I've been working at home a lot lately. It's quiet here, with very few of the interruptions one encounters in a busy office. People are always coming around imploring you to stop goofing off at work. Working at work can be so demanding sometimes.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I figured that I'd be more focused and efficient without having someone standing over me while I'm surfing the net in a vain quest to find a better job. Or, at least I though that was the case. Then I got solicited. <br />
<br />
Everyone has a story about how annoying it is to get a call from someone trying to get you to buy something you don't want. Or worse, someone calling to remind you to send a check to pay for the last worthless piece of junk you bought.<br />
But far and away, the biggest problem with solicitors is their uncanny ability to call just when you're falling asleep in front of the television while your remote is on auto-pilot unconsciously flipping through 367 channels of cow dung.<br />
As I found out yesterday, it's just as annoying for them to call during that narrow window where I'm actually trying to do some real work. The jarring ring of the landline shattered the tenuous hold I had on my attention span. Even worse, it set off the manic Telephone Search and Rescue Protocol to locate the cordless phone.<br />
<br />
Once I found the offending appliance, I snatched it up and breathlessly shouted, "HELLO", like it was a call from the White House begging me to accept a nomination to the Supreme Court which, in my opinion, would be a suitable and genuine "change of scenery" job opportunity. <br />
<br />
Of course, my anticipation of being elevated to that exalted position was premature, and instead of the President casually addressing me by my private nick-name, there was dead silence. That led to a flickering hope that maybe the Secret Service was simply going through the "vetting" process and was surreptitiously checking on my whereabouts.<br />
<br />
"HELLO", I shouted again, just in case they were scanning me for voice recognition before acknowledging that they were on the other end. Nothing.<br />
<br />
In the background, I heard a muffled movement followed by the sound of someone eating from a bag of cheese puffs. Suddenly, there was a very pointed "HELLO" suggesting that I had impertinently failed to respond to a "911 call back". <br />
Crestfallen with disappointment, I tried to say hello again, but before I could, I was preempted by yet another "HELLO" from someone who was obviously using a tin can and string for their means of communication with the outside world. <br />
<br />
"HELLO, is this Phillip or Lydia Sartain?," the caller inquired in an obviously well practiced zombie monotone. Insulted both that they didn't recognize my deep melodious baritone voice as male, or conversely, that they thought that I was married to a woman who sounds like a Marine Drill Instructor, I paused to consider my rejoinder. <br />
<br />
Just as I about to respond, I heard still another more urgent zombie "HELLO", and it lead me to wonder whether this solicitor was stationed on Mars, thus accounting for the built in time delay. <br />
Befuddled, I tried again, "Hello."<br />
<br />
Again, I got the same stupid question, "May I speak to Phillip or Lydia?"<br />
"They're not here," I answered. <br />
"Do you have any idea when they'll be home?"<br />
"No, I haven't seen them since the Secret Service called."<br />
There was pause, and before he could say more, I cut him off with a question, "What's the weather like on Mars and do you like working there?" <br />
<br />
He hung up before I could ask him if there were any openings.
