I know they get my name and number from some great all-knowing computer, the same demonic piece of electronics that furnishes my name and address to various mailing lists, but what I can’t understand is why the computer doesn’t also tell them I almost never buy anything over the phone. (I say almost because I suppose I did buy something, once, years ago, and I don’t want to explain this comment years from now in case I decide to run for political office.)
Now, I have given to some charities who’ve called. There are a lot of worthy organizations and I understand they need money. But about a year ago I began to get the feeling the computer had moved my name and number over to some sort of “preferred” list, possibly one that said this guy is particularly susceptible to pitches for kids or veterans’ groups. More and more calls came. I finally got as tired of them as the sales pitches and started to turn them down as well–especially the kind of calls that begin, “Mr. Peterson, this is Sergeant So-and-So from the Fairfax Police Department,” and, after a pregnant pause while my heart drops somewhere below my belt, and we’re collecting for the Boys’ Club" or whatever.
I’ve given to the Fairfax Police, and the Alexandria Police (both nearby suburbs), but I decided since I live in Arlington, I’ll keep my charity closer to home. Of course, since they’ve got my name, my phone number and my address, they must know my license-plate number, so I drive very carefully in Fairfax and Alexandria.
I know charities have to ask for contributions. I know businesses have to try and sell their products or services. What I don’t know is why they seem to take such delight in intruding into my life through the use of the telephone.
Every day there’s something in the mail with some kind of pitch. A real-estate agent says she could sell my house. The phone company wants to become my secretary. A veterans’ group gives me name and address stickers in the hope I’ll send them some money. Bank after bank want me to take their credit cards. Someone writes that I’ve won either a new car, a Florida vacation or a toaster. Ed McMahon wants to give me a million dollars.
These bits of paper may be a major annoyance to my mailman, but they don’t bother me. I can look at them at my leisure. I can decide whether a product looks interesting or a charity seems worthy and act accordingly. Or I can chuck the whole mess into the round file without a glance. But I don’t have to get up from the dinner table or interrupt my enjoyment of a TV show or a ball game or put down a good book to respond to someone’s demand for my immediate attention.
There was a time when I’d listen to the sales pitch even when I knew I wasn’t going to buy. There was a time when I’d ask for details about what the charity wanted to do with the money it raised. Then I’d turn down the salesman and either give a few dollars or turn down the fund raiser. Now it’s a rare evening when we don’t get at least two calls, sometimes three or four. Wouldn’t you think that the all-knowing computer would tell these people not to all call at once? And it’s never at a convenient time. I know the callers try to time it so they catch people at home, but do they have to interrupt dinner every night? Most of them don’t even make an attempt to find out if they have bad timing.
Last night in the middle of the 7 o’clock news some woman called, said she was taking a survey and started to ask me questions. She didn’t ask if I’d be willing to participate. She didn’t ask if I had the time. She seemed offended when I said I wouldn’t answer her questions. And all she had to do was reschedule the call. I enjoy answering surveys because I’m curious about whether the survey is legitimate and what information they’re trying to gather. I also want to find out if the survey is just an elaborate sales gimmick designed to get me interested in some product I never knew existed but now shouldn’t be without.
Then at 10.30 p.m. we got another call. We thought it might be a family emergency or an obscene call, but my wife wouldn’t let me answer. She picked up the phone, listened a bit, then politely said, “We’re not interested in another credit card, thank you.” I think I might have gotten really angry.
Much to my wife’s dismay, when a caller starts out asking for a Mr. or Mrs. Peterson I’ve started responding, “YOU sound like you’re selling or begging and I’m not interested,” and hang up. She thinks I’m rude. So do I. It’s intentional.
I know the person on the other end of the phone is either trying to make a living or is kind enough to volunteer his or her time for fund raising. I don’t mean anything personal. But I didn’t invite them into my house. I don’t owe them anything. They’re electronic intruders and deserve to be treated as such.
Complaining about my calls won’t stop them, I know that. My “castle” doesn’t have a moat and drawbridge I can raise to shut out the outside. Besides, I can’t get along without my telephone, so I guess we’ll have to fight these electronic intrusions with an electronic watchdog.
