May 5, 2018 An original piece published on Humor Outcasts
by Amy Abbott
People often ask me how I spend my time now that I no longer fly on the corporate trapeze. As a dinosaur with a landline, I gab with Rachel from Card Services and “Brian” who wants to help me with my Microsoft computer problems. I chat with many helpful people who have my sole interests front and center. (I have this bridge for sale in Brooklyn, if you are interested.) I see these calls as a form of entertainment, as in…
“Hello,” I answer the landline when I can find a charged phone.
“This is Brian from Microsoft. We’re calling about your computer. Is First Name of Husband, Last Name of Husband Home,” says Brian, who mispronounces our very common last name.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have a computer, and no, Mr. Last Name of Husband Isn’t Here.”
“Does anyone else in your household have computer, laptop or tablet,” he persists, neglecting the common article “a”.
“No, you’ve reached a mental hospital. There are no computers here, too dangerous for the patients,” I say, hang up, and then dial the number to block Brian’s number. The company will call back on another number, probably within a day.
My current most annoying recurring call is from a charity that solicits for breast cancer research, a worthy cause among other worthy causes. My sister-in-law has MBC, and I’m a supporter of anything that will help her and lengthen her life, and those of the many others who suffer from this horrible disease. This group uses a digital recording, engineered to laugh, pause, show digital empathy, etc. And they ask for my adult son, who hasn’t lived here in ten years. I don’t know why I bother to be nice – it’s a recording after all, but I tell the disembodied voice I support the cause of breast cancer research but not this agency. No matter what I say, the voice – as pleasant as my kindergarten teacher Mrs. Reed – keeps coming at me with another lower offer of what I can give today. Whoever records this should be our representative in North Korea.
I have a new strategy now. I don’t hang up, but I say random words like “pineapple” and “effluvium” and “ramshackle” to see if the responses will change. They don’t, and then I hang up. “Effluvium” is particularly fun to say. The cause is good, so it’s sad that this group exploits fundraising for real breast cancer research. I’m sure they are chasing people away with these digital tactics. (My responses are an adaptation of what I learned from my mother who rid herself of persistent Jehovah Witness missionaries by inviting them in for coffee and then reviewing “The Lutheran Witness” while they waited to push “Watch Tower Magazine.” Mom was not unkind, but somewhat devious.)
Yesterday I received a call from my online pharmacy. This is a sore subject with me because my former company, from whom I’m buying COBRA insurance, changed plans in January and didn’t tell me. I spent months sorting through providers and insurers.
The call was recorded and spit out, “This is XXXX, and your case number is XXXXX666XXXXXXXX. Call us back immediately at 800-XXX-XXXX.”
I scrambled to find a pen and paper and scribbled the numbers down, and I called back. The 666 embedded in the middle of the code did not seem to be a good sign. Was this a scam? The person answered with the name of my online pharmacy, and I gave the 15-digit code and was told I owe them $XX. Weird, because when I order, I immediately pay. When I told my husband, he thought I might have been scammed, but I checked with the bank, and it was the appropriate vendor. Whew!
Technology can be a wonderful enhancement for we mere humans. I cannot imagine travel without Lyft. I can push a magic button, and voila a car appears to take me wherever. But I’m so over “Rachel from Card Services” who is insistent that she can get me a lower card rate, on a card I don’t have.
I guess I’m a Luddite, but I don’t want a washer and dryer so difficult to use that I consult the owner’s manual each time I do a load. (Don’t get me started on the K-cup coffeemaker or my new vacuum cleaner.) If this technology is supposed to make my life easier, then why don’t I have “Rosie, the Robot” from “The Jetsons?” A Roomba just doesn’t have that same warm feeling that Rosie gave her family. You have to wonder how Rosie would respond to the robo-calls. Maybe she would relate; they are her own kind. Did I just say something racist about robots?
I could elaborate more on my daily battle with technology, but it’s time to change the ink cartridge in my printer. Now, where’s that owner’s manual?
PLEASE SUPPORT HUMOR OUTCASTS AND THIS INDIE WRITER BY TWEETING THIS POST AS WELL AS REPOSTING ON FACEBOOK.
YOUR COMMENTS HERE ARE MOST WELCOME. ALSO.
IT’S AN ACT OF ENCOURAGEMENT AND SUPPORT THAT COSTS YOU NOTHING.
Amy Abbott is syndicated on Senior Wire News Service and writes for newspapers and magazines. She’s the author of multiple books, and is currently featured in “Laugh Out Loud,” the first anthology of the Erma Bombeck Writer’s Workshop.