The issue is “junk phone.” This morning, between washing the kitchen floor, cleaning the toilets, and settling into my home office (exciting morning, eh?), I fielded six calls asking for my money, my phone service, my husband’s life insurance, my grocery dollars, my dirty rugs, and my aluminum siding--which we don’t even have on our contemporary-style home.

I politely listened to the first caller’s appeal and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t donate over the phone.” Then I wished him luck--imagine that?!--and said goodbye, my smile not yet wilting.

The second time, I dropped my mop and raced to the phone, sliding across the slippery kitchen floor like a baseball player trying to make the plate on time. “Hello,” I cheerfully said, trying to sound less stupid than I looked after just smashing into the wall.

“Is this Mrs. Pollack?” This should have been a tip-off, since my mother lives in Lexington not Bedford, and in this house I’m known as Mrs. Fusi.

“Sort of,” I answered suspiciously. “Who’s calling?” When this gentleman announced he was calling on behalf of an unnamed aggressive (read: pushy) phone company that’s asked for my service four million times in the past year, I curtly said, “I’m not interested.” Yet I tolerated a few more awkward exchanges before finally wiggling out of the call.

I continued my tasks, now completely engrossed in the fine art of toilet cleaning, a permanent scowl on my face. The phone rang. Probably my husband checking in, I thought. I let it ring several times, assuming he’d wait. Finally, I banged the toilet brush against the side of the bowl, quickly washed my hands, and sprinted to the kitchen phone--careful this time to avoid the home base slide.

“Hello,” I said, enthusiastically.

“Is this Mrs. Fusi?”

“Yes,” I said, not expecting a woman’s voice. For a moment I wondered if it was the orthodontist’s office calling to confirm my 11-year-old’s appointment. “How are you today?” she asked.

This time a light bulb finally lit inside my head. Another telemarketing call! (The orthodontist’s staff, while pleasant, doesn’t give a hoot about my health as long as I get my kid there on time and pay my bills.) Instantly, I grabbed my right wrist with my left hand and wrestled the two sides of my conscience until the not nice side won. Slamming down the receiver, I felt triumphant about avoiding the rest of her speech on life insurance!

By the fourth, fifth, and sixth calls this morning, I only allowed callers 4.3 seconds to prove worthy of my time, or get a not nice and exceptionally loud slamming sound in their ear.

So, you see, that’s why I’m not always a nice person anymore, Melissa. Right here in my own home, I’m disrupted, inconvenienced, harassed, and bothered. It’s making me unfriendly, rude, and not nice--though I’m not stealing Dalmatians yet, dear.

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