Eden Hill Journal

Comments, dreams, stories, and rantings from a middle-aged native of Maine living on a shoestring and a prayer in the woods of Maine. My portion of the family farm is to be known as Eden Hill Farm just because I want to call it that and because that's the closest thing to the truth that I could come up with. If you enjoy what I write, email me or make a comment. If you enjoy Eden Hill, come visit.

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Location: Maine, United States

Thursday, April 14, 2005

Who Is This Calling?

The setting: My home
The time: Late afternoon, approaching dinner time
I have the radio on moderately loudly and am listening from the other room to Democracy Now. I am home alone.
The phone rings. I go to the phone and pick up the receiver. "Hello?"
There is a pause of silence typical of spam calls while the computer figures out that my phone has been answered by a live human being and not an answering machine, then a recorded submissive female voice comes on, "Please hold while I try to connect this call."
Stretching the cord, I walk to turn down the radio and the submissive voice returns, "I am still trying to connect your call. Please hold."
I hold.
After a short pause a much more powerful and dominant older female voice comes on and says in a New Jersey type of accent, "May I speak with [my son's full name]?" My son doesn't live here but I'll be damned if I'm going to tell that to some damned strange dominant old bitch who doesn't even have the decency to dial me herself but rather considers her own precious time more valuable than mine.
I hesitate for a moment, "Who is this calling?" I ask accusingly.
"Scuse me?" the dominant female asks?
"I said..." again in the same accusing voice, "Who is this calling?"
She hangs up the phone.

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