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From Jorie Green's, "Sauce on the Side," Fall '96 From Jorie Green's, "Sauce on the Side," Fall '96Being put on hold one too many times can turn anyone into a sadist.From Jorie Green's, "Sauce on the Side," Fall '96Being put on hold one too many times can turn anyone into a sadist.I've never cared much for New Year's resolutions or those infamous diet-starts-Monday vows, because like many who have yet to read such '80s classics such as I'm Okay, You're Okay, I'm pretty cynical about my capacity for self-improvement. 1. Bad math GRE scores. 2. Never learned how to swan-dive. 3. Lack of appreciation for "alternative" music. 4. Never read Dante's Inferno. 5. Stretch marks. 6. Cruelty to customer service agents. There are worse flaws I could have, of course. I could be cheap. I could be dishonest. I could spend too long at the Amtrak ticket counter when 200 people are trying to make the next Metroliner to New York. (That brunette only looked like me, I swear.) All I have, though, aside from five other itsy-bitsy little deficiencies that are almost endearing -- at least to my friends -- is one truly evil tendency: that pesky customer-service agent thing. And, like eating too much chocolate or shouting "Boo!" at a bad movie (like Father of the Bride, Part II -- definitely one to miss), it's a forgivable weakness because it is so hard to resist the temptation. It's just so hard not to torment such awful, awful people. Imagine the following situation: Your car is stuck under what seems to be either a gigantic mountain of snow or a dead polar bear, and you've been waiting outside on a pay phone for the entire afternoon for the AAA agents to pick up. When Mr. White finally asks you what he can do for you, how do you respond? Only a saint could reply simply, "The battery in my Oldsmobile is dead." The perfectly natural reaction, of course, is to say, "Yes, there is something you can do for me. Kindly lock yourself in a meat freezer for an hour and listen to some ex-phone-sex operator coo in a ditzy voice, 'Your call is verrry important to us. Puh-leeze continue to stay on the line.' " Unfortunately, then Mr. White will feel justified in hanging up on you, forcing you to call back and repeat the entire waiting process. But there is a delicious satisfaction in hearing him cough uncomfortably at your tartness, as you arouse him with an imitation of the Puh-leeze Hold Lady. (After enough experience with customer service agents, you too will learn that most of the male employees have a thing for Miss Puh-leeze Hold, whose real name, I believe, is Hilda. In fact, some men who don't even have cars call AAA, just so they can hear her tell them how verrry important their call is again and again and again.) Even if some amount of antagonism toward customer service agents is forgivable, I sometimes fear that I may have taken it to an extreme. In general, I would describe myself as a sweet, gentle, compassionate person with pretty decent fashion sense. But at the same time, I can't get around the fact that I have caused at least a dozen complete strangers to take up carpentry and key-making, and at least half a dozen others to stop working altogether. Yes, it was I who caused Agent Johnson's ulcer to fester, Agent Clarke to bash in Agent Michaelson's fender at the Wade Cablevision parking lot and PECO Employee-of-the-Month Agent McDonnell to enter therapy and never leave it. To my credit, I hear that my haranguing phone call was just what Philadelphia Gas Works Customer Satisfaction Agent Ellesworth needed to prompt her and her husband to take a long-awaited vacation in Palm Springs, which I hear is lovely this time of year. But I'm not sure this is something I should be proud of, since it was not my intended result. What I wanted, in fact, was to draw blood. I wanted to bring the entire PGW staff to the same level of frustration and mania that I had reached. After all, while Agent Ellesworth put me on hold for what must have been her entire lunch hour, icicles were forming on my ceiling fan. It was late November, and so chilly in my bathroom that my toilet seat felt like the Franklin Field bleachers at this year's Homecoming. Ouch! I had to ask my grandmother to sew me a special insulated down cover for it, convincing her once and for all that I'm a pervert. "But dear, why don't you just let me knit you a nice afghan? They're so versatile!" I knew I had a problem when I asked an advisor in the Office of Off-Campus Living how to get PGW to turn on my gas, and she suggested that I take up synchronized swimming or pottery as a productive way to relieve my stress. I didn't listen to her, of course, and when several months later, Wade Cablevision kept me waiting at home for a week, making and breaking appointments to hook up my television, I frankly felt much better smashing pots than I would have if I had been making them. (It may not seem like a big deal to stay in a finally-heated apartment for a week, awaiting the luxury of paid programming, but I did have that Kaplan GRE math prep class that I really, really needed to attend.) I have thought of one way to redirect my hostility towards customer service agents: I could become one. I can think of nothing more thrilling in the world than sitting at a desk by a phone ringing off the hook, lifting the receiver and whispering in a sultry voice, "American Appliance Customer Service, puh-leeeze hold." After all, you never know who might be on the other line. It could be Agent Ellesworth, anxious and pacing and stuck at home, waiting to get her dishwasher fixed.