Questions For You: 08:29:2007

Yes, you.

Mood: Curious
Listening To: Alive – Celine Dion
Notes: I’d actually like answers to the questions I pose tonight, so if you have the cajones, comment or message me on myspace. All the links open in new windows, so enjoy them!

1. Why does everyone on I Can Has Cheezburger stop typing in plain english when they comment on a photo? Is it a requirement to comment in broken english and badly spelled words in order to place your stamp on their site? Seriously, it’s a cute photo, but I looked down the 20,000 comments and every. single. one. of them was written like a differently mentally abled cow wrote it- not a fat lady, an actual cow. Andy at MisanthropyToday wrote about it too, but for vastly different reasons than my own, I’m just here to ask why people lose the ability to spell when they visit the blog.

2. If you’re sore the day after the gym, should you still go? I’m getting conflicting pieces of advice. I’ve heard that yes you should go, because the muscles are damaged anyway, which helps you build them [which is not what I’m trying to do]. I’ve heard that no you should not go, and give yourself 48 hours to recover… or something. I wasn’t really listening closely to that piece of advice because I had a piece of pie in my throat.

I’m joking about the pie.

3. Owen Wilson attempted suicide? Why didn’t anyone tell me about it? I guess most people were too busy worrying about a suspected closet case beating his wife, speculating on her faith, and the amount of money they spent on a wedding to think about someone actually trying to quit life. I don’t know why that makes me so … ugh… but it does. So is he alright? Can anyone shed some light on what happened for me?

4. Why are people so happy that Juanita Bynum was attacked? This, above all (even more than the magic incantation on I Can Has Cheezburger which causes people to lose their grammatical control), shocks and saddens me. I can’t believe how many haters are out there! Women, mostly, talking about Juanita Bynum like a dog. Haters! Can anyone tell me when the population of haters outnumbered the number of real, down-to-earth folks? When did that happen? I mean, in my life, I have never seen people so open, and so ready to call someone fake and false, not knowing what’s in their heart… so ready to say she deserved it, who deserves to get beaten by a spouse? Can anyone tell me when the haters started procreating so aggressively? Katt Williams was right.

So those are my questions. I’m going to work in about two hours, so I’ll be back with another, lengthier blog about the perverts who call me and how much I feel sorry for them [or dislike them, depending upon my mood at the end of my shift].

Drop me a line and answer my questions if you’ve got the time!

– Geisha

Big Fat Fatty… You Big Fat Fatty! 08:28:2007

Mood: Contemplative
Listening To: Last Night – Diddy f. Keyshia Cole
Notes: If this has a crabby tone to it, it’s because I’m feeling crabby, people!

Is it so wrong that I like Press Play? In fact, my ex told me a long time ago that it was hot, but I don’t have that New York State of Mind, so I wasn’t feeling it. But the song Last Night? It’s just hot. It’s actually so hot that I can forgive P.Did./Diddy/Daddy/-insertnextnamehere- for being so glossy. I mean, let’s face it, I think the brotha probably wears more expensive lip gloss than I do. It’s worth mentioning, that’s all I’m gonna say, people. That’s it. He’s glossy! But I’m gonna let that go, because Press Play is really hot.

I’ll even forgive Keyshia Cole for being the reported diva that “sources” [meaning angry friends] say she is in her daily life. So she’s a diva, who cares? Her voice is amazing, and she’s the truth. You may not like K.C. or P.Did, but you can’t deny when something is fire.

Man, and can I say, I am literally exhausted today? I’m gonna say it anyway, without waiting for an answer. I’m exhausted. That feeling is actually how today’s blog came into existence.

Now Playing: It’s So Hard To Say Goodbye To Yesterday – BoyzIIMen

I do love old school BIIM. Back to why I’m exhausted… Oddly enough, this week in my life, I’d already made the decision to actively join a gym and work my way up to working out 5 or 6 times a week. I’m an aggressive person, so I do everything in an aggressive way, like working out twice a day until I get where I want to be, and then doing some 3x weekly upkeep on where I’m at.

Now Playing: Movin’ On – Elliott Yamin

So today, I went to a little 24-hour spot around my way, no swimming pool or anything, but if I want to go watch cable and work myself into a frenzy on the elliptical, then I can do that, and it’s not expensive either. I’ve been thinking lately, why it seems like all phone sex operators are chunky, fat, or morbidly obese women. Now Now Now… NOW HOLD ON— I hear you already opening your mouth, I didn’t say we all are, I said it seems like we all are chubby ladies. So if you’re a phone lady reading this, or you know a phone lady, hold your horses, because I didn’t just say you were a fatty. I don’t want any mean emails coming through my inbox.

Truth be told though, most guys on the phone ask me, “So are you really 5’7” and 120 or are you fat and ugly like most people say phone sex operators are?

