I'd look Psychotic (in a balaclava)

So week one of working from home is now under my belt.  Five days of steady decline into slovenliness. 

I began the week by waking up at 7:30 with all intentions of developing a professional routine.  I showered.  I brushed my teeth.  I prepared a grown-up breakfast of cheerios and half a grapefruit.  I even put on shoes.  I met the arrangement with anticipation comparable to my first day of first grade.  The only thing missing was the lunch I packed for myself a week early.

I took the time to make sure my network connection was working properly (it wasn't), I verified that I had access to my e-mail (I didn't), and I made sure all of the necessary programs were uploaded onto my computer (they weren't).  I spent the first hour of work on Monday on the phone with tech support.  I spent the second hour of work on a conference call with 70 other representatives, listening to our trainer explain to one very confused individual out of DC how to save a website to her favorites (it was eventually discovered that this particular rep was in her e-mail browser and not a web browser). 

Cut to Friday, I rolled out of bed at 9:15, splashed some water on my face, changed out of the shirt I slept in (after some debate on whether or not it was necessary to do so), and settled in at my desk for another eight hours of training.  No shoes.

Life in the North Shore

"Hi, uh, is Richard... available?  Oh, um, this is Stephanie calling from _____ bank.  I just wanted to... you are? He is? Oh. Okay.  Well have a good-"

Second try, a bit more professional.

"Hello, this is Stephanie calling from ______ Bank, Is-"

Try again.

"Hi, is this Deborah?  Hi Deborah, this is Stephanie calling from the bank.  ...______. ...Bank. Well we used to be ______________.  Yeah, listen, Ijustwantedtofollowupwithyouinregardstothe$100offerwemailedoutlastweek.  Yes ma'am, just one hundred.  Oh, well I can understand that.  Bye."

This has been my life at work over the last week.  Calling customers that I have never met, offering them $100 to transfer their checking accounts to our bank, and accepting tired sighs and other expressions of frustration in return  Cold calling is not my forte.  I have never been a good salesman.  I like people, I am good with people, but I am terrible at selling things to them that they don't need.  I get a "no", I take it as a "no" and move on.

My current branch is located in Illinois' North Shore and it makes East Grand Rapids look more like the corner of Eastern and Franklin.  Offering millionares $100 is like offering a decorative bottle of sand to a Saudi.  A lowly banker from the "backwoods" of Michigan* is insignificant and a minor blemish on their otherwise pristine autumn day.**

The biggest culture shock in relocating to Chicago has not been busy streets, crowds, or the area's attachment to Vietnamese food, it has been interacting with a class of people that have spent their entire lives oblvious to a lower class of people.  These are the people that throw the latest iphone in their 11 year old's hands, and ask if she can have a checking account.  "She never likes what I pick out for her," a mother will tell me, casting a loving smile at the ugg-boot-wearing-versace-toting tween in her shadow. 

*Grand Rapids is not backwoods.  A lot of people I interact with assume if they haven't heard of it, it's backwoods.
**Last week I witnessed the street cleaning crew washing the leaves on the trees.  Never mind homelessness, human trafficking, or the cholera epidemic in Haiti, our trees look dingy.