Teenage Conversation

This is the whole thing.

Phone rings: Ring, ring.

15-year-old boy answers.

Complete silence.

15: Oh. . . . . . . . Hello.
(blabbering on the other end)

15: Yeah. (Clear that he does know the speaker.)
(further blabbering)

15: Yep.
(yet more blabbering)

15: (deadpan) That's good.
(some sort of appeal)

15: Okay.

Click.

Stupid Mom Redux

As I've said here before--and recently, at that--one of the things I've learned as a parent is that no matter what they do, moms are always wrong.

Oh, yeah . . . subtitle of this post: Tell Me About It

A few weeks ago, I got exasperated with number-one son G because I needed to know how to get in touch with his dance teacher to warn her of some upcoming performance/lesson conflicts.

I'm in a constant state of irritation over this wonderfully creative child because he's notoriously irresponsible when it comes to his own activities and events, of which he has many. He never knows anything ahead of time about what he's doing where he's supposed to be, and if he hears anything he never tells the rest of us or gives us the flyers. He only remembers five minutes before he needs to be somewhere and expects the entire family to drop all their [already conflicting] activities to accommodate his immediate transportation needs. He pulled this on me yesterday morning before 6:30 a.m. "Mooommmm! Dad already left for work and I have to go to rehearsal for the show and be there by 6:45 or I'll get my head cut off and you can be back before Tyke gets up!")

Let this be known: I am as nocturnal as a kangaroo rat. I'm not good in the morning. In the morning, I'm territorial, snap, bite, snarl, and plot assassination of anyone who expects me to be cheerful and active before I'm good and ready. Do not cross the threshold of the inner sanctum!

On dance nights I typically just drop G off and wait for him to get well inside the door instead of going all the way into the studio myself, and, anyway, his lessons are not the first ones on the teacher's docket so I don't want to interrupt the flow of classes by taking up her time in between sessions. Apparently she doesn't use e-mail or doesn't want her address out or I was absent when the brains were passed out or something (for proof of this, see below). I don't actually remember what the deal is. I do know, however, that I am a nerdy e-mail-preference person rather than a phone person. I rarely pick up a phone to call out, and get positively angry at phones when they ring in. Except for their stunning usefulness in emergencies, I wouldn't mind their not existing.

Some days later, after my initial exasperation episode, two telephone numbers showed up scrawled illegibly on the "family notice" white board in our dinette area. By then I had forgotten all about the dance school and my question.

The rule is that once messages are obsolete or action items have been taken care of, I erase them from the white board. Out of courtesy for G, I left the cryptic numbers for a couple of weeks, but finally got tired of them and wanted them gone in order to make space for potential incoming messages. So I asked, "Are you finished with these?" And he said, "Yeah, I have been ever since they were up there."

Assuming that this was just a typical snotty teen response, I sighed and erased the numbers. (And, to give G his absolute due, he's actually shaping up into a pretty courteous young man, and isn't always so PMS-y anymore. I truly appreciate that his nasty attitude is gradually fading.)

A few more days passed. And suddenly something occurred to me.

"G, what were those phone numbers you had up there that I erased?"

"Mooooommmmm, DUH! You asked me to get the numbers for the dance school, and I got them for you! You're the one who erased them. What did you erase them for? Gees!"

Phone Race Rant

Phone karma? I've got it. Bigtime. (As well Toaster Karma, but we'll burn that bridge when we get to it.) And, yes, I know I already posted an entry today. And I've already posted about phones before here and here. But one thing in particular keeps happening year after year and making me crazy, and just now I am hoppin' mad about it and must vent somehow that does not involve strangulation or tripping on stairs or generally whaling on a certain someone or other vile actions that would surely raise eyebrows at the Department of Children and Families.

I have many phone problems; just one is that the phone rings almost every single time I open up the garage door to come in the house. Honest to God, people, at least let me get in the door and sit down. This incessant ringing before I am really even properly home yet necessitates RUNNING, usually carrying a bunch of heavy something, up two flights of stairs in order to get to the stupid phone in time to answer before the idiot answering machine picks up instead. Well, why would that be a big deal? One, because I am asthmatic and hate like hell to run up the stairs, and then when I answer the phone the caller inevitably gets concerned because I am huffing and puffing and I then have to explain it all.

Two, because a certain family member named G (who shall remain unnamed, ahem, but EVERYBODY knows who he is!) CONSTANTLY takes the main portable phone with him as he roams endlessly through the house on his meandering phone calls. When he's finished with the phone (which usually does not happen until he has drained the battery right out and HAS to get off or get another phone), he just leaves the phone wherever in the house he happens to be, which could be under the bed or in the yucky kids' bathroom or sitting on/under an enormous pile of laundry. So of course what this means is that as I come flying in the door to answer the phone, run up the two pair o'stairs, and arrive in the family room, the expected phone is GONE AWOL and I cannot answer it before the idiot answering machine sets off its message. Where, oh where is another phone? One or two flights more stairs up! And I only have four rings to get to it, or the answering machine will go! Must run, flee! Fly, race!

