Not much tonight. I have a long slog at the keys tonight, part of tomorrow and maybe into Thursday, but after that, sunshine should break over the land and all will be good once again.
“It’s all good.” There’s an expression that would sound stupid coming from my mouth. Yours too, prolly.
I have a blanket policy toward all telemarketers — please put us on your no-call list — but I make an occasional exception for market researchers, if I have time. How can I complain about the market if I don’t make myself part of the solution, I figure. Just enough time passes between market-research surveys that I forget how horrible the last one was. Tonight they were seeking my thoughts on food shopping, something I am well-stocked with. And so it began, after a promise it would take no longer than 8-12 minutes:
First, there were some who’s-on-first moments when I tried to explain that I didn’t patronize one store exclusively: “I go to Costco for non-perishable staples, Nino Salvaggio for specialty meats, cheeses and vegetables and Meijer for everything else.”
“That’s Cosso, C-O-S-O?” he asked. Hoo-boy. I should have just hung up. After I finally hung up, having rated all three stores in approximately 2,936 different areas (and yes, “deli prices” and “deli service” were two different ones, and “friendly checkout experience” was included), I checked the timer on the phone: 13 minutes, 5 seconds. Liar!
Once one of these clowns asked me if a particular brand of cheese led to good feelings in general or good feelings about my family. I asked if I could choose “give me a break, it’s Monterey jack, not single-malt Scotch” as a response. Alas, no.
Then, as if to mock me, came the robot call for Deadbeat Michelle, who used to have my phone number. It comes at least twice a week. It is entirely automated, and appears as “out of area” on the caller ID. I cannot ignore it because a) the editors at my best-paying client and b) my dear friend John, also have “out of area” displays (it seems to be related to VOIP). There is no key to press for “you have the wrong number.” And so we endure.
A bit of bloggage: When I was an adult who worked in an office with smart, witty people, I loved going to lunch with them. Joel Achenbach says lunch ain’t what it used to be. Noted.
Once more into the breach, then.