She's the Boss (35 page)

A strong debut novel about real issues with lots of heart and humor. ~Chick Lit Club

The chick lit version of “Office Space” for a new generation. ~Chick Lit Central

Guaranteed to make you laugh-out-loud. Fans of Sophie Kinsella will love it. ~author Sibel Hodge

A chick-lit approach to the call center. This book is a reminder that the call center predates globalization and outsourcing. ~The Wall Street Journal Online

This novel reads like a season of The Office (with Ricky Gervais). I can really see this novel being turned into a sitcom on NBC and I'd be tuning in to every week to watch. ~Chick Litaholic

A hilarious comedy with some snark and punk. ~Kritters Rambling

AN EXCERPT FROM CONFESSIONS OF A CALL CENTER GAL

Beep!

“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed Communications, this is Maddy. How can I help?”

“G’day. Me name is Poida Woite. And I need some help with me password.”

How awesome! An Aussie from Down Under!

I peer at his name on my computer screen: Peter White.

“I can help Mr. White, but first—”

“Poida,” he interjects kindly. “Just call me Poida.”

“Okay, Peter,” I say amiably. “I’ll just need to ask you a couple of questions for verification.” And once that is out of the way, I tackle the task at hand. “Now you mentioned earlier on that you needed help with your password?”

“Aye mate,” he huffs in affirmation, like pirate Captain Jack Sparrow. “I’d like to change it to Inicondi88.”

“Now, Peter, let’s make sure that I’ve got this right. Is the first letter
I
like
igloo
?”

“Norrr,
I
as in
int
,” he corrects.

Int??? What the heck is int????

“Um, you mean
I
as in
India
?” I persist.

“Nyet!
I
as in
ipple
,” he says, agitation creeping into his voice.

Pause.

Now I’m even more confused. What the hell is an ipple?

“De fruit!” His voice rises with frustration. “
Ipple
de fruit!
I
for the first letter of the ilphibet!”

“Ohhhhhh.” I stifle a laugh. “
A
as in
Apple
. Yes. Gotcha! So you want your password to be Anaconda88?” I confirm.

“Ibso-bloody-lutely!” he exclaims with a mixture of relief and exasperation.

My mouth twitches at the corners.

I reckon that they don’t speak English in Down Under; they speak Strine.

Peter chuckles heartily. “Bloody hell, Sheila, I was beginning to think ye were a muppet. Ye dun’t know i dunny from i bottom dollar. More is the pity, the great Ozzie vernacular is fizzing ind only i galoot like ye ne’er tire of diddling me, mekin me seem silly as i two bob watch.”

O-
kay
, I didn’t understand nearly half of what he was saying. Something about a puppet, I gather.

“Puppet?” I ask perplexed. “Did you just call me a puppet?”

“Muppet.” He emits a throaty laugh. “Muppet means
idiot
.”

An idiot? Who is the idiot here?
At least I can pronounce the letter A. I’m sorry but ‘A’ is
not
pronounced ‘I’.

Crikey!
After that call, I have this sudden urge to throw some shrimp on the barbie. Perhaps I’ll even adopt a dingo and name him Mitch. On second thought, I’ll name him Poida.

The next day, I find myself staring impassively at my cubicle wall. Resting my elbows on the desk, I silently brood while waiting for a call. It’s pretty slow today. It’s the day after Valentine’s Day or what I like to call ‘Singles Awareness Day.’ And all these couples are just too darn exhausted to call in after spending the night locked up in their love boudoirs, caught in the throes of passion.

No complaints here.

At least something good comes out of that evil day.

“Truong, your Mikquisha is taken,” I say sullenly.

He adjusts his silk scarf. “My Mikquisha? More like
your
Mikquisha.”

“Nope,” I say despondently, “not anymore.”

His expression softens. “Oh, what’s wrong, Maddy? Tell Mama Truong all about it.”

After a pause, I say, “I saw him with a girl yesterday.”

“Describe her,” he instructs firmly.

“Gorgeous. Long stringy blond hair. A bleach-o-saurus and a tan-o-saurus and—”

He cuts me off, “I know who that bitch is! Orange Slut with Split Ends. Her name is Tatiana Green.”

“Tatiana Green?” I snort briefly. “She’s more orange than green. Her name should be Tatiana Tangerine.”

Truong emits a gleeful chortle.

“But wait!” I cry. “How do you know her?”

Then I realize—how can he not? Truong is privy to everything that goes on in this call center. He isn’t called the ABC or the AP wire for nothing.