I'll explain here that our answering machine will only NOT answer if you get to the phone before four rings. And if you answer a smidge late from any phone other than the main one, you cannot turn off the outgoing message, and you are stuck yelling, "Hello? Hello? Helloooo!!!" over the recorded greeting, much to the dismay of the poor caller who surely thinks you're insane or schizo and can't hear you over the tape anyway. And the idiot machine then RECORDS your conversation and runs out of message tape.

Oh, it's painful. Even talking about it is painful.

IF (and it's a big if) you get to the phone in the living room (next level up), it may be close but no cigar anyway. Because the Phone Klepto does not necessarily roam only with the main phone, but might have misplaced the extensions, too. And if I find an extension, it may well not work because it has been left out of the charging cradle until those batteries are dead as well.

There is also the amusing little problem that two extensions are almost exactly the same model, but not quite. So if on the off chance someone has actually returned a phone to its cradle, they might have exchanged one extension for the other. And while they are almost identical, if you trade them the charger connection doesn't necessarily work with the wrong phone. Sometimes si, most times no. So chances are the phone is not charged.

THUS it is entirely possible that I will have to keep racing and run up the fourth flight of stairs and see if there is a phone anywhere on that level. One might think that the parental units' bedroom phone would be Off Limits and Inviolable, but let me wise you up, honey. Phone Klepto is an equal-opportunity thief. It, too, could be stifling beneath a pile of dirty laundry.

I have never once made it to the farthest phone without the answering machine winning the race, but it's okay to dream.

And while I'm on this subject of phones, which I assure you has many sub-subjects that I will grouse about at length another time, there is just one more phone karma story for today. There is one person who consistently calls me when I am on the toilet for serious business. And I have to tell you this is not a frequent activity for me. It's not like I spend much time there at all, and it's also true that the timing is completely random, so it's not happening by the clock. It's a bizarre talent. Soon as I am stuck there and can't leave, certainly not to answer the phone, Honey calls. Honey does it over and over and I do not know how he knows when to call. I have scoured the bathroom for hidden surveillance cameras, but he must have some other method. Radar?

Cell Hell

So a couple of weeks ago I was in the car with my mother-in-law on what eventually turned out to be the trip during which famed Tybee the Frog was purchased. And both of us were trying to reach The Boys (Grandpa, Honey, and the kids) on our cell phones to coordinate ETAs and find out where they were. Power on my phone, as ALWAYS, was down to the last bar. I was telling Grandma how irritating this phone has been for me over the four years that we have had it/them.

Turns out Grandpa and Grandma have replaced their cell phones at least twice during the time that we have had our samecheap bottomoftheline ones that have batteries that don't charge anymore. And we, not they, are the "technogeeks"!

I have actually spent major hours in stores looking for the Perfect Purse that has a nice rigid pocket that will not turn the phone on or try to dial a stored number. The worst thing is that it turns on entirely secretly when I don't know it, so I am constantly recharging it even though I haven't used it AT ALL. Grandma says to me from the passenger seat, looking at her own new phone, "Well, doesn't it have a 'Lock' mechanism? Mine does."

A whuuuttt?

When I get back home I cannot find the [ancient] manual for the phone, although I know we have it because I keep looking things up as I need them. And in case you're wondering, no, I didn't read the whole manual from front to back when we first got the phones because I'm a friggin' technical writer and we WRITE the manuals. We tws don't need to READ NO STINKIN' MANUALS!

In an idle moment, I press the function key and the first thing that shows up is

LOCK

Now, my mother-in-law is the woman who many times, while driving around in her white convertible, states and states away from here, has called our number erroneously, thinking we were my sister-in-law or someone totally else, and then had no clue whatever why WE answered on the other end. "Oh!~ I thought you were fillintheblank! Now how did I do that?" or "I just got a new phone and I'm trying to put in the numbers and it called you without me knowing."

Thus when I confessed to my husband that I had not known about lock for four years, he was quite kind and did not make fun of me. Instead, he looked incredulous for a minute and said, "Are you kidding me? MY MOTHER taught YOU something about a CELL PHONE??? Bwa-a-ha!!!"

Don't Touch That Dial! Redux

Dear Esteemed Reader,

Please don't pursue this post beyond the second paragraph until you have read its predecessor, "Don't Touch That Dial!," dated Tuesday, November 16, below. It will remain "below" until I figure out how to put it "above."

I'm new. I haven't learned how to quickly reorder these blog posts yet. The warning is intended for the benefit of both audience and writer: This update will make no sense if you read it before the original post.

Re: the Mark Twain-like bitch-rant a few days ago about those pesky automated phone calls.

The number of calls rapidly increased to the point of once a day (always around 9:30 a.m., with no clever variation to catch me off guard). Finally, by Tuesday, there were two calls; one in the morning and one in the afternoon, with different "voices" and different "greetings," if you can apply that term to such non-human shams.

