I don’t know why we keep our landline telephone. It hardly ever rings, and nine times out of ten when it does, somebody aggressively tries to sell me something, or tries to trick me into subscribing to something, or asks me to participate in a marketing survey. In that last case, they begin by lying about how long it will take.
Back when I was teaching Business English, I used to say yes to these survey takers and even found it sort of fun. But then, one day, the Grocery Store Jingle Guy called. He said he would either play snippets or say slogans, and I should tell him what chain it was for. Why not? I thought. I don’t watch Austrian TV, but I do go shopping occasionally . . .
“I’m going to be really bad at this,” I warned Survey Guy nevertheless.
After answering “Not sure” to the first three questions, I interrupted him. “Would it be better if I just guessed when I’m not sure?” He said yes.
For the rest of the questions I just said whatever popped into my mind and then immediately thought “No. Wait . . . that wasn’t right.” Survey Guy’s pauses after each of my answers got a tiny bit longer . . .
Near the end, he asked if I lived in a village or town, and then if my village had a store, and then which one.
“Adeg,” I answered, and then thought “No. Wait . . . that’s not right.”
As always, the survey ended with a few questions about me – sex, age range, income range, education level . . .
I told him I had two university degrees.
“OH!” he said, unable to hide the surprise in his voice.
Despite this embarrassing performance, marketers kept calling regularly. I was clearly on some kind of list that gets passed around. It got annoying – all the more because I had only myself to blame for getting on such a list.
I should have known better.
Back in my college days, I once got on a very different sort of list – or at least my telephone number did – but that time it wasn’t my fault. Out of the blue, the phone in my apartment started ringing off the hook – I mean 10 or more times an hour – all men asking to speak to my roommate. A few of the dejected or confused callers mentioned the words “Hot Lips” (or something close to that – it was a long time ago). It turned out that one of my roommate’s friends pranked her by placing an ad offering telephone sex in the classified section (“Hot Lips”) of a men’s magazine, using her real first name and our shared telephone number. Nice. We had to put up with these calls for a month, until the next issue of the magazine came out. In the meantime, the phone stayed off the hook overnight and for long periods during the day.
I confess we did have some fun with the situation. Sometimes when the phone rang, we would ask unsuspecting visitors “Could you get that please?” Some of our friends . . . “engaged” with this or that caller for a while. Sometimes we passed the phone on to the Gingerbread Man and let him deal with it. (For more on this little guy’s escapades, see “My Velveteen Rabbit”.) And my roommate’s prankster friend? When she came over, she always had to answer the phone as a condition of her forgiveness and continued visiting privileges. (By the way, in case you read the post linked to above, Prankster Friend and Lampshade Lady are one and the same.) Despite some fun, the constantly ringing phone and subsequent – short! – conversations got very, very annoying, just like the marketing calls now.
This morning our landline phone rang and I just stood there listening to the sound for a while. Experience has taught me to blow it off, but there was that little fleeting thought that it might be important. I started to slowly climb the stairs. The ringing stopped when I was halfway up.
We really should lose that device.
And it is not the only communication port around here that has lost its usefulness. I used to love checking the mailbox. There were times when I even waited impatiently for the mailman to come. But now that I have cancelled my last subscription and no one writes letters anymore, the mailbox has become nothing more than a depository for bills, advertisements and donation requests. Here is yesterday’s dump:
That’s all from just one day!
For a while, 99% of the contents of our mailbox never made it into the house. (Our paper recycling can is conveniently located halfway between.) But then my husband protested – he likes looking at this stuff. So now there are little piles of it all over the house requiring constant removal.
“Dealing with mail” and “answering the telephone” became two new additions to our household chores list. The first one has slowly shifted over to my husband’s column and the second to my daughter’s. She is getting really good at filtering. Now, when the phone rings, nine times out of ten I hear this:
(the sound of my daughter walking)
“Um. I’m sorry, but my mom and dad aren’t here right now . . .”