In Regards to the Battle of the Telemarketers Vs. Receptionists

A significant portion of my day is spent answering the phone. Though answering the phones may be one of my least favorite things to do, most of the people who call in are nice and considerate, which makes my job much more pleasant. A portion of my time on the phone is spent warding off telemarketers, who I thought were a nuisance before, but have recently become the bane of my existence. Since I have difficulty telling people off outright, I have to dance my way around why I cannot connect them with the "hiring manager" "the person in charge of the computers" or the name of an actual person who works at the company, but has nothing to do with what they're asking about, and should most definitely not be bothered by the call.

Telemarketers are worst in the morning, when I'm still battling the desire to go back to sleep and have not yet built up the stamina to deal with them. This morning, as people were just beginning to arrive, someone called asking who he could speak to about our company's Verizon account. I replied in my standard, polite way, asking if he had a name of someone I could connect him to--knowing full well that even if he did, I wouldn't connect him. At first he didn't veer far from our polite stock responses, but after I told him that if he didn't have the name of the person he wanted to speak with, there wasn't anyone I could connect him to, he started rattling off random guy's names--John, Tim, Steve. I managed to stay in character, which I think pissed him off even more, saying that there was not anyone by this name or that at our company, which strangely enough was true. After the fourth or fifth name, he pushed a button that made a loud beep and hung up.

Now there was no need to push that button and make a loud noise in my ear. And in this situation, I'm fully in favor of that saying "don't shoot the messenger." In the battle of the telemarketers vs. the receptionists, I believe there's no reason not to fake politeness to one another. We both stand in each other's ways and don't want to be talking to each other, so why not at least feign a mutual regard for the other's responsibilities and call a truce. I'll listen to your schpiel and pretend to attempt to connect you with someone and you say thank you and quietly hang up. Neither of us will have gained anything, but at least I'll still have my ability to hear.

one of my favorite words is apropos

Looking through the daily picture posts of graphic designer Christopher David Ryan, of all the pictures, I thought it was appropriate this one landed on my birthday, even if her hair isn't quite so curly. He's done some pretty neat work.

The Great Escape

I've just discovered (via Pitchfork) that Alex James, bassist for the band Blur, writes a column called "The Great Escape" for the The Independent, a British newspaper. Surprisingly (or perhaps not, considering the various endeavors the Blur boys have embarked upon in the last few years) the column has nothing at all to do with music, but instead with his daily life at his home in the country—dealing with his chickens and their eggs and watching the sunrise on a winter's morning. Basically he writes about why he loves his quite life in his country house in the north of England. While it seems James may be taking from the Blur song "Country House"--the one in which the man in the song retires to the country seeking respite from his chaotic city life--their stories may begin in the same way, but the endings are clearly different. The protagonist in the song finds his life in the country one of continued discontent, but from what he writes, it seems Mr. James has found his ideal locale.

There were two things in particular that struck my interest as I read a few of posts from "The Great Escape." The first was rather unsurprising—a longing for the peace and quiet, the laid-back nature and beauty of life at the country house. In a passage discussing a routine of sitting around to watch the loveliness of morning sunshine he writes, "I could see everything from up there. The dog, Socks, had formed an allegiance with Mackerel, one of the cats, and they were trotting around with purpose. Rooks tumbled out of the big oaks, fighting and screaming. The whole of the Evenlode valley, my valley, was laid out and it was hard to believe anyone was doing anything, anywhere." James describes a calm life, one not necessarily of invariable consistency, but one where not much happens and the small details are what provide excitement. As someone who has only experienced city life, I sometimes find myself wondering what living in the country would be like, not to have the alluring amusements of the city at hand to keep oneself occupied. Sometimes it sounds really nice.

What was even more surprising was that, in a way, I found myself, a dweller in the city-est of cities, relating to what James writes about. I have a different set of pre-occupations—I don't have to worry about the number of cockerels in my back yard—but like James seems to do, I also try to find my own way of taking pleasure in the little things. Sometimes I'll go a couple blocks out of my way to walk down 5th Avenue along Central Park on a mid-winters afternoon, just to see how the soft, pale light filters through the bare tree branches. However, living in New York and working a 40+ hour work week, I don't often have the time to sit and just watch the day pass, appreciating the world for merely existing, but perhaps it is precisely for that reason that I find it necessary to take pleasure in the minutia. I suppose it's important to take notice of these things no matter where you are, whether it's sequestered in the country on a farm or bumbling about in the big city, for without those interesting details, a person might find themselves aching painfully of boredom in the country or swallowed up by everything that one must do to sustain life in the city.