A sign of my sweet, sweet nature is a that I go along with cold calls. I do not make rude remarks to total strangers calling me up in the middle of dinner wanting to know if I want to take a survey, vote for billy ray obama clinton, donate to the crippled orphan policeman softball league, or whatever. I say in my most genteel manner, “No thank you” and then I hang up gently, but firmly. It’s all too easy for me to imagine myself in their miserable shoes, my rent dependent on making a quota of hits that my jerk ass boss has set sadistically high; spending all night in a cubicle the size of a toilet amidst a roomful of trailer trash coworkers; the highpoint of the shift being my break for dinner where I have to heat up leftovers in an off-brand tupperware bowl except the fucking microwave in the “kitchen” is still broken. I am close to tears just thinking about it, so if some poor schmuck snags me on the phone, I usually am at least polite.
There is, of course, an exception. Isn’t there always? I absolutely refuse to play along when said schmuck asks for “the Lady of the House.” What the burning fuck? It’s 2008 and they’re stuck with some script from a bad Lily Tomlin skit. No, there is no Lady of the House, but if you’d like to take on the Bitch, I’m ready for ya.