More Fun Than Sex!

Actually what I said to the cats when I got off the phone was, “That was the most fun I’ve had since Sunday!”
So it wasn’t actually MORE fun than sex, but it was pretty damn fun. What? Letting loose on some poor guy named Steven Practer. Or Proctor-but-pronounced-funny, or something. Who knows what his name is, really? Who cares?
A couple of weeks ago, when I was in the Pit of Vonage Hell, I got a “visual voice mail” from this guy, only the nice people at Vonage (Yohn’s friends) had trouble deciphering the words. With “visual voice mail,” they create a “transcript” of the phone message and e-mail it to you. Whenever they’re not sure of a “word,” they guess and then put this "(?)” So the messages look something like this:
“This is Steven Practer (?) at 765432 (?) with a massage (?) for Mrs. Sackery (?)”
And on and on in that helpful vein.  If you got a lot of messages, this would make you lose your mind. What this “massage” appeared to be about was reaching one of my in-laws about some legal something. I ignored it. I have nothing to do with anything that doesn't have anything to do with me. I learned years ago, after many trials and errors, that other people’s problems are absolutely none of my concern. I don’t need to know what they are, and I don’t need to do anything about them, and I don’t need to hear about any of it. There is absolutely no way in the world anyone could have anything legal to do with me UNLESS the Scary Bat People from the IRS have decided to come after me. For what reason, I would not know. But you know they strike fear into my little heart. Perhaps it’s those sunglasses.
Oh, no. Wait. Those are Men in Black. I KEEP getting those guys mixed up.
And, oh, while I’m thinking of that:  I had a melt-down last night, reading the newsflash from the New York Times about the latest Health and Human Services possibility’s tax problems, in which she made some “errors” and has now written a nice check to make everything all better. I cannot fucking believe this. Here I am, every March, spending hours and days going over every single receipt, double-checking to make sure every deduction is fair and honest and every bit of income logged in. I worry and hyperventilate a LOT over this, and Karen, who prepares our taxes, spends more time soothing me and calming me than she does figuring out the depreciation on the laptop. I then  read about some asshole who wants to 1) live off a government job, with a salary paid by—gee!—us who 2) thinks taxes are for The Little People and just don’t apply to her.
This is a woman. A democrat. It’s not just the Evil Bastard Republicans who are assholes about this. It’s everyone, apparently. You get to a certain level of income and success, and suddenly you’re not actually human any more. You don’t have to follow the rules because they’re not meant for people like you. No! You’re special. You’re entitled. You’re above all that.
And if you get caught being above all  that? You laugh it off, write a nice check, and go merrily on with it, assuming that all will be forgiven—because, when you’re Successful, all always IS forgiven—and you’ll get the appointment or the job or the million-dollar bonus for Hard Work Well Done.
While I add up my receipts for postage and magazines.
Where was I? Oh:  better than sex. Steven Whoever-He-Is. He called back this morning. Since I now have Clearwire, and no longer have Visual Voice Mail, I get a WAVE file sent via e-mail for the phone messages. So I could actually hear his officious voice, threatening legal action within 48 hours and demanding that I respond.
Oh, honeys, I responded. You betcha. I hardly ever get to exercise my considerable talent for discourse, and I hardly ever get to vent my spleen (is it just me, or does “vent my spleen” sound like I’m locating that particular organ and using a kitchen knife to pierce it full of little holes?) at an actual human being. There are few things that set me off more quickly than some Officious Person trying to get all uppity and in my business about something they know nothing about, trying to intimidate me into doing whatever-it-is that they want me to do. I do not deal well with Authority Figures and think Self-Importance is as silly and useless as tits on a snake. But I hardly ever get a chance to vent, since I hardly ever have these kinds of encounters.
I did this morning, though. I called the number and talked to Steven Somebody, with some business suspiciously called something like “Legal Action Corporation.” Something that sounds like a fake name they made up for scamming people, like they’ll call you up and demand your date of birth, driver’s license number, and social security number and then go, ‘Oh, sorry:  wrong number! Never mind.” And hang up and begin cleaning out your bank accounts.
My side of the “conversation”—if you want to call it that, because he didn’t get to say a whole lot—went something like this:
“First of all, my name is not ‘Mrs. Zachery.’ My name is Ms. Freeman-Zachery. So I don’t know where you got my name or my phone number, but it has absolutely no bearing on any case you may have, and I do not appreciate having you call not once, but twice, threatening me with legal action if I don’t respond. The first time, I ignored it, as I assumed you had the wrong number. But since you called back and left another threatening message this morning, I figured it was time for me to call and get this straightened out so you won’t have any excuse to leave any more threatening messages on my machine, ever. [This is the part where I should have paused and let the man speak, but you know how a good rant is kind of like an impending orgasm, and you really don’t much want to stop]. There is absolutely no way that I have anything to do with any possible ‘case’ you might be working on, and there is absolutely no reason for you to ever call me again. Ever.”
It kind of went on like that for a while, with Steven trying to interrupt now and then and kind of stuttering around. I finally let him apologize several times and promise to remove my name from the contact list. It was so much fun! I was so jazzed that I actually pumped my fist when I hung up. Jock that I am.
Here’s the secret to getting these people to leave you alone. It has worked for me in oh! so many situations: you have to be in the right (or convincing enough to make people believe you believe you are), and you have to be able to talk a mile a minute, making sense and inserting the occasional baffling officious-sounding big word. If you can keep this up, pointing out the error of their ways and the rectitude not only of your position, but of your entire LIFE, up until this very moment, they will be sitting there in their cubicle, listening to your voice droning on and on and on and on—never shouting! never cussing!  never angry—but very irritated and righteous!—for what begins to seem to them like Forever. Their mouth sags open, their eyes droop, they begin to drool on themselves. If you master this, you can get almost anyone to cross your name off almost any list. It works even with lawyers—it’s how I finally got the oil and gas company attorney to give up and turn my mother’s lease over to me, even though they’d been sure they could stall me forever. Oh, the naiveté. It’s how I got Chemlawn to replace the trees they killed. How I got a check for $438 to replace the ruined shower door.)
Now, lest you argue that the poor man was just doing his job, remember:  he has the name of the person he’s looking for. It is not my name. He knows that. He does not know me. If he wanted my help in tracking down this person, there are many things he could have said that would have encouraged me to be helpful. But to assume, as he did, that I’m someone who has the kind of life that would make me quake and shiver when he threatens me with legal action? Bad first move. He’s an investigator; he should know more about working his contacts. What should he have done? Ah. His message should have sounded like this:
“Ms. Freeman-Zachery, this is Steven P-r-a-c-t-o-r [because he’d know it was weird and so would want to be as helpful as possible and would spell his name], and I’m hoping you can help me. I’ve read your fabulously entertaining blog, and I recognize you as a brilliant and compassionate person and know you’d want to help me investigate [“help me investigate” will always bring out the Super Sleuth Girl Harriet the Spy persona] a little matter that, technically, has absolutely nothing at all to do with you. I know you’re very busy, but I’ve run into a dead end, and I could sure use your help. Please? And, by the way, that post yesterday was the funniest thing I’ve ever read ever in my life. You kick Ann Lamott’s ass, you really do.”
I would have photocopied birth certificates for him.