Shoot me.
Today was one of those days where the only way out is to shoot yourself. There was some mass memo sent out to everyone at WF to call in with the most idiotic requests, the dumbest problems, and the largest communication deficits.
Most days, I don't feel like a tech, I feel like a fucking translator. And really, let's not kid ourselves. Let's remember that I'm just not any good at my job, I can barely ping an IP... Christ, I can barely tell someone how to find their IP.
I always want to bitch about work, but it's so hard to explain exactly what's wrong to someone who doesn't work on the phone, doing exactly what I'm doing.
At my job, every phone call I take is subject to recording and monitoring.
At my job, every thing I look at on my computer is subject to recording and monitoring. Yes. They can record my computer screen.
At my job, every single second of my eight and a half hours is accounted for with codes. 22 means I'm on break, 23 means I'm at lunch, 31 means I'm "helping" a co-worker. I'm pushing for a code for emotional break down, but I don't think it's going to fly.
I take calls from every single type of employee at WF. Mortgage, Branch, and Corporate. Passwords, software, hardware, and orders. This means that any fuck face who gets our 800 number calls me.
Highlights from the 82 calls I took today:
"I need a temporary host ID."
"I'm sorry?"
"I talked to [insert someone I don't know] and he said to tell you I need a temporary host ID."
"Okay. Let me get you over to [insert other department that does not help this person either]."
. . .
"When I push *82, it doesn't do anything."
"Are you refering to your telephone?"
"Um... [insert incoherent mumble]."
"I'm sorry?"
"Uh... Maria! How are you?"
"Sir, are you refering to your telephone?"
"Yeah! I said that!"
. . .
"How can I help you today?"
"Hang on a sec, I'm helping a customer. Blah, blah, blah, blah." Click. "Blah BLAH! BLAH! BLAH!!!" Click. "Okay. I need my ID reset."
"Okay. What's your ID?"
"Hang on a sec, I'm helping a customer. Blah, blah, blah, blah. I'm sorry. It's... hang on another second okay? BLAH BLAH BLAH."
Meantime, I'm taking the gavel I have at my desk, and pretending to beat the living shit out of my phone and I've put him on mute so I can call him a mutherfucker.
Actually, I've started to just mouth the words while people talk to me.
. . .
Yes. I helped, or attempted to help, 82 of these fuckers. And now you know why when you call customer service, they're always in a bad fucking mood.
No. I will not fucking help you with your computer, so don't even fucking ask.