Canukistanis look to the south with envy. The United States is bigger, brighter, and filled with women practicing the highest standards of Western hygiene plus really cool libertine hedonism. Socialist People's Republic of Canada constantly strives to achieve and even exceed what comes so effortlessly to a nation of capitalist swine. That is why the local sales tax is 14%. What American city boasts more than 9%? (OK - Los Angeles with 9.75%, but soon to be over 10%! Tithe unto Arnold.) Thus it is that Great Dank North voice mail is like unto a roc to a sparrow compared with American voice mail.
My cubicle boasted an extension phone that not only required two weeks to be hooked back into the system from which it had been mysteriously sundered, but which also proudly bears a column of extension numbers none of which were my new extension. One week later still I was inculcated into the arcane mysteries of voice mail. Remember, it is "1" for yes, "2" for no, and try to not let your dingleberries get caught in the switchhook when you scratch your butt in frustration.
The first task the voice mail virgin must attempt is the recording of the greeting message. In the absence of a personalized message the system substitutes its generic one: "Pzybts frombish klatu burada nicto, BEEP!" After a flurry of 1s and 2s, some stentorian dribbling into the handset, and a final confirmatory 1... I punched in to hear "Pzybts frombish klatu burada Schwartz, BEEP!" The * and # buttons have undocumented features vital to the operation of the documented features. They provide remarkable job security for the last employee remaining who was present when the system was installed.
How lucky I was to have the Mini-Handbook of Voice Mail operations at my side, Volumes 1, 2, and 3. Hardly two hours later my masculine utterance was echoing through the aether, intercepting wrong numbers and FAX screeches, and filling to repletion some digital storage box buried in the basement. It was now time for my personal security code to be forever welded into place. How important it was that those naughty 900 number solicitations not fall into the wrong ears!
The system accepted up to twenty digits as a security code, adequate for my bloated Stanford University student ID number plus my high school locker combination, twice. I opted for "13," used to such telling effect in Arnold Schwarzenegger's movie Commando. The system then prompted me for a repeat of my security code for verification. Hardly two hours later my telephonic life was secured behind my bar mitzvah age. I had uncovered the separate Appendix to Volume 3 of the Mini-Handbook of Voice Mail and nothing could bar my way.
Were voice mail merely a way to collect messages, it could hardly claim the cachet necessary to pry loose serious corporate dollars for what is essentially a frustrating toy. That voice mail does not require Social Security employer payments-in-kind, health benefits, maternity leave, pension, or an 8-hour work day is not to be denied. Consider these many options, none of which can be avoided as you work your way down to the last vocal system prompt, which is "Do you wish to hear your messages?"
Touchtone Control, Security Code, Call Repartee, Leave a Message, Cancel a Message, Old Messages, Redirect same, Change Greeting, Review Old Messages, Receive Calls, Send Memo, Call a User, Advanced Features, and finally after your fingernails are shattered and your finger pads blistered from touchtone impacts we arrive at "DO YOU WISH TO HEAR YOUR MESSAGES?" They would not put that option first. It would not be the obvious product of an MBA's reveries. What other MBA's could sit around at the club boasting of the complexity of their new voice mail system, and how their secretaries are driven mad by it?
There is a command to adjust the number of rings before the automatic answering machine grabs your extension. It is in Appendix B of Volume 3 of the Mini-Handbook of Voice Mail, yet to be published. I have shucked my steel-toed safety boots in favor of wearing sneakers in the lab in violation of US Occupational Health and Safety Administration regulations (no big deal in Canada, where they assume you are wearing logging boots anyway), but really useful for entering into a controlled skid as I round the bend into my cubicle before the third ring terminates. Do not ask for whom the 111-13-22*##11*2* tolls. It tolls for me.