What a way to make a living. If you follow my blog you already know that two of my biggest pet peeves are incompetence and things that don’t work. I normally refrain from writing about my co-workers, because well, I’m stuck in a one room office with them all day and most of them are related to me. Since the word co-worker implies that actual work is being done on his part and since this isn’t the case, I figure my pseudo co-worker, Goonan, is now fair game for a blog entry.
First, a brief history. I do sales and customer service for an insurance agency. If you’ve ever wanted a job where people do nothing but yell and swear at you and constantly accuse you of ripping them off, work for an insurance agent. When I worked at the police department, we didn’t have to tolerate people speaking to us in an inappropriate manner. One of the perks of the job, I guess. At the insurance agency, though, we are bound by some civilian rule that you should do whatever you can to please even the most irritating of people. I do my best.
My job, as well as that of Goonan, is to explain this concept to the never ending stream of callers and to try to convince you to adequately cover your assets so that when shit does happen to you, you are covered. This sounds easier than it is.
The primary problem is that people don’t understand what it is they are buying when they purchase insurance. They are purchasing protection in case certain types of shit happen. Now, everyone hopes that these types of shit never happen, but in all likelihood, it will eventually. The premiums you pay get lumped together with everyone else’s premiums so that there is money to pay the claims of the people to whom these certain types of shit are happening. That doesn’t mean you don’t get anything from your insurance premiums if shit doesn’t happen to you. You get to know that if it happens, then you will be taken care of. A word of advice…If no shit ever happens to you, be thankful and move on with your life. Don’t call your insurance agent and whine that you’ve been lucky enough for all these years to have shit never happen to you.
Goonan doesn’t understand these very concepts that he is supposed to be explaining to people. He tells people mistruths, half-truths, and outright lies. I spend my day not only dealing with my shit, but his as well.
Goonan has no social boundaries. He calls me “Libby” which just irritates me to no end. While my political beliefs do tend to lean towards the left, I think one would be amiss in referring to me as any kind of bleeding heart liberal.
Yesterday he gave one of our politically outspoken clients some incorrect information. I told him to call them back and correct it. Goonan YELLED “Libby, I figured you’d take that pro-abortionists side.” What? Am I suddenly working with Rush Limbaugh? It was an insurance question about back up of sewer and drain coverage. There’s only two sides here. The right and wrong answer to a question about a basement littered with stinking sewer water. Unfortunately, these types of Goonan outbursts happen almost every day. Usually I ignore him or throw a piece of licorice at him, but if you follow my blog, you also know that I’ve been incredibly crabby this week.
I loudly told him he was out of line which sent my still-too-protective parents running to my defense from the back room. Red faced and complete with vein protruding from his forehead, my dad told Goonan to close down his station and go home for the day. Goonan actually had the nerve to tell my dad that his right to free speech was being violated, but he would cut us some slack because he knows we are all on edge from my grandfather’s recent surgery. I then exercised my right to free speech and told Goonan he was an asshole.
He refused to leave. If it were up to me, I would have had the police toss him out on his humpty-dumpty ass. I was somehow born with a downright-nasty-if-provoked gene that I did not inherit directly from either of my parents. My dad was screaming, my mom was screeching, Goonan was sitting firm in his chair and I couldn’t stand it. He wasn’t leaving, so I did.
Today I stayed home in order to prevent myself from appearing in handcuffs on the 10:00 news and to try to decide if it’s possible to make a living being a blogging Rock Chick hermit. If anyone has any suggestions, please let me know 
…and red and teary, too! My son (due to something I like to call “The Penis Gene”) is able to take everyday household objects and turn them into dangerous weapons faster than the speed of light. Despite my 11 years of trying to teach him that you can not fly with a cape made of paper towels, that the laws of physics state that if you purposely crash your bike full speed into a curb, you will fly over the handlebars and that chairs only work when you have all four legs on a solid object like a floor, he doesn’t seem to get it. 
