Thursday, September 6, 2012

Call Me, Never?

(Note: this post started as one thing and ended as something else entirely, and is probably demonstrative of the type of internal struggle experienced by Everyman himself and is clearly an allegory for...something. Maybe the election. But probably not. You've been warned.)

If you follow me on Twitter you may have noticed that, a week or so ago,  I got a call from a telemarketer of one kind or another. With a sickly sweet voice, she informed me that my name had been chosen for some sort of sweepstakes prize. 



Bullshit, lady.

I interrupted her script without so much as a hesitation.

"Can you please remove me from your calling list?" This is a law, you see...or at least it was in NY, which is why I always answer when a telemarketer calls. Because, in theory, once you ask to be removed, that should be the last call you ever get from them.

But she challenged my legal authority.

"You'll have to put your number on the national Do Not Call Registry." Her voice was no longer sweet, mostly just sickly.

I was instantly furious and said something about her not knowing what she's talking about SWEETHEART and hung up. The best part, however? Was that she called me back. Roughly FIVE TIMES. I didn't answer, of course, because I was terrified, but also to make her angry.



Then the other day, my husband was on the phone with a running shoe company with which he had just placed an order. The only thing was that the sneaker he'd purchased was discontinued. And yet the company hadn't called him, emailed him, or carrier pigeoned him to tell him so.

The thing about my husband is that he's pretty amazing on the phone. He's persuasive and level-headed and usually doesn't get super pissed and call people things like SWEEHEART. The dude he spoke with on the other end of the line? Couldn't care less. He said things like, "Yeah, man, I dunno." and "Sorry about that." and "Would you like this other shoe instead?"

Sure, these two incidents are different, but they both registered a similar amount of fury within the cockles of my very soul.

What is wrong with these people? How the hell are they running a successful business with these JACKHOLES at the wheel? 

(Because there are some companies out there that know what they're doing...Global Response is one that comes to mind since I'm in love with Anthropolgie and Land of Nod).

Ultimately (and swiftly) my frustration leads into ranting about other epic failures in the world around me, sprinkled with mentions of other ways in which my life is currently sucking (because, come to think of it, WHY THE HELL IS MY NOSE STUFFY EVERY DAY OF MY LIFE?!), and concluding with something along the lines of THIS WORLD IS A TERRIBLE PLACE FULL OF TERRIBLE PEOPLE AND NOTHING WILL EVER BE OKAY, EVER.

And then my husband will come in, wearing full body armor if the occasion calls for it, and asks me if there's something else bothering me. Then I sob and say NO WHY WOULD YOU THINK THAT before eventually bearing my soul and asking for forgiveness from my family and all the telemarketers and call care center people in the world.

So I'll tell you guys, too. The fact is that this post was written with the emotional baggage that comes with dumping your child--who has been going to preschool for years already--at Kindergarten IN HYSTERICS every day of the week because he's afraid he's "never going to see you again."

(OMG. WTF. MY HEART.)

OH! And in the rare moments he's willing to actually discuss school without an epic emotional breakdown, he tells me that a little girl taught him "Call Me, Maybe" on the school yard playground. He was able to sing the chorus for me over AND OVER again. The hell? Am I going to have to keep an eye on this girl? Maybe I should volunteer for Room Mom after all!

Anyway, what was I saying?

Right. I have a stuffy nose. Who cares.