My kids think they know everything. And my husband as well. But let me tell YOU something. They don't. Take the case of the unexplained phone call, for instance.
Sunday morning, between 8:00 and 9:00, I was sitting in front of my picture window, trying to see if there was any frozen precipitation on the ground. Oh, and I just happened to be sitting on the end of the coffee table, perusing a favorite website on my laptop, which is the linchpin of the whole internet capability operation at the Mansion. For me, that is. The boys use their smart phones. They think they are so smart. Their smartness manifests itself when they say things to me like, "Everything is NOT a conspiracy, you know!" Huh. That's what THEY think.
The phone rang. The house line. The Pony is our first line of defense. Why should we aging bill-payers get off our considerable duffs to run to the phone, or even farther, to the caller ID? Yeah. There's no logical reason. That's why we had kids. Well, actually it was to change the channel. The screening calls thing is just a happy accident.
The Pony was already ensconced on his couch in the basement. He trotted over to look at the phony under the plier-lamp. That's a whole other story that has already been told. He hollered upstairs, "It's some NATIONALITY-REDACTED woman!" He rattled off the number. Not an area code with which I was familiar.
"I'm not answering!" I could hear the answering machine pick up. I strolled at my leisure out of the living room, behind the couch, across to the master bedroom, around our unmade bed, to my side where the answering machine resides. That's because I don't have to host a breather on my nightstand. By that time, the N-R female was rattling off her mission, with a thick accent. To please tell someone to call her. I got there late, so I didn't know who she asked for. And I was not particularly interested in listening to it at that time. As I started back around the foot of the bed, the phone rang again. I heard The Pony call out that is was the same person. He is well-trained, my little personal secretary. Farmer H, though, is not.
I heard Farmer H gallumping toward the phone between the living room and kitchen. He snatched it up, breathless. "What? WHO? No. You have the wrong number." See? What was the use? I was not happy. You never know when somebody is just calling to see if you're home, so they can send fifty more calls your way, asking for donations to various causes, because technically, they do not comply with the DO NOT CALL list, being charities and all.
To be continued...
2 comments:
The lucky ones (like me) have a last name (and a first one, apparently) that is difficult to pronounce. When they mangle it, I say, "No one by that name lives here," and hang up.
Sioux,
I normally shout, "No thanks!" during their canned introduction, and hang up. Of course, when The Pony is home, he prevents me from picking up.
Post a Comment