Wednesday, January 19, 2011

I Ain't Buyin' What You're Sellin'

Enough is enough. I am tired of the bank calling Farmer H. There is no need for it. It is harassment of the first order.

Last night at 8 freakin' 30, the phone rang. Of course I had The Pony screening my calls. He looked at the phone display doodad and hollered, "It's the bank." Normally, I would let it ring. Because we don't need to talk to the stinkin' bank. They call at odd times when Farmer H is not available, and only want to talk to him. WTF? My name is on that account as well. I'm thinking it might have something to do with that Christopher Reeve insurance that Farmer H has had for some time.

With Farmer H cooling his scruffy heels right upstairs in the La-Z-Boy, I figured now would be the time to put an end to it. The bank used to hound us with phone messages, urging Farmer H to call them back. When he did, they said it was nothing much, really, no problem with the account (which is why he returned the call in the first place), but that they had some amazing services to offer.

Last night, I picked up the phone. A foreigner (and by that I mean a girl with a thick accent such as you might hear if you try to call Compaq computer support) inquired: "Farmer H Hillbilly?" Um. NO. I do not remotely sound like a man. Especially not like curmudgeony Farmer H. I do not have a raspy smoker's voice like Suzanne Pleshette, former TV wife Emily to Bob Newhart's Bob Hartley.

If you can not tell a woman's voice from a man's, or you do not recognize that Farmer is a man's name, by cracky, then you do not need to be making service calls for a financial institution. I don't care if you were born and raised here and got your accent from your FOB parents, you do NOT need to be annoying people at 8 freakin' 30 at night. Period.

I held the phone away from my ear (okay, so maybe it was closer to my mouth) and hollered for The Pony to holler for his dad to pick up the phone. And then a terrible coincidence occurred. Just after I heard Farmer H flap shut the leg shelf of the La-Z-Boy, my thumb slipped on the ancient clunky early Seinfeld type phone receiver, and cut off the call.

I'm sure they'll call back.

Just so you know: FOB stands for Fresh Off the Boat. There is a hilarious blog called My Mom is a FOB. It appears that they just released a book of their greatest hits.


Jennifer said...

I hate those types of phone calls.

And don't get my Momma started about the one she had last year that wanted to know if her wife was home.

Makes me wish for the name and number of the person at the bank/insurance office/etc to call them at home at 9pm or at 3pm on a Sunday.

Go get em!

Mommy Needs a Xanax said...

Unless they're also jackasses, in which case it's okay to call them SOB's. Straight off the boats.

knancy said...

Took your advice and checked out FOB. So much fun! I love the warmth and caring in this family that shows through THREE languages. Thanks for the link.

Hillbilly Mom said...

Sometimes I just want to lay the phone down and let them talk.

Mommy Ann,
They need to obtain gainful employment as phlebotomists.

It cracks me up.

Kathy's Klothesline said...

Hate those calls, they usually ask if my mom or dad are here (guess I have a youthful voice, I tell no lies when I say that neither of them is available. But, Thursday morning at 5:05 AM the phone rang and awakened me. Left no message and hung up before I got to it ......UNKNOWN CALLER. Hate that even more!

Hillbilly Mom said...

The #1 son hates it when they call him Ma'am.