“No, dummy, I look like this all day.”

I’d like to say to them, “Even if I was fat and/or ugly, do you really think after you asked it that way I would tell you that I was fat and/or ugly,” then I’d pause for a long while and whisper, “ya silly son of a bitch.”

But instead I just and try to keep myself calm. Another day maybe, we’ll talk about how horrible the communication level of most of the callers is… but today, I’ll just talk about what simpletons they are sometimes. <laughs>

Now Playing: Stranger In My House (Club Mix) – Tamia

I digress, back to the truthful answer that I never provide to the callers. The truth is, I’m not 5’7″ and I don’t weigh 120 pounds. I’m 5’1″ on a good day, and although I’m not morbidly obese, or even “fat” (which I define as stomach larger than posterior end, has trouble climbing 5 stairs, etc…), I am a curvy girl. Chunky, fluffy, BBW, whatever you want to call it, I’m not a supermodel, and have never been one.

I know lots of ladies who have the same job I do, and they are all, without fail, heavy ladies. Now, I must pause and say, that word “heavy” is a blanket term and I’m using it to cover women who are 30 pounds overweight to 100lbs overweight as well. It’s always weird to me that people are so shocked that phone sex operators are big ladies. I mean:
1. She works 10 or more hours per day, sitting most of that time,
2. She doesn’t have to walk to her office from her car, she only has to walk from her bed to her office, if she even leaves the bed,
3. She doesn’t have an active job. She works, sits, eats, sits, poops, sits, sleeps, sits, reads, sits, watches, sits, emails, sits, works, sits… get it?

I mean, when it all comes down to it, it’s a great recipe for gaining weight.
You don’t do anything but sit and eat.

I have to confess, I fell into that pattern as well. I mean, a phone girl who is really about her money is working the craziest hours anyone can think of, because guys who call lines don’t call at “normal” hours. I mean, peak money-making hours are between 10p.m. and 4a.m., between 6a.m. and 7:30a.m., and between 5p.m. and 8p.m. (and that last one is kind of iffy, depending upon if the guy has a family he has to pretend he cares about, then there’s dinner to be served, people!).

Now Playing: I Drove All Night – Celine Dion

So we sleep odd hours and when you’re cooped up inside your house… well, let’s explore that, shall we? How many hours does the average person who works 40 hours per week and spends 30 minutes in the car each way spend away from the house? That would equal 45 hours for you slowpokes out there. Well, that’s 45 hours that I’m inside my house. Then, if I sleep 6 to 8 hours a day, that’s 42 to 56 hours… wait for it… in. my. house. Lastly, don’t ever let anyone tell you that this job doesn’t separate a girl from normalcy. If she makes friends, then great for her, but most phone ladies aren’t the most popular people you’ll ever meet, so the rest of her time is either with her kids, family, or by herself.

What am I getting at? It’s depressing. It’s a depressing job, and life, when you do it full time. Stress eating, depression eating, stuffing your face to stuff the feelings. It happens, and I’m a firm believer that the things I’ve said today are probably a huge part of the reason why most phone ladies are fatties. I say that word with love, because although I’m smaller now, I still consider myself a chubby bunny.

So, having said all that, I’ve decided to fight it, actively, before I wake up and find myself weighing 400 pounds, praying that I don’t choke on an Oreo while I talk to some stranger about adult activities. I jest! I kid! … I’d probably choke on a Fig Newton. I don’t like Oreos.

-Geisha

And Now, With a Special Segment: 08:23:2007

Mood: Planning, Conspiring
Listening to: Celine Dion – I’m Alive
Drinking: Hot Coffee [yum!]
Notes: All my links open in a new window. My blog is best viewed in Firefox with CoolIris or another preview extension. There will never be any adult oriented photos on this blog.

In the time that I’ve typed that introduction, things have changed, I’m now currently listening to I Drove All Night by Celine Dion, because I love her and she is <French accent>The Greatest Singa in De Wuhld</French Accent>! I guess I’m the only one who saw that SNL episode? I should hope not, that’s before it became UnFunny™.

I’ve spent the first part of this morning cleaning, taking out garbage [ugh… Thursdays], thinking about lying, and flat ironing my hair. Can I just say it looks fly? Seriously. My head looks awesome… I almost want to kiss it, but that’s somewhat impossible. Regardless, I only wrote that as a way to fish for compliments from unsuspecting passer-by about how beautiful I must be and that he [or she] can’t wait to see the photos I’m putting up after I finish with some upcoming shoots. I’m currently experimenting with hairstyles that will look good in print.

Also, this is why you should never lie:  one has to continue to lie to cover up one’s initial lie.  If “one” (that would be me) is a bad liar, one eventually has to swallow … screw this.  I was kind of ashamed of telling so much of myself, especially to some of the coolest people I have known in a while.  I didn’t know if they would really visit, and i didn’t want them to think bad of me if they found out more about me than they’d known.  God only knows if they’ll visit again, but if they do,  I’m sorry I lied to you guys.  In the future, I will grow a pair and just say what is true, and nothing more.

