My direct phone number (and address) at work has somehow gotten listed as a residential number. So, I used to get phone calls trying to sell me things, and for a while I got pizza coupons. (bonus!) When I came in this weekend, I had pre-recorded messages from various election folk, begging me to vote for them. This afternoon, I grabbed a call and after I said “This is Jennifer”, I heard a woman say, “Obviously your feet ain’t botherin’ ya that much.” Hm. I don’t want to impose my Midwestern Nice Standards, but I’ve even travelled a little bit, and I have yet to hear that sort of greeting condoned in any part of the country. I said, “What do you mean, my feet?” as I began to suspect this was yet another telemarketer with a list in front of her. (At this point, the two people in my office are looking at me like I’ve gone crazy. I won’t say they’re wrong, but we can’t attribute it to that phone call.) Over the phone line, I heard far-off laughing and more silence, so I went back to the good old standard, “HELLO?” and that woke up my telemarketer who immediately asked me to vote yes for the soccer stadium tomorrow. Never mind, sweetie, you’re calling Missouri, not Kansas. I can’t vote on it. And I’m at work, so no cally here no more. And my feet? They are just fine.
I’m ready to go home. Home to my Wo, and our dogs, and I’m not answering the phone unless I recognize the number.