Can I just say that I love my new apartment? OK, I love my new apartment. It's a tad bit smaller than my old place, but it's much more nicely laid out. It feels like I have actual rooms! A real living room! A true kitchen! A bathroom that guests don't have to traipse through my bedroom to get to! And, my true love, the sun room! (Even though I still haven't unpacked in there yet ... but I can't wait to get my bookcase set up AND a comfy chair and just truly enjoy that room the way sun rooms are meant to be enjoyed.)
To go with my adorable new place, I wanted a real phone. Not a cell phone, an actual phone with a land line number. I went to Target and bought one of those novelty phones that look old-fashioned. I set it up next to my bed, and pictured myself back in high school again, except this time I'm allowed to have a phone in my bedroom.
... one week later, and AT&T finally fixes my account so that I can actually use this wonderful phone. I get home last night with a note on my door instructing me to test out the line. Success! There is a dial tone. I immediately call my mom, give her my new number (probably a mistake, now she has TWO numbers to reach me at), and basically spend nearly twenty minutes gazing admiringly at my phone.
C'est parfait, non?
Yeah, not really. I got SIX phone calls last night, four being telemarketers. Two being the wrong number. After the third call I immediately go online and signed up for the do-not-call list. And today I've already answered a wrong number. My passionate love affair with Alexander G. Bell is quickly fading.
The one call that got me was the Georgia State Patrol.
" ... hello?" (Me thinking: Um, the only person who has this number right now is my mom ... not some stoner 30-something man.)
"Hey! How are you?"
" ... I'm sorry, can I help you?"
"This is Carly, right?"
" ... can I help you?"
And then I was told how grateful the GSP was for my contribution for bullet proof vests.
Now, I did NOT contribute to the GSP for ANYTHING, and it took me a few minutes to realize that what this stoner 30-something man meant was that the GSP would be grateful for my contribution that he was apparently so certain would happen. I'm sorry, but I do NOT give my credit card information to some random guy on the phone. Plus, I spend much of my time driving the speed limit to NOT have to pay anything to the GSP.
After four minutes of listening to this guy just not. shut. up. I finally said, "Sorry, not interested," and hung up.
Since when did telemarketers take on a level of familiarity, though? "Hey! How are you?" Sorry stoner 30-something man. My mom still says, "Hello Carly, this is your mother," so don't hold your breath expecting me to jump to that level of comfort just yet.
I still love my phone, just not quite as much. The honeymoon (that lasted about 30 minutes .... hmmmm ...) is over and now we're learning to co-exist.
All I know is that my ex the cell phone would have NEVER allowed some sales person to interrupt my viewing of 'So You Think You Can Dance.'