I got a call this morning from, according to my caller ID, Mr. Restricted Number. Here’s roughly how it went:
ME: Hello? (then I coughed because I was eating oatmeal. Don’t ever eat oatmeal and answer the phone. They don’t mix.)
RN: Hi Mike. I was wondering if you could cut down some tree limbs for me today.
ME: Ah, maybe. Who is this now?
RN: Frank Zappa*. We spoke last week about getting to a few trees on my property.
ME: There it is. I think you’ve got the wrong number.
RN: Really? This isn’t Mike Marion? The City of Buffalo Guy In Charge of Cutting Down Tree Limbs**?
ME: Nope, just plain ol’ Mike. I don’t even have a chain saw.
RN: This isn’t 848-9375***?
ME: Ha. Nope, it’s 613-2290***. Good luck with your trees though.
RN: Sorry about that. (hangs up.)
Then, in scene two, after I told Lisa about how the guy didn’t even get the number remotely right:
LISA: Ha! Maybe his cat dialed for him?
ME: Hee-hee! Maybe his phone was upside-down without him knowing?
LISA: Maybe his preferred dialing method is by simply throwing jelly beans at the keypad and hoping for the best?
ME: Maybe someone bumped his chair seven times?
LISA: Haha! Good thing we’re so perfect.
ME: Agreed. More oatmeal?
* Name changed to protect the identity of the caller. Also, I don’t remember it.
** I also don’t remember the title he rattled off. This was essentially it. Note that he got my first name right, though. Confusion abounds!
*** Number changed to protect me. Suffice it to say he wasn’t even close.
1 year ago