Quality Assurance

So my phone got cut off. My cell phone, my only phone, my sole connection to the outside world. Sort of.
So I was calling my mom today when this machine lady comes on saying “Your call may be monitored for quality assurance.” And the first thing I thought was, boy, standards for mothering must have changed since yesterday. Or maybe she was on mothering probation. I can’t think of why, although we drive each other crazy sometimes, things have been more or less smooth.
Then I realized my tricky cell phone company has re-routed all of my calls to their office.
So I call the office and he asks me all kinds of ridiculous questions to make sure I really am Ms. Cuthand, the negligent bill payer. I hate having to prove I am who I am. Then he tells me to cough up a crazy sum of money, which I of course don’t have.
Which means I need to call my family for money, which I hate doing because I feel like a sucky baby who can’t take care of herself and I already called earlier this month.
I would have to say calling to ask your family for money is one of the most demoralizing things you can do. And I bet it’s not so shit hot to be on the other end, heavy sigh as you reluctantly reach for your wallet or checkbook.
But whatever.
Boy, I wish other things in life were monitored for quality assurance. Like sex. Say there was like a referee there, “Oi! You’ve had two more orgasms than she has! . . . Hey! Don’t forget to nibble those earlobes! . . . She has a shrimping fetish, remember! And you call yourself a giving lover!” Actually, come to think of it that would be a buzz kill.
When I worked at the phone centre we sometimes had to tell people their call may be recorded for quality assurance. And we were an outbound call centre. Imagine the nerve it takes to disrupt someone’s dinner, tell them this call’s being recorded, and ask for money for the SPCA. That’s why I couldn’t do the job anymore. I just felt like I was being paid to be rude.
So the upshot of the story was I had to call from a payphone in my neighborhood, collect. In my neighborhood all the payphones turn off at nine o’clock to prevent drug deals being made. Like drug deals are only made after nine pm. You can use it to call 911 though, oh thanks, big help that is. I told my Grandmother about the pay phone situation here and all she said was “Those neighborhoods you pick! My word!”
Exactly.
Anyway, if you’re wondering why I’m not calling you, now you know.

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