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In which the Lunatic has a headache.

The situation today with the supervisors went like so:

"Stressy College Chick Shift Ops Super isn't in yet."
"Yes, Stressy College Chick Shift Ops Super was supposed to be here today, but Phone Call In Super's going to be doing that today. Because she's graduating."
"No, Phone Call In Super isn't in yet."
"I'm not sure when Phone Call In Super's supposed to get here."
"Phone Call In Super was supposed to be in today, but it doesn't look like he's going to make it in..."

It was a very small shift, supervisor-wise: there were four supervisors, me, and three monitors. There were about five times as many phone calls in as there were supervisors to handle them. One of the ladies from Upstairs (figuratively, as it's a one-floor building) was filling in for the Shift Ops Supers when I was checking people in, and to read the messages of the day, but we were otherwise on our own.

One of the phone calls in was unique. A lady was looking for a focus group. She'd gotten batted about to about five different departments, and it fell unto me to say, "Actually, we don't do your traditional focus group sort of stuff; we tend to do outbound phone call stuff. Alas." It turned out that she had a list of about 80 different market research companies in the area that she was calling; she wanted to supplement her income and get away from the kids for a while. I perkily volunteered that we were, in fact, hiring... This resulted in me giving our our hiring line number (or at least, what I hope was the hiring line) and the address and general area of the company. That was pretty cool.

It's amazing how many calls just come in and get transfered to the Shift Ops Super. Having to field those calls myself is not exactly the most fun thing in the world. No, kiddo, it's too late for you to change your schedule for tomorrow; you should have done that while the office was open three hours ago. No, I don't know jack about dayshift next week. And I don't have access to. And I don't have access to know if you actually did sign up for a shift on Monday or not. And as much as I'd dearly like to, I cannot make the goddamn feminine pad dispenser in the ladies' room function properly, but since you're an actual personal friend, I can give you another quarter.

I need to remember that I did, in fact, specify near unto this exact position as my Dream Job when I was growing up, and several times after doing so. And I should not bitch about it when there are a few small bad dreams in what is overall a cushy position that gives everyone else chronic headaches.

Last three out tonight were Cute Geek Super (he and Original Name Super were co-leading the shift), me, and Figment. Figment was monitoring today, and since he hasn't monitored in a while, Wacky Hijinks ensued with the timesheets and my blood sugar. I'm hoping the nonverbal cue of paired fingers touching his hand repeatedly was enough to counteract the tone of my voice. I had to re-estimate my time out by adding another half-hour to account for the time he spent getting signed out where I couldn't do anything. After he left, I had to tell Cute Geek Super that I give the guy a hard time because we're actually friends, and if anyone else messed with him, I'd probably have to mess with them. Because, you know, while it doesn't do to start rumors about two people being far closer than your average pair of friends, it also doesn't do to start rumors in the supervisory staff that two of the Phone Goons Pulled to Assist don't get along. And I'll have to wait to tell Figment I'm sorry about getting snappy with him until tomorrow, because right now we need to sleep more than we need to say we're sorry.

But, yes, life is good.
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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