Skewing the Data

I am probably one of the only people you'll ever meet who loves to be surveyed. I'm always screaming when I see poll results: "Who ARE these people? Why didn't anyone ask ME what I think?" Well, darlings, last night was a dream come true for me. The phone rang while I was prepping for dinner. (No, not dressing, chopping and dicing and prepping to cook) It was a survey about my bank.

The voice on the other end sounded plump, cute and all of eighteen. I envisioned a college student working for her tuition, as opposed to just putting up a webcam and taking money from perverts. Not that there's anything wrong with that. And, let's be honest here, something I would have entertained as a viable means of income during my college days. It would have come under Fields' First Law: It is immoral to allow a sucker to keep his money. But I digress. The truth is more likely she was some 89 year old grandmother in a cheap mobile home doing this to keep from eating cat food. But to me, she sounded like a sweet young thing (hereinafter referred to as SYT) and I immediately decided to help her earn her keep for the night.

The survey was all about my new MINI credit card: the kind you're supposed to snap on your keychain and use for everything. I did snap it on my keychain. And I am using it. The SYT asked me if I was using it. I said yes. She asked why. I told her because it's cute.

She asked if I found it convenient. I told her yes, especially when going to concerts, because post 9-11, regular purses are frowned upon, if not downright disallowed in concert venues. I have taken to carrying one of these (except in a lovely green wool plaid, not logo. NEVER logo). And I asked the SYT if she was familiar with the product. Then I launched into a whole detailed explanation of the purselet, the contents of it when I go to a concert and why it is just the best thing in the world. I could hear the SYT's fingers just flying on her keyboard. That made me so happy.

Then the SYT asked me if I wanted to be entered in a drawing to maybe possibly win money. Well, who says no to money? Not me. I said sure. She asked me for an e-mail address. I gave her my webmistress address and encouraged her to visit Girlyshoes. "You can even sign my guestmap!" I was just as cute and chirpy as she was.

But then, the phone visit was over, and she had to go back to cold calling and getting hung up on and I had to finish my chicken stew.