My daughter Savannah is the only other person aside from lonely, isolated seniors who actually gets excited about calls from telemarketers, a testament that girls’ phone addiction starts as young as 7.
One ring and she’s screaming “I’ll get it! I’ll get it!” and making a nosedive toward the phone and knocking me over in the process. She’ll even politely sit through a 5-minute spiel on how to reduce your electricity rates before cutting in with: “I think you want to talk to my mommy.”
On the upside she prevents me from having to deal with annoying solicitors and I can gather critical information about the inner workings of her life. The mere sound of her father’s voice on the line has the same effects as waterboarding. She’s immediately blabbing away about who did what to whom on the playground and why she didn’t eat her lunch. They can go on about nothing for a good half hour.
When mom calls dad’s, however, she clams up and resorts to a lot of “yups,” “nopes,” and “I don’t knows.” The sound of a blaring TV tells me not to take it personally. After all, who am I to compete with the Disney Channel?