When I returned from lunch yesterday afternoon, my phone was ringing. I answered it, only to discover one of my least favorite customers was on the other end of the line.

“Crystal,” she says with that stereotypical Rhode Island accent that sounds like a cross between South Boston and Mike Myers’s “Coffee Talk” SNL sketches, “this is Helene*. Tell me, does this phone have voicemail.”

Cringing at the sound of her voice I tell her that all of our lines automatically come with voicemail at no charge. “How do I use it?” she inevitably asks before I can give her my voicemail-for-the-lootomized directions. I explain how all she needs to do is hold down the 1-button and follow the prompts when it’s connected. “Thank you Crystal, you’re a dear,” she says and hangs up.

She calls back less than 2 minutes later. “It says I’m connected, but it’s not showing anything, no prompts like you told me to look for.”

Firmly believing that this woman’s blonde dye has been leeching her braincells since birth and picking up on her use of the word “look”, I ask her “Did you listen to what the prompts said?”

“No, do I have to listen to the phone? It doesn’t just come up on the screen?”

*facepalm*