Way back in the dim and darkening past, I wrote about a telephonic moment in my life of which I am not the least bit cowed by the experience.
We had an internet provider who had the sad propensity to fairly religiously not reliably provide the service for which we paid, and one particular evening I had had more than enough.
The ensuing phone call proceeded as you would imagine – first the interminable “your call is of utmost importance to us, but not enough to actually provide humans to answer the phone.” When I finally reached a breathing being, I was, shall we say, just a tad antsy, as this was now the umpty-umpth time the internet had failed.
Pulling myself up to my full height while in the seated position, I admonished the company for not living up to its own promises and therefore our contract. I had an anxious editor awaiting my latest pearls of wisdom after all. Little Jimmy, wearing no doubt his short-sleeved white shirt complete with a pocket protector and with too much pomade in his hair, evidently didn’t take kindly to his beloved employer being slandered by some upstart old bag. In a resigned tone, he hit me with a withering “madam, the internet is only for entertainment purposes.”
At that point I confess I did go just a tiny bit “Trains, Planes and Automobiles” on him, and through gritted teeth I countered, apparently with an offensive word thrown in. I think it had something to do with bovine manure, but that isn’t important right now.
Jimmy was affronted: “I would ask madam to keep a civil tongue in her head.” That’s when I channeled Steve Martin in earnest.
“I will keep a bleep civil bleep tongue in my bleep head when you bleep provide me with the bleep bleep bleep service you bleeping promised me.”
At that point he hung up on me and sure enough, four and a half hours later, we had the internet back.
Rocket forward a couple of decades, and my darling Sir had a similar encounter this week. As we have both discovered of late, the problem with having nothing to do is that you don’t know when you’ve finished.
Deciding a bit of fun was to be had with an online poker site, he went to inject his account with a little cash – only $50 – but the bank evidently refused the charge. Upon calling said bank, Sir encountered what must have been Jimmy’s son.
“Sir, we don’t condone or approve of such an irresponsible charge,” came the answer. Sir, being raised as a good altar boy, was far more restrained than me – a not-so-good Methodist gal – and parried and thrusted with: “Oh, I suppose it was OK for me to go to the liquor store and buy alcohol and cigarettes, and then charge my latest visit to Ladies Ladies Ladies, but it’s a nay nay when gambling is concerned?”
Finally reaching a supervisor who had far more sense, the matter was finally resolved, but be warned:
Judge not lest ye be judged – with no apology from me about Jimmy.
Annie Dear lives in Lee’s Summit. Email her at email@example.com.