I missed this morning's call because I wasn't available. But I had decided that today I was going to put an end to this unconscionable travesty of courtesy, so when the phone rang again in the afternoon I was ready. At first, I just picked up the phone and said nothing for a full two minutes, but, surprisingly, it didn't hang up on me. Then I shouted, "Hello, hello, hello!" Nothing happened for a protracted time; then the electronic greeting came on and it repeated itself in rapid succession, just as I had. "Please hold. Please hold. Please hold . . ." Actually, as rude as this thing is, I'm surprised it ever learned to say "Please." That's right. You'd better beg me to hold! Then beg me some more!

Next a human voice came on. "Hello?" it said, smally. The contrast between the human and the taped versions nearly cracked me up, but I had developed so much anger over the many days of this onslaught that, instead of giggling, I, uh, shouted angrily, "WHO IS THIS??" Rude begot rude.

Small Voice answered, "[First name] with Midland Credit. May I please speak to Patrick?" Well, this was infinitely better-mannered than the impersonal machine. But I was still mad. "[First name] with WHAT?"

[Calmly and evenly]"Midland Credit. May I speak to Patrick?"

Well, now my whole fierce campaign, my entire conspiracy theory, was shot to hell. I was still furious over the unethical principle and method, but it wasn't really fair to this person. What a yucky job! Gag! I nearly had some compassion and almost told her she had my condolences.

Instead, I said, "I'm sorry. What number are you calling?" She related the number, which after all was correct. But we don't know any Patricks, with the sole exception of the next-door neighbors' hunting dog. We don't even have a basement where an unknown Patrick might be hiding.

Undone! It was nothing other than a wrong number day after day, week after week.

My tone and volume fell nearly to a whisper, and I said, "Sorry, there's no Patrick here, and we've had this number for X number of years."

Someone must have deliberately given Midland a wrong number. Because of the many calls we've received at other numbers--as well as this one--dealing with the same thing but addressing other parties, I'm convinced people do this frequently to throw creditors off of their scent; then the hapless legitimate-number owner gets stuck holding the bag. There were courteous thanks from Small Voice as I blushed profusely and hung up.

Someone should invent a Wasted Emotional Energy Meter with a dial like those on oven thermometers--only this would have a green indicator, a yellow indicator, and a STOP WHILE YOU'RE EFFING INSANE indicator. I would immediately have one permanently installed on my person. I suspect--no, let's be honest--I'm sure I'd be off the dial most of the time. And this tendency only gets worse as I get older and the hormones creep toward the edge of oblivion.

Heaven help the hapless people doing drudgy phone jobs. What further irrational ballistics await them from this quarter?

That having been admitted, WHATEVER possessed me to be so polite as to let Small Voice go without regaling the company's practice? Of course they don't want their targets to know who they are. If the target is running from a creditor, he's not going to answer a known creditor. But, by the same token, why would he wait around for a rude, anonymous hold machine? I still maintain that the premise is flawed.

I'll have to save the rest for another rant.

Don't Touch that Dial!

It happened again this morning, for the third or fourth time in a week.

The phone rings. I am always in the middle of something, so a ringing phone frequently signifies an unwelcome interruption. So I go answer the phone and apparently there's nothing on the other end. I had to say "hello" several times. I hate that. But sometimes it's one of my kids, who haven't quite mastered phone etiquette, so I stay on to give them (if it's them) the benefit of the doubt. Finally I hear a "click," immediately tipping me off that there's a machine on the other side that requires voice activation before it will "say" anything in response to your greeting. I play with these sometimes. I just answer the phone and don't say anything, and the system doesn't know what to do.

It is my policy always to immediately hang up if a live person isn't on the other end.

Of all things, this stupid system then goes to a taped message saying, "Please hold for an important message. All of our agents are currently busy." As if one of these systems is not enough, there's another of the same type that says, "Please hold. All of our representatives are on other calls." Well, then let them call when they're ready to call, not before so they can waste my time!

Honest to Pete! A friggin' MACHINE calls me up only to put me on HOLD, and whoever this system belongs to actually thinks I am going to wait around on THEIR non-human hold when I didn't even call them and don't even know who they are! Stand forth and identify yourself!

Of course, I'll never find out who they are and they'll never manage to contact me, because I'm compelled to hang up on anything SO RUDE. Screw 'em! I would never do any sort of business with such an inconsiderate entity. What kind of customer care is that? If you want to do business, you have to be considerate of your target market! Perhaps it is someone who doesn't WANT to be identified, because I might hang up . . . therefore, in turn, I definitely have no time for them. And I'm hanging up anyway.

So quit auto-dialing that phone and leave me alone. And, by the way, I'm on the national do not call registry. The only people who can call here must already have established business relationship with us. So you're in violation of the law, and I WILL report you.