Ah, the small things are what make me happy. Now over to “Linda” [who is really me, there is no one else <LAUGHS>] for the special segment I’ve been stewing on for about 8 hours.

It’s about … ooooooooh… taboo. I said taboo, people! That means someone needs to make an audible gasp, please. <Cue Audible Gasp> I won’t discuss specifics this time around, just the general practices of what I do. I don’t know if most of you could stomach specifics, to be honest. I don’t want to mislead any of you, this isn’t a pretty place, where I work, and because most of you either don’t work here or call, I don’t think I should force the specifics onto the uninitiated readers.

There’s a link above, but for those of you lazy ones who didn’t click, taboo is loosely “defined” (meaning: in my own words) as something banned because of values, morals, and/or law. In the case of my job, it means things that are illegal in most, all, and/or any state in this great US of A in which I live… somewhat happily.

This blog really isn’t about what I think about it, but rather that I worked (for a long time) for a company that dealt with it openly and almost exclusively. There are only a few companies in America that deal on what is called a “No Taboo” policy, which is a nice way to say, “Free For All.” Anything goes, and believe me, when I say anything, I mean anything. I’d never in my life been subjected to listening to such… garbage. Disgusting garbage, where people said the most… frightening, sickening things, and were basically congratulated for those deviant fantasies, and rewarded by stupid women who didn’t know a face from a hole in the ground by being given exactly what they asked for, down to childish voices that would make someone normal say, “Is your mother home, little girl?”

Where I worked, that was okay. That was better than okay, it was… employee of the month stuff. If a person was like me in refusing to do it, and instead chose to act like a woman of intelligence by redirecting the call to another subject (which the majority of callers would grudgingly accept and begin to talk about another subject which was just as deviant but legal), they were abused. I wasn’t, because I’d learned tricks that I attempted to teach the other women when I started to train them, but they were abused… hardcore abuse, too.

I had women call me at devilish hours of the morning crying, telling me someone had yelled at the top of their lungs, screaming at the girl, “You’re worthless, all you’ll ever be good for is talking about [fellatio] all day, you can’t even do porn because you’re probably [fat].” Young mothers would call me and tell me they could no longer bathe or breast feed their children after working a long shift. Older women would call and say they were depressed because someone had suggested they end their lives because they were over the hill and worthless anyway. I mean, these people did their best to take out every frustration they had ever had on these women, who would in turn take it and cry because there was no way they would leave their paycheck behind, wondering where else they would go to make as much money as they made with this company.

The sad thing is, most… and by most I mean 75% of them weren’t even making $10.00 an hour. I’m not kidding. These women were so beaten, so broken, that they believed all that abuse plus the subject matter was what they deserved in life. Some of them were proud of it, wearing their ability to mimic those little voices like a badge. Yeah, some of them were proud… but most were just broken.

It amazes people to know that there are places in America that pedophiles can go and be not only accepted but loved, and I’m here to tell you, from first-hand experience, those places exist, and are making money hand-over-fist.

Andy over at Misanthropy Today had a great blog, which caused a bit of a stir, about To Catch a Predator (he called it To Catch A Pervert) and his opinion on it. I’d chimed in, which is how we met -great guy by the way- and told him of my feelings on the subject. I firmly believe, from hearing some of the conversations I heard that after so long, a guy with those fixations and obsessions can only talk about them so long, with someone who sounds so young, until he needs to go out and fulfill those fantasies. You can’t wave drugs in front of a junkie for months and expect him never to shoot up. You can’t wave Jack and Coke in front of an alcoholic for long and expect her to stay sober. Yes, I said her, I talked to women who had those deviant fantasies as well.

Without fail, every time, until I left that place, I redirected calls, and gave the guys [and gals] a choice: You can talk about [deviant subject matter] or you can choose someone else. Of course I didn’t say it that way, that’s why it’s called redirecting instead of shuttin’ ’em down. I refused, every time, to put on that voice, although I can, and do very well. I refused to help someone grow that fixation until they needed to hurt someone who couldn’t fight back. Beyond that, even though I usually ended up making $14.00 or $16.00 an hour [more than most women], it wasn’t enough to make me sell my soul.

I’m one of the few that can say this: My soul is worth more than a paycheck, no matter the amount.

I don’t work for them anymore, I’ve since moved on to a more established company that does not deal with that subject matter at all. I won’t lie and say it’s any better, but I’ll explore that in another blog. For now, at least someone has finally said that there are, indeed, places that wave children around like drugs in front of junkies. For now, that’ll do.

Until we meet again,
Geisha