We’ve all been there. Sitting, harmlessly, in the comforts of our own home…not bothering anyone…not causing harm…when suddenly, it happens.
The telephone rings. You, unassumingly, run to pick it up, thinking it might Oprah, calling to tell you you’ve won a car, a trip to Australia, and a fuzzy bath robe. You naturally check your caller ID, and your whole night suddenly descends into the depths of an abyss you cannot escape from. Yes, that’s right. From out of the blackness of night comes a demon far scarier than anything you could possibly imagine. A harbinger of sheer terror that allows no escape: a telemarketer.
I knew the moment I looked at my caller ID that this telemarketer was like no other. My Droid displayed a New York City area code, which, to me, is an automatic warning sign. I knew who it was, cringed to think of the conversation that would ensue, yet forced myself to answer the call instead of bluntly ignoring the caller, an action I am accustomed to performing.
“Hello! My name is Janice and I’m calling on behalf of the New York Philharmonic…”
During the two years I spent in New York City, I attended a total of two concerts sponsored by the New York Phil. Somehow, this meager action led them to believe that I’m a.) wealthy, b.) philanthropic, and c.) NOT plunged into grad school debt. I receive at least 4 calls a year from the Philharmonic, and my previous phone encounters with them have NOT resulted in any plaques labeled with my name, nor commemorative seats blazened with my likeness to glorify my donation. I’m not a stingy person, but I just don’t have $50/month to give to an organization which is 7 hours removed from my current city of residence.
Miracle on 32nd Street 