paid training boy-o. $8.50/hour isn’t anything I’ll scoff at.
Wish me luck, intarweb malcontents.