People who know me frequently complain that I hardly ever answer my phone. I tell them that if they got the calls that [b]I[/b] do, they wouldn’t answer their phone either.
Today was a case in point. I’ve been getting up every two hours since Bunny’s puppies were born, so I’m operating in a constant state of groggy, sleep deprived confusion. Add to that the fact that I’ve come down with a cold, and you can’t be surprised if fielding puppy inquiries isn’t my favorite thing at the moment. Still, when the phone rang this morning with a NYC area code, I answered it, mostly because I was too out of it to remember not to.
Wrong choice. It was a whiny voiced girl who sounded like she was channeling the ghost of Paris Hilton’s worst mood. The conversation went something like this:
Her, in a tone of supreme boredom: I’m, like calling about your dogs, the ones on your internet thing?
Me: My web page?
Her: Yeah, whatever. The white ones? How much are they?
Me: Do you mean Bunny’s puppies?
Her: Yeah, the white ones. The ones on your internet thing.
Me: Are you on our mailing list?
Her, in tone that clearly implied a lot of eye rolling was taking place: Ummm, no!
Me, in tone that implies I need some coffee, soon: OK. Have you filled out an application?
Her, in tones of increasingly whiny impatience: No, like, I just want to know how much those two puppies are.
Me: Well, they’re not for sale.
Her, in tone of appalled, screechy, whiny disbelief: Well, I want those two, the ones that match. I want matching ones.
Me, in tone of ‘ok, I am too tired for this sh*t and have had enough’: Well, may I suggest that you get two that don’t match from someone else, and dye them, like a pair of shoes.
Her: Ok, what-ev-ever. Bitch.
Slam of phone.
Seriously? It’s a wonder I ever, ever answer my phone. Ever.