Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Hello. Is it me you're looking for?

The phone rings. My call display is wonky, so I can't quite make out the number, but I'm pretty sure it's a friend. "Hello," I say in my friend voice, not in the generic "hello" voice reserved for unknown callers. "Hello. This is so-and-so from Buyer Direct calling." Damn. I just wasted my "friend hello" on a stranger - a telemarketer at that. Now I feel committed to be friendly.

"Is this Mrs. Angus?" the voice asks. "Yes," I reply, not quibbling over the "Mrs." She gives me the spiel about the virtues of Buyer Direct, where I can pay half of what non-discerning consumers pay. I have no intention of going to Buyer Direct, but I did answer with the "friend hello" so I figure I'll make the poor girl's night by hearing her out. She then offers to send me out an information package, and a "special" invitation to attend a Buyer Direct Open House. Again, I have no intention of going, but I've come this far. I'll humour her ("I got a 'yes' to the information package mail-out," she can boast to her Buyer Direct friends). She confirms my address and then adds, "Buyer Direct is great for people who have bought a new home, are doing renovations or are making large purchases of furniture or appliances. Does this describe you?"

"Well, no, probably not." I admit.

"Well then it sounds like the timing's not right for Buyer Direct," she says abruptly. "Have a good night."

"Are you kidding me? YOU are dumping ME? I'm not even interested in your stupid Open House! I wouldn't go if I were building a new house, doing renovations on an old one AND buying furniture and appliances for both! And I only gave you the 'friend hello' because my call display is screwed up!" But the line is dead.

I've been rejected by a telemarketer. Ouch.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Yes, my dog is skinny.

I am walking my greyhound, Ruby. We come upon another dog (a pup) and owner. We do the obligatory hello and sniff (Me the hello, Ruby the sniff).

“Your dog is skinny,” says the owner, a keenly observant boy in his late teens.

“Yes, she is skinny,” I agree.

“Why? Why is she so skinny?” He seems affronted.

“She’s a picky eater.”

“I guess!” he responds. “She looks emaciated. Like you just rescued her from a bad owner.”

“Nope. She’s just skinny,” I say, wondering if I should feel defensive.

“What kind of dog is yours?” I ask, keen to change the subject.

“Great Dane,” he says.

“Cute,” I say sincerely, admiring the pup.

“What kind of dog is THAT?” he asks about Ruby. I can tell he doubts she has enough body fat to even qualify as a dog.

“A greyhound.”

“A greyhound?!” he replies. “Are they ALL that skinny?” He shakes his head in disbelief.

“They’re all pretty skinny,” I share. “But she’s exceptionally skinny.”

“I guess!” he says.

It’s time to move on. As we walk our separate ways, he shouts out: “Good luck getting some food on her!” By his tone, I can tell he’s not holding out much hope.

“Thanks,” I shout back, unsure if it’s an appropriate response.

I imagine he is home right now on his computer - plump great dane pup at his feet - googling “greyhound” and feeling just a touch superior. And that's ok, because I'm home at my computer, skinny greyhound by my side, feeling a touch superior too.