Truong studies his cuticles. “Oh, I have my sources,” he says with candor. Then he whips out a purple filer and sands his nails with vigor.

A plume of nail dust settles on my desk.

So
annoying.

Truong also clips his fingernails in the middle of calls, which I find absolutely repulsive. I personally would never floss, pick my nose, use q-tips, pop my blackheads or shave my pits at work. That is why it is called
personal
hygiene.

I’ll be conversing with my callers, and in the background I’ll hear the maddening
Clip Clip Clip
Clip
sounds resonating in my ears, sounding very much like Japanese water torture. And before I know it, fingernail shrapnel will be zinging in all directions.

My work space is fraught with danger!

Seriously, I really don’t think I’m overreacting when Truong’s essentially sending large organic bits of himself my way.

I’m dreading the summer time; that’s when he’ll waltz into work in flip flops and clip his toenails. Ugh! That’s the problem with Truong. He brings in his whole grooming kit and operates Truong’s Nail Salon in his cubicle.

Although Truong’s grooming habits bug the hell out of me, I’m trying my
darndest
to act like a tolerant neighbor. Well, that is until a fingernail scrap lands inside my mouth while I’m in the midst of yawning.

“Truong! Cut it out!” I sputter and spit out his nail. “Please, this is not Truong’s Nail Salon,” I remind him for the umpteenth time.

“All right, I’m done. I’m closing shop.” He stows the clipper and filer away. “By the way, that’s why you’re supposed to yawn with your mouth closed.”

“That’s technically impossible,” I retort.

“Whatever! Just cover your mouth next time,” he chides, like it’s
my
fault that his fingernail landed inside my mouth.

Moments later, Truong roots around in his Marc Jacobs man purse and fishes out a bottle of nail polish. After giving the bottle a good shake, he unscrews the cap and begins to give himself a manicure.

“Thank you for fumigating this place,” I say with a trace of sarcasm.

He ignores my jab. “It’s Chanel Vendetta,” he intones like a vindictive vixen.

I check out his raven black nails. “Nice. Very Adam Lambert.”

My gaze shifts over to his pinky. “Hey, Truong, why is your pinky nail so long?”

“For digging ear wax, nose wax and eye wax,” he says without missing a beat.

I make a disgusted face.

“I’m just kidding! Although I know that’s what you were probably thinking. Am I right?” He looks me squarely in the eye.

I shake my head but it’s transparently obvious I’m lying.

He dips the brush into the bottle. “It’s actually for good luck.”

“I see. But you know what some people will assume it’s for?”

“What?” he asks without looking up.

“Scooping up cocaine for a quick bump.”

This time, Truong looks up. “
Girrrrl
, I am no druggie! That shit does not fly with me. I’ve never done drugs in my life,” he protests huffily. “But you want to know who’s a coke head?”

Feeling a bit restless, I swivel my chair, spinning it round and round in circles. “Who?” I ask dizzily.

“Tatiana,” he deadpans.

I shoot him a speculative look. “How do you know?”

He shoots back one of his infamous
I-know-I’m-the-shit
sort of looks. “Mama Truong knows
everything.
”

“Well, spill the goods then, Mama.”

He holds his hand up eye level and appraises his work. “She and I went to the same high school, and I caught her doing blow plenty of times.”

Intrigued, I lean forward in my chair. “Tell me more.”

“That Tatiana is one skanky hoe. That hoe slept with the entire high school football team
and
cheerleading squad.”

I give him a wide-eyed look of disbelief. “No way!”

“
Way
. Girl she so
did.
That chick is one hot mess.” Truong inclines his head, like he always does when he is about to impart some juicy bits of gossip. “She works in the cafeteria downstairs because she’s got a felony record. They won’t hire her up here.
No, no, no
. That bitch is gang-sta man! She’s done time in the slammer.”

“Time in the clink? For what?” I ask, astonished.

He blows on his fresh manicure. “She stole someone’s identity, and she got busted with a DUI.”

I let out a short gasp.

Truong shakes his head. “I can’t believe
our
Mikquisha would go out with a stupid, skanky slut like that.”

I can’t believe it either. But Truong has sparked my interest. I need to satiate my ardent curiosity and find out more about this Tatiana character. “Truong, when’s your lunch?”

He glances at his Cartier. “Right now.”

“Me, too. Do you want to go down to the cafeteria?”

He smiles a wicked little smile. “Hell yeah, sista! Let’s go check out Tatiana the Tangerine.”

End of this sample. Enjoyed the preview?

See details for this book in the Kindle Store