9/24/00

Home

Annesmug2.jpg (2713 bytes)

Journalbanner.jpg (7945 bytes)

September, 2000

9/24/00

Do people really pay attention to voice mail greetings? Or are they merely staring into space, twirling a lock of hair around a finger, zoning out a little as they wait for the inevitable, ubiquitous beep?

You see, I'm always, always getting voice mail messages on my home phone from strangers who've arrived at my number through either error in transcribing the number itself, or simply missdialing. It's getting to the point of identity crisis for me. Should I know these people? Of course not. They just aren't paying attention to MY greeting.

Now, I'm certainly not faulting anyone for dialing a wrong number -- heck, I've done my fair share of it. I try to take care when punching the keypad and I make every effort to get the correct phone number. But mistakes happen -- whether they're under your control or not.

Except for one thing. When I realize that I've connected with a wrong number, I do not leave a message on its answering machine. Because I know that it's the wrong number. Because people almost always identify themselves in the voice mail greeting. When I'm trying to call Brenda, but get someone named Cathy, I'm certainly NOT going to leave a message. Simple enough, right?

Oh. If only it were that simple for most people. All people, I mean.

Here's my latest voice mail greeting:

Anne Hutchins is unavailable. I am the only one at this number. DO NOT leave a message for anyone else but Anne Hutchins.

Specific enough, you think? Not. A. Chance. At least, not when there are stoopid people out there with access to a phone.

Listen to a greeting I received on Friday evening (imagine, if you will, the voice of a woman who's probably smoked twelve packs of cigarettes a day for the last fifty years):

"Hello. I need someone to come down and repair my trailer. I'm Mrs. Harden and I live in (blank) Trailer Park. It's located at (gives address) in Chula Vista. It's the one with a brown Ford Granada parked out front. I need someone to come out here tomorrow. Thank you."

(Oh ghod, please don't tell me there's an Anne Hutchins in San Diego who repairs trailers. Please, please.)

So. After reviewing my voice mail greeting, do you find ANY mention of my acumen in repairing trailers? No, of course you don't. I would think that anyone whose business it is to repair trailers would definitely have that fact quite prominent in their greeting, right? Mrs. Harden just wasn't paying attention.

And notice that Mrs. Harden failed to leave her own phone number in her message? If she had, of course, I would have called to inform her that she had better re-check the phone number given her (or maybe get a newer prescription for her reading classes -- whichever the problem). She would have also gotten from me a brief lecture in "How to Listen Closely to Voice Mail Greetings."

I have to admit, at first listen, I thought the message was a joke. I mean -- a trailer park, a brown Ford Granada. But on second listen, it didn't sound so fake. I believe there really is an old woman in a Chula Vista trailer park who drives an old brown Ford Granada.

Trailer parks. I've always wondered why anyone would want to live in a house trailer. Astroturf lawns lined with small white-painted rocks, pink flamingoes in the front "yard." At least with an RV you can easily travel anywhere, anytime you want. Just start up the engine and move.

But a house trailer? Sure, they can be moved -- but you could uproot a regular house and have it moved (both are nearly as expensive to move, I think). At least when you move an actual house and plop it on a lot somewhere, it'll look as if it belongs there. But a house trailer? The neighbors would take a look at it and shake their heads. "Damn, Marge -- we've got a trailer next door. Damn." Not good for property values, I reckon.

Please don't send me indignant emails telling me of your happy trailer-park childhood -- that you were proud to grow up in a trailer. Well, heck -- let me say that I'm happy for you. And I'm not knocking standalone trailer-abodes -- with the right touch here and there, they can look almost like real houses. Almost. Still, my opinion of trailer parks will not change. They're still tacky, tacky -- and they will ever remain tacky.

Anyway. I'm kinda curious what Mrs. Harden needs repairing on her beloved trailer. Maybe her septic tank is in need of hoovering, or perhaps the floorboards are buckling. I can't get over the Granada, though. I wonder if her next door neighbor has an AMC Hornet and maybe another has a Plymouth Duster. Heh.

So. Here's my new and improved voice mail greeting:

Anne Hutchins is unavailable. I am the only one at this number. DO NOT leave a message for anyone else but Anne Hutchins. I don't repair trailers, I'm not a bank or insurance company, or a doctor's office. And I'm not your long-lost friend. I'm just Anne Hutchins. I'm a writer and a Web page designer*. That's as specific as I can get in less than 30 seconds. Thank you.

Think it'll fly this time?

*I can dream, can't I?

Bit by bit, I'm starting to get a handle on Photoshop. The "layer" concept is beginning to mesh in my brain. Look at the pathetic little doodle I did recently. (Bear in mind: I am a graphics novice.) From time to time I shall inflict more of my pathetic doodlings on you, my tiny audience. Hopefully they'll become less pathetic as I meander through the program. I've also got Fireworks 3 on order (hey, gotta take advantage of academic software prices). With that program, I hope to create a better background for my mainpage. I initially created it in Paint -- and unfortunately, it left behind an ugly pale yellow haze around the letters (which I've since learned are called "artifacts"). Also, Paint doesn't "anti-alias" the letters and hence, the jagged edges. Sigh. Someday soon, you will see a new and improved homepage.