From now on, folks, if you call our number when we don’t want to be disturbed, you’ll get an answering machine. I’ll cheek it every hour and get back to you if you’re not selling or begging. If you are, drop me a line. I may even read it. But please … don’t bother to phone.
title: “Uninvited Dinner Guests” ShowToc: true date: “2022-12-20” author: “David Dorich”
I know they get my name and number from some great all-knowing computer, the same demonic piece of electronics that furnishes my name and address to various mailing lists, but what I can’t understand is why the computer doesn’t also tell them I almost never buy anything over the phone. (I say almost because I suppose I did buy something, once, years ago, and I don’t want to explain this comment years from now in case I decide to run for political office.)
Now, I have given to some charities who’ve called. There are a lot of worthy organizations and I understand they need money. But about a year ago I began to get the feeling the computer had moved my name and number over to some sort of “preferred” list, possibly one that said this guy is particularly susceptible to pitches for kids or veterans’ groups. More and more calls came. I finally got as tired of them as the sales pitches and started to turn them down as well–especially the kind of calls that begin, “Mr. Peterson, this is Sergeant So-and-So from the Fairfax Police Department,” and, after a pregnant pause while my heart drops somewhere below my belt, and we’re collecting for the Boys’ Club" or whatever.
I’ve given to the Fairfax Police, and the Alexandria Police (both nearby suburbs), but I decided since I live in Arlington, I’ll keep my charity closer to home. Of course, since they’ve got my name, my phone number and my address, they must know my license-plate number, so I drive very carefully in Fairfax and Alexandria.
I know charities have to ask for contributions. I know businesses have to try and sell their products or services. What I don’t know is why they seem to take such delight in intruding into my life through the use of the telephone.
Every day there’s something in the mail with some kind of pitch. A real-estate agent says she could sell my house. The phone company wants to become my secretary. A veterans’ group gives me name and address stickers in the hope I’ll send them some money. Bank after bank want me to take their credit cards. Someone writes that I’ve won either a new car, a Florida vacation or a toaster. Ed McMahon wants to give me a million dollars.
These bits of paper may be a major annoyance to my mailman, but they don’t bother me. I can look at them at my leisure. I can decide whether a product looks interesting or a charity seems worthy and act accordingly. Or I can chuck the whole mess into the round file without a glance. But I don’t have to get up from the dinner table or interrupt my enjoyment of a TV show or a ball game or put down a good book to respond to someone’s demand for my immediate attention.
There was a time when I’d listen to the sales pitch even when I knew I wasn’t going to buy. There was a time when I’d ask for details about what the charity wanted to do with the money it raised. Then I’d turn down the salesman and either give a few dollars or turn down the fund raiser. Now it’s a rare evening when we don’t get at least two calls, sometimes three or four. Wouldn’t you think that the all-knowing computer would tell these people not to all call at once? And it’s never at a convenient time. I know the callers try to time it so they catch people at home, but do they have to interrupt dinner every night? Most of them don’t even make an attempt to find out if they have bad timing.
Last night in the middle of the 7 o’clock news some woman called, said she was taking a survey and started to ask me questions. She didn’t ask if I’d be willing to participate. She didn’t ask if I had the time. She seemed offended when I said I wouldn’t answer her questions. And all she had to do was reschedule the call. I enjoy answering surveys because I’m curious about whether the survey is legitimate and what information they’re trying to gather. I also want to find out if the survey is just an elaborate sales gimmick designed to get me interested in some product I never knew existed but now shouldn’t be without.
Then at 10.30 p.m. we got another call. We thought it might be a family emergency or an obscene call, but my wife wouldn’t let me answer. She picked up the phone, listened a bit, then politely said, “We’re not interested in another credit card, thank you.” I think I might have gotten really angry.
Much to my wife’s dismay, when a caller starts out asking for a Mr. or Mrs. Peterson I’ve started responding, “YOU sound like you’re selling or begging and I’m not interested,” and hang up. She thinks I’m rude. So do I. It’s intentional.
I know the person on the other end of the phone is either trying to make a living or is kind enough to volunteer his or her time for fund raising. I don’t mean anything personal. But I didn’t invite them into my house. I don’t owe them anything. They’re electronic intruders and deserve to be treated as such.
Complaining about my calls won’t stop them, I know that. My “castle” doesn’t have a moat and drawbridge I can raise to shut out the outside. Besides, I can’t get along without my telephone, so I guess we’ll have to fight these electronic intrusions with an electronic watchdog.
From now on, folks, if you call our number when we don’t want to be disturbed, you’ll get an answering machine. I’ll cheek it every hour and get back to you if you’re not selling or begging. If you are, drop me a line. I may even read it. But please … don’t bother to phone.
