I subscribe to Sports Illustrated magazine.
I have for years.
I enjoy the magazine.
A lot.
I like sports.
Baseball and football primarily, but others too.
I like them a lot.
I like to watch them, read about them, discuss them.
Imagine my heart filling with joy.
That's how much I adore sports.
Recently I answered the phone. The caller ID screamed UNKNOWN but I picked it up it anyway, not my traditional modus operandi. I don't know what got into me.
"Hello?" I said.
"Hello, is Mr. or Mrs. my-butchered-last-name available?" asked a young man's polite voice.
"No." I said automatically and mechanically while regretting my uncharacteristic compulsion to answer a mystery call. Nothing good ever comes from such behavior. I considered just hanging up, but instead foolishly blurted "Who's calling please?" while wondering why I asked and why I was still on the phone.
"This is Robert from Sports Illustrated. Do you know when they will be available? I'd prefer to speak to the man of the house."
My jaw dropped.
I gaped.
Really.
I was speechless.
Momentarily.
"Man of the house? Are you serious? It's 2009 for Pete's sake, not 1954. Dude." This I said in the treacliest of voices, soft and kind, oozing patience.
There's a reason I don't answer UNKNOWN calls.
My impulse control needs work.
.
I have for years.
I enjoy the magazine.
A lot.
I like sports.
Baseball and football primarily, but others too.
I like them a lot.
I like to watch them, read about them, discuss them.
Imagine my heart filling with joy.
That's how much I adore sports.
Recently I answered the phone. The caller ID screamed UNKNOWN but I picked it up it anyway, not my traditional modus operandi. I don't know what got into me.
"Hello?" I said.
"Hello, is Mr. or Mrs. my-butchered-last-name available?" asked a young man's polite voice.
"No." I said automatically and mechanically while regretting my uncharacteristic compulsion to answer a mystery call. Nothing good ever comes from such behavior. I considered just hanging up, but instead foolishly blurted "Who's calling please?" while wondering why I asked and why I was still on the phone.
"This is Robert from Sports Illustrated. Do you know when they will be available? I'd prefer to speak to the man of the house."
My jaw dropped.
I gaped.
Really.
I was speechless.
Momentarily.
"Man of the house? Are you serious? It's 2009 for Pete's sake, not 1954. Dude." This I said in the treacliest of voices, soft and kind, oozing patience.
There's a reason I don't answer UNKNOWN calls.
My impulse control needs work.
.
11 comments:
I can't believe you answered an unknown call...resist all urges to answer the door if the bell rings...trust me.
Sooooo... what did the dude say in response to that?
Are you going to keep subscribing?!
We never answer the phone without screening. Ever. No caller ID needed that way. :)
"the man of the house"??? Is he SERIOUS?
Woooooooooooooooooooow.
Yeah I wanna know what he said to that too.
That happened to me once with a male caller... to which I replied in a big, bitchy voice...
'MAN of the HOUSE????'
There's no MEN in this house.
In fact WE DONT EVEN SPEAK TO MEN HERE..
click! I hung up.
The dude spluttered and I hung up. Anti-climactic, I know.
And yes, I will keep subscribing. I love that magazine too much to drop it over one silly telemarketer. :)
LOL KMae. But I love men. I just don't want to sleep with them!
Hard to believe that the scripts are still so out of date, out of touch. Sad, really.
I have much love for my own SI subscription, read cover to cover every single week, but sweet Jesus, they have the most annoying marketing strategy on the planet. Our subscription is a three -year one, due to expire in 2011. ALREADY we are getting calls and aggressively designed envelopes about HURRY UP AND RENEW NOW BEFORE YOUR SUBSCRIPTION EXPIRES!
Exhuasting.
I telecommute some days and during work hours I always answer the phone in case it's a coworker calling. For some reason phone solicitors call for Sporks all the livelong day—she subscribes to a lot of magazines and is also listed first on our mortgage (we sometimes get mail addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Sporks Lastname, which is pretty funny given that hers is clearly a woman's name; just call me Mrs. Sporks).
Anyway, the conversations always start with, "Hello, is Sporks available?"
"No, she's at work; can I take a message?"
"Is her husband available?"
"No, this is her wife. Can I help you?"
Usually, it's crickets here. (Californians still haven't quite adjusted to the fact that there are 18,000 of us married homos in the state.) But occasionally the solicitor doesn't miss a beat and goes into his spiel, treating me like the legally sanctioned household decision maker spouses are supposed to be treated as, and I swear I get so flabbergasted when this happens that I just sit there and listen to them, not even telling them that we're on the national do-not-call list or anything. Solicitors, take note: You can score huge points with the gays with just a little bit of gender-neutral savvy.
Speaking of 1954, sounds like a scene from Mad Men.
!!!!!!!!!!!
So wrong.
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