Does anyone else get frustrated by automated phone menus? You know, when you call a business and you hear, “You have reached ‘The Worst Business in the World’. Please listen carefully to the following, for our options have changed.”
And then they go on and list every department and finish it off by saying, “To return to the main menu, please press 0.” Lately, I have been feeling rebellious and yes, resentful at these phone menus. Frankly, they tick me the heck off.
I timed it the other day. I was on hold with our power company for 47 minutes.
I could have rewired my entire house in 47 minutes. By the time the customer service rep came on the line, my cell phone battery was dying and all I could do was shout “Please help me!” into my fading phone.
Our Internet went down. This is a disaster in my home. Without the Internet, George can’t look at really expensive oceanfront homes that we will never be able to afford.
Donnie can’t find comedians on YouTube and then laugh loudly for hours. And I can’t play Candy Crush Saga, which is in actuality a game designed by Satan.
So I called our Internet provider. I got the standard spiel, blah blah blah, …..and then a weird explanation from the automated she-devil on the other end. She said, “I am able to understand complete sentences, so please describe your issue.” Braggart.
So I said, “Our Internet is not working.”
She waited a few seconds and then said, “Let me make sure I got this right. You want to apply for a job?”
I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it for a second, wondering if I had lapsed into Gaelic for a minute.
I then said, a bit louder, “No. We need a repair. We need our Internet repaired.”
She paused and then said, “Let me make sure I got this right. You are hearing-impaired?”
Without thinking it through, I shouted, “I am not hearing impaired. You are hearing impaired. I want to talk to a human. A Human. Someone with an actual pulse.” Silence on the other end.
Another she-devil came on and informed me that my call would be taken in the order in which it had been received.
I had just been figuratively handed a chit with the number 764,378,943 on it. I was treated to eardrum-shattering, really bad jazz, and then a voice came on to tell me that my wait time was between two and four minutes. Yeah, sure.
She-Devil Number Three then came on the line and informed me that I could log onto their website to get my problem fixed.
Is this some kind of joke? I shouted, “If I could log onto the Internet, I would not be calling you, you meathead!” I then hung up, sweating and with a sore throat from all the shouting.
Another thing that annoys me is trying to log onto sites that I visit with some regularity (mostly shopping sites). Because these websites have scared me so much with the threat of hacking, I always use different passwords. Hence, I cannot remember any of them.
So I have to click on the humiliating link that reads, perkily and with a snarky tone, “Forgot your password?” (You know the developers want to say, “Hey, you. Yeah, you. The stupid one. Did you forget your password again???”)
Then I get a screen that asks me my height, weight, body mass index, blood type, number of body piercings, and a basic description of my first-born and his earning potential. Then and only then can I get onto the website to buy a pair of ivory shoes for a wedding.
Soon, I envision a world where I will have to prick my finger, squeeze out a drop of blood and press it against a certain spot on the computer screen to enable me to get into any website. All I want to do is shop, for crying out loud. I am not asking for a second mortgage or admission onto the space shuttle.
Technology.
