Analyse This: I Quit

, , , , , , | Working | September 2, 2018

I get hired as an assistant in the photo department for an online clothing retailer, but I show up the first day only to be told by my boss that he believes my skill set would be more useful in a customer care position and to come in the next day with my personal laptop. I’m a little taken-aback by this, but after ensuring he is aware I can’t do a desk job where I’d have to sit in front of a screen all day due to chronic back issues, and being assured that isn’t the nature of the job, I comply — considering the pay for the second position was better — and come in the next day with my personal laptop.

That’s when I’m told my new job title is a Customer Behavior Analyst, and what that entails is, in fact, sitting in front of a screen all day, building massive brand-specific spreadsheets and reports that cover all purchases of that brand in a super complex matter. Of course, I’m expected to do so on my personal laptop, which would require me to download quite a few new programs, as well as a massive amount of data, onto a device that wasn’t meant for such large bulks of data-processing.

When I voice my concerns and bring up my back issues, I’m yet again assured it will be fine, that I can take breaks to stretch my back whenever needed, and that I can work on my own pace, as none of those reports are of an urgent nature and are only really needed once every two months when reordering is to take place.

I’m never officially trained on how to operate their system; I’m only told which fields to include in my spreadsheets and reports. Because of this, I end up having to redo the first spreadsheet three times, and have to do so manually for each order as the system they used was absolutely ancient. To give you an idea of how insane that is, the first brand I am tasked with doing has over fifty products on our site, each available in at least five colors, each color of course has anywhere between five and fifteen sizes, and the brand has at least a thousand orders. Because of the way their system works and the constant changes my boss suddenly decides he wants added or removed, it takes me two days to finish the first report. I tough through it, and thankfully manage to figure out how to do most things on my own as nobody saw it fit to teach me.

On my third day in the position, I am tasked with a brand that had about three times the amount of products and subproducts, and am told the report is needed first thing the next morning, which would be absolutely impossible to achieve. The boss won’t hear any “excuses” when I tell him that, and demands it be in his inbox first thing in the morning. This results in me staying in the office from eight am to eight pm, with no lunch break or back-stretching breaks, and continuing to work at home until about midnight.

I end up quitting after one week, as working in a position I am not qualified for, with a device not meant for the job, paired with absolutely insane deadlines just isn’t worth it. My work days ended up being over sixteen hours long on a good day, which obviously strained my back and caused pain so terrible I could hardly keep down two meals that entire week. The quitting process was an absolute nightmare, and involved getting yelled at by my boss — actually yelled at like a child — for nearly two hours, being told I was incompetent and immature, that I had absolutely no future, and that if I wanted an “easy” job, I could do well as a stripper.

Oh, and did I mention the boss was my step-dad?

Housewives Inc.

, , , , , | Right | September 1, 2018

(I work at a small ecommerce business where each employee has a multitude of job duties. The phone rings, so I interrupt my current task and conversation with a coworker to answer. It is important to note I am female.)

Me: *speaking a little bit too quickly* “[Company]. How may I help you?”

Customer: “What is this?”

Me: *speaking more slowly* “This is [Company]. How may I help you?”

Customer: “Oh! I thought I was calling some housewife or something. Can I speak to [Coworker]?”

Me: *pauses* “Sure, let me transfer you to him.”

Rage Against The Machine: Empire Edition

, , , , | Right | August 31, 2018

(I’m a British addition to Florida and am currently a telephone gatekeeper at a corporate office. As it goes, I happen to have a well-spoken English accent, which is often an surprise for our Florida-based callers. The mainline phone rings and I give our standard greeting:)

Me: “You’re through to [Company]. [My Name] speaking; how can we help?”

(A very professional woman replies:)

Caller: “I need assistance.”

Me: *politely* “Absolutely, we’d be delighted to help; what can we do for you today?”

Caller: *giving the same stern reply* “I need assistance.”

Me: “No worries. How can we help you today?”

Caller: *far more sternly* “I need to speak to a person.”

Me: *slightly confused now* “You’re speaking with [My Name]. How can we help you today?”

Caller: *clearly frustrated and talking slightly to herself, she snaps out* “I need to speak to a person, not a robot.”

Me: “You’re speaking to a real person; I’m not a robot. How can we help you today?”

(Like the sun moving out from behind a cloud, it dawns on her that the polite, British voice she’s hearing is not part of some automated answering service and belongs to a person. She collapses into giggles.)

Caller: “I’m so sorry. I thought you were a telephone robot.”

(I reassured her that the machines hadn’t yet taken over, that I had a pulse, and that we would be delighted to help her, and she then went on the explain the reason for her call.)

Priority Training Wasn’t Given Priority

, , , , , , | Working | August 30, 2018

(I’m an IT helpdesk manager. Over the summer, we have a lot of projects, and as such we are trying to get customers to help themselves rather than relying on us to hold their hands when fixing their problems. I come back from a meeting to one of the first-line guys with a call on hold. He passes it to me as the woman on the other end is causing a bit of a fuss. She’s lost a folder in her email application. It happens all the time. Usually it’s just an accidental drag and drop into another folder. She won’t listen to my instructions to find it.)

Caller: “Send someone round to my desk, now!

(She’s literally a data entry clerk; she has no urgent work. I try again to coach her on how to find the folder herself. She doesn’t want to know.)

Me: “I would advise you to log a ticket on our system with the details, and we’ll get back to you.”

(Ten minutes later, a “Priority One” ticket appears. When you log this, it tells you this is only for full system outages, power cuts, or VIP tickets. The ticket has no extra information, only, “Lost email folder. Send someone to help ASAP.” I then get two emails: one from my boss, and one from his boss. They’ve been notified that a “Priority One” ticket has been raised, and they want to know why. I downgrade it to a “Priority Three,” and attach some basic instructions for the user to follow, advising that if she still can’t find the folder after following the instructions, then we’ll assign someone from second-line support to look at it for her.)


(Now she’s getting it. I closed the ticket, asking her not to log “Priority One” tickets for non-critical matters again. My replies to my boss and his boss were also copied to her boss, who replied to all that he would remind her not to do that again.)

A Bird In The Tree Is Worth Two In The Bush

, , , , , | Friendly | August 28, 2018

(Our office has closed but I have some things to finish. We have a monitor that shows the camera feed to our parking lot. It’s a normal parking lot: a lot of tiles with a few scrawny trees here and there. I suddenly notice on the feed a woman with four kids, digging near one of our trees on the parking lot. I leave my station to go to the caretaker of the building, a retired police officer.)

Me: “Someone is digging at one of our trees.”

Caretaker: “I’m sorry, I think I misheard you. You said something about digging?”

Me: “You heard right! Someone is digging at one of our trees.”

(When we walk together to the tree, the mother and children have already left. I pass a coworker who saw very little, but did notice one of the children was crying. The caretaker carefully shuffles in the sand of the tree with his shoe, but sees nothing.)

Me: “Wait, what is that?!”

Caretaker: “Oh, just a feather.”

Me: “No, over there. You just covered it with dirt again. It’s… it’s… a parakeet?! They buried their parakeet here?!”

(I know this block doesn’t have much green, but to bury your passed-away parakeet at the parking lot of an office is beyond my comprehension. We buried the parakeet again, by the way. The tree and the bird will be best buddies.)

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