An argument with the Resident 15-Year-Old is an all-consuming event. The only way you stand a chance of winning is by maintaining absolute, laser-like focus as the young sophist tries to tie you in knots. Don’t believe me? This is a kid who at age six mounted a campaign to convince the middle school principal to let her transfer immediately to the MS. Rather than dismissing my ambitious expansionist, the wonderful Mr. Bailey started a debate with her — a debate that sharpened her innately argumentative nature at a young age. We’ve been paying the price ever since.

In the years since, my central nervous system has trained itself to tune out every distraction when I’m mid-argument. Every distraction except:

The one and only Mme. Mervat, a telemarketer for an ins. company and the sprit animal of Phoebe Buffay during her stint as a telemarketer selling toner, trying to make a sale to Earl, the suicidal supply manager (played by Seinfeld’s Jason Alexander). Mme. Mervat is as persistent, as strong willed, and every bit as much a go-getter as our quirky fictional friend.

Mme. Mervat lives by the mantra of Phoebe’s supervisor: “They’re always going to tell you that they don’t need toner, but that’s okay. Because whatever they say, you can find the answer to it here in the script.” If you’ve lived here long enough, you know that Egyptians are born script writers. Comic, horror — name a genre and we’re great at it. And we have an answer for everything, too.

What you say: No, thanks. I’m not interested.

What Mme. Mervat and her buddies hear: Bring it on, [redacted].

Phoebe eventually tries to save Earl, but Mme. Mervat? Her end game seems different. I’m convinced her senseless, endless, relentless calls are meant to drive me over the edge. It’s a sales logic that boils down to: I’ll take good care of your family after you kick the bucket, so just buy the [redacted] ins. policy.

Ins. Bank loans. Real estate in the new capital. A special in-store sale just for you. Whether it’s incessant calls or robo-messages via SMS (and now, increasingly, WhatsApp), there’s nobody with an Egyptian phone number who isn’t harassed around the clock — all while our four mobile network operators laugh all the way to the bank.

Mme. Mervat has become my ET — but this guest doesn’t want to phone home to go back to her home planet. No, friends: She’s made me the planet she orbits. If I ignore her call, she’ll call again. Hang up on her and you unleash her inner beast. Yell at her (“No, I’m not interested, dammit”) and she’ll just redouble her pursuit. Block her, she’ll call from a different number. And even if you triumphantly get rid of her, a clone will reach out to hit you the next day. I’m starting to think my only way out is sweet surrender.

I’m also starting to hate my phone. My husband can use it to track me. Angry friends and bored family members can leave me 10 missed calls just for the fun of it. And now I need the harassment of telemarketers? I’m not asking for world peace here. All I want is to sit, in the peace of my own living room, minding my own business, enjoying an almond croissant from Ratios, without the fear of my phone and head simultaneously exploding with “Let us sell you something” messages and calls.

None of us are safe. My friend just sold her unit in a compound — and has been stalked every day since by folks trying to sell her real estate. “It’s Groundhog Day every single damn day. Now I’m scared whenever my phone rings. It feels like they’re out to get me — and I’m not leading them on. I usually start the conversation with a blunt, ‘No, thank you, I’m broke.’ They think I’m hilarious.”

We’ve all been taught that a no means no — and it should apply to telemarketing as much as [redacted] harassment. Ironically, I can scare the [redacted] out of a pervert in the street and send him running, his tail tucked between his legs. But a telemarketer? That’s an unstoppable force of nature.

Go now and check your messages — how many are sitting there unread in the past day or two? Six? A full dozen? I’m so grateful to know that “The Cafex Event” (whatever the hell that is) is just around the corner. And that Kashier — bless him, her, or it — can’t wait to introduce me to its latest payment solution. What the hell is a payment solution? Kashier, who gave you my number? Do you even have a target audience? Because I’m certainly not it.

At least my loyal friends at Rush Brush know I’m a woman and are (presumably?) banking on my having a full head of hair. It hurts me to say that they send me more messages than my husband, daughter and immediate relatives combined. But I still don’t know to this day if they’re selling me a drybrush, hairbrush or a toilet brush.

Look, I love to buy — I just don’t enjoy being sold. The majority of telemarketers buy phone numbers from third-party data providers — and the rest is history. Every time you disclose your personal information to a source, you open the door for them to sell and resell your info. Whether it’s moral or not — lawful or not — isn’t something they pause to ask for a second.

Telemarketing — calls and unwanted messages alike — is here to stay, and maybe it’s time our elected officials do something about it. It’s not like they would want for legislative inspiration if they were to look into it.

In the United States and Canada, telemarketers are subject to penalties under legislation and regulatory regimes such as the Telephone Consumer Protection Act (TCPA, pdf). In the US, the TCPA sets out details on calls they deem unlawful and restricts telemarketers from making annoying sales calls to consumers. Even better, it requires telemarketers not to contact people without their consent. The law applies to home phones, cell phones, text messages — even fax machines (for the dozen people still using them). Under it, telemarketers can make calls only between 8am and 9pm — and if you tell them never to call you again, they have to listen.

Better than Santa’s Christmas list is the Do Not Call Registry list — every telemarketer’s nightmare. In the US and Canada, you can sign up and let the buggers know never to call you again. Only organizations such as political parties, newspapers, non-profits, charities and pollsters get exemptions — and violators get fines.

(We suggest our MPs consider putting some limits on charities, too. They call and call. You cave and donate. They call again and want even more. You’ll soon need a little charity yourself if you’re to keep up with all the requests for donations.)

With three quarters of all Americans now on the registry, the program was apparently wildly popular — a national scream for help that echoed around the world.

Because it’s not just in the West: Our beautiful neighbors in Abu Dhabi created their own do-not-call registry in September 2022. As happy as we are for them, we’re waiting for the ripple effect to hit our shores.

An Egyptian do-not-call registry would be a win-win situation, in my humble opinion. Screening out consumers who don’t want to be contacted would help telemarketers operate more efficiently instead of wasting their time on others. And God knows their staff — the poor wretches — would probably meet with a bit less verbal abuse.

In the meantime, I’m going to take a page out of Jerry Seinfeld’s book and ask Mme. Mervat, the next time she calls, for her personal mobile number.

Telemarketer: Hi, would you be interested in switching over to TMI long distance service?

Jerry: Oh, gee. I can’t talk right now. Why don’t you give me your home number, and I’ll call you later?

Telemarketer: Uh, well I’m sorry, we’re not allowed to do that.

Jerry: Oh, I guess you don’t want people calling you at home.

Telemarketer: No

Jerry: Well, now you know how I feel.

[hangs up]

Sorry, guys. Nothing personal. Or as Billy Crystal as Dr Ben Sobel once said, “Don’t kid yourself, Jelly. It doesn’t get more personal than this.”

ANALYZE THIS is a regular Enterprise Weekend column by the Mother of the Resident 15 Year-old.