Okay, now that I've been working from home for over a month, I must confess something: I'm afraid of answering my own phone.

It's never an editor who wants to buy my article, a client needing new copy for a website or a friend checking in to see if I'm out of bed yet. No, it's some timeshare operator telling me I've won a fabulous prize that I need to attend a 90-minute presentation in order to receive. Or a charitable organization raising funds for three-legged hamsters with issues about sunflower seeds.

So I've started being one of those bitchy women who cuts them off before they finish the first scripted sentence with an

"I'm not interested, please take me off your call list."

It normally works, but then there's the occasional die-hard telemarketer who thinks that I just need to hear more about their organization so that I can make a more informed decision. That's when Bonequa, my inner biatch, comes onto the scene:

"Are you hearing me?"

"Mrs. Starling, we need your help to get these hamsters what they need--"

"You ain't axed me what I need. Do you know what I need?"

"Um, we'd appreciate anything you can give."

"I can give you three heaping cans of whoop-ass, how's dat?"

"Oh, we're really looking for monetary donations."

"You dissin' my whoop-ass?"

"No ma'am. Obviously your whoop-ass is very valuable--"

"Dat's right, uh huh. I'm gonna hang up now cuz we're done."

Now I do understand that pesky telemarketers are just trying to make a living, but some of them have to get a helping of attitude when they push me too far. Sure, it's my decision to answer the phone in the first place, but why should I have to suffer for it? And no, I don't want to spend my hard-earned cash on call display, thank you very much.

As soon as I sign up for that, you know I'll get more calls about other services I can add to my phone. Sigh.

Bonequa out. Represent.