To borrow the extremely disturbing words of Judi Dench in Notes on a Scandal--I saw the movie in Asheville over a week ago and have been unable to shake my fear of strange old ladies since--today has been a Gold Star Day. For brevity's sake, I shall list my reasons--
1. I finished my philosophy paper--after writing seven pages I finally came up with a thesis--with plenty of time to watch episodes of Scrubs. I am well aware from experience's sake that I should not have downloaded two seasons, given that I have a habit of forsaking all work for the idea of sitting numbly in front of my computer screen, chuckling at odd times and squelching any dissenting thought that wonders if I have any Chinese homework to do; alas, this experience is rather weak and its roots in reality are questionable.
2. My book on Alfred the Great came today; despite some bent corners I am quite delighted to further cultivate my newfound obsession in the Saxon monarch.
3. Jenn finally emerged from her hole in England and emailed me. Granted, the electronic information contained about 100 words, but it included a link to a blog she has finally started. Soon all my friends shall be but pages on the internet!
4. Despite cold weather, the sky is a painfully bright blue. I always love spring in DC far more than fall; maybe it's the semester schedule, with Spring Break followed by Easter Break that leaves ample time to recollect. Maybe it's the cherry blossoms, or maybe it's just that snow and bare trees in DC have a particular tint of ugliness to them.
How do you handle phone calls from telemarketers?
As a telemarketer myself--although I have been trained to call myself "fund raiser" (What's in a name? That which we call a rose, etc.)--I am somewhat sensitive to the brutality suffered by all people who deal with strangers on the phone for money. I detest those who hang up immediately upon hearing I am calling from their alma mater, I hate rude spouses who refuse to hand over the phone, I hate people who are short with me as if I am responsible for their traffic. All one requires is a simple, "I'm not interested, thank you." Then I can hang up, turn to the person next to me, make fun of alumni and their answering machines, and continue my calling for another two hours... all in the name of federal work-study loans.
This does not stop my father from torturing hard-working telemarketers, however. He ranges from pretending to be a seven-year-old child saying his father is not home to a bereaved brother saying the man of the house just died. But I suppose we all must have our amusements in life, especially when one's request to be put on the Do Not Call list is ignored.
I am tired.
