I rarely answer the phone. It’s simple logic–99.5% of incoming calls are for the Missus. And when I do answer it, I have to take a message.
“Have her call me.”
From there, I have two options: A: try to remember who it was or B: write it down. Option A is highly unreliable. Option B sometimes works, but only if I can remember where I put the note (see Option A).
My former employer grants me a free answering devise for all her calls. Why not put it to use?
Then there are all the annoyance calls, the telemarketers, the politicians, and what I call the “give me your money” calls from dozens of charities seeking donations. The charities are especially bad this time of year. A relative of mine came up with an outstanding response.
“I’m old. I’ve given money to you people all my life. It’s high time some of it started coming my way. Now, what have you got for me?”
And so it was, a couple evenings ago, when the Missus was watching another Spencer Tracy movie in the bedroom while I, in the living room, was cheering the OKC Thunder to another victory. The phone rings. I ignore it.
“I don’t recognize the number,” the Missus calls from the bedroom. “I’m not answering it.”
“That’s fine dear. Oh, great slam dunk, Kevin Durant.”
Seconds later, the message light on the phone begins to blink.
Another call from the bedroom. “Whoever it was left a message.”
“You better check it dear, someone probably has a new recipe for you. C’mon Westbrook, slow down, pass the ball!”
Suddenly, the Missus is in the living room with the phone in her hand. This must be serious. An illness, somebody died, what? She doesn’t leave in the middle of a Spencer Tracy movie for trivial matters.
“It’s the Osage County Sheriff’s department,” she says. “I’m to call them immediately or they are sending a patrolman to the house.”
“What? Did you call 911?”
“No, definitely not.”
I think about this while she calls the county and heads off the deputies.
“Did you make any calls?”
“No, I started to call someone, but wasn’t sure of the number and hung up.”
It was an aha moment.
“Was it local, a 918 call?”
“Honey, you dialed 911 not 918.”
“NO I DIDN’T!”
“What, you think Osage County was sending a car to wish us a Merry Christmas?”
That was the end of that conversation.
The volume comes up in the bedroom, something about a monkey.
I think she’s trying to tell me something.