Don't Get Me Wrong

Do wrong numbers irritate you?  They drive me insane. It’s not that I mind the part where people make mistakes because we all do that. It’s really the intrusion of the phone call that gets me. I am a phone-a-phobe. I detest, abhor, loathe answering my phone. If you need me, text me.  I am not afraid of typing words. Typing words is my favorite.

It probably stems from my years of working for state government, where most public contact was through phone conversation. No phone call was pleasant for years. At home, the only person who called me on a ridiculously regular basis was my mother. Her phone calls were on par with my work ones, so for years I dreaded answering the phone anywhere. I would have nightmares of the phone ringing, ringing, ringing. All the ringing.

Now I don’t talk to my mom nor do I work for the state, but my dislike of telephone contact persists. Between my cell phone and caller ID on my landline, I generally know who’s calling. Sometimes I answer. Most of the time I call back. I have to set my intention before I can do either.

It’s just a thing I don’t do. Don’t take it personally.

Lately, despite my registering with the do not call registry, I have been getting more sales calls than I used to. Which means I answer my phone even less. If it’s important, someone will leave me a message. If it’s one of my usual contacts, the name pops up as a missed call even when there’s no message. I know you called me. Chances are good I texted you back a response.

Every once in a while, it’s none of those, a local number that I don’t recognize, a wrong number. And sometimes, that stranger will leave a message not intended for me.

That happened to me the other day. A local number I didn’t know called me, and left a message. It was from some gruff sounding man who said he was contacting someone who wasn’t me about a concealed weapons course he was teaching. Apparently someone else wanted to take that course, and he was calling to discuss the class. Not only was it not for me, it would never be for me. I hate guns even more than I hate answering the phone.

Since it wasn’t me, I didn’t call back to let him know he had the wrong number. It’s the kind of thing I figured would sort itself out without my involvement. And since it’s 2015, etiquette doesn’t dictate that I return messages to wrong numbers. I chose to do nothing.

The next day while I was eating breakfast, I got a Facetime call from the same damn number. Odd, I thought. Does he normally Facetime people to sign them up for concealed weapons classes? I again didn’t answer it because now I was a tad afraid.

This guy couldn’t take a hint. An hour later, he texted me.  It went like this:

Him: I am contacting you in reference to my October 31 concealed weapon class. If I am interested, call back.

Me: Wrong number.
Him: Please excuse.
Me: It’s fine.

Should have been the end of it, right? But no; fifteen minutes later, I got another text.

Him: Are you interested? Call me back and I will get you prepared for the October 31 class.

He impressed me with his persistence. Here is a man who has a pretty creative marketing strategy. He could just call random numbers all the time, “accidentally”, and maybe every so often he would get a bite.

Me: No thanks.

Him: If you change your mind, call or text me back.

When a little old lady calls me by accident, I call back. I let her know she has the wrong number. She might have written it down wrong. Maybe she can’t read the numbers on the paper. Maybe it’s really urgent, like she’s fallen and can’t get up. She might think she’s calling Life Alert, but it’s just me avoiding my phone. You never know.

Concealed weapons course instructors are not little old ladies. They don’t need my help. What they do need is to just move on. If someone doesn’t call you back, they’re just not that into you, especially when it’s a wrong number.

Wrong Number

The other night, I asked my daughter, S, to answer the phone while I was cooking dinner. I had my hands busy with washing grapes and lettuce, and she was right next to the phone, so it wasn't an unreasonable request.

I hate answering the phone. It stems from my former work for the state as both a disability examiner and an eligibility worker for social services. Phone calls were a pain in the ass, and no one wanted to talk to you unless it involved yelling and threatening. After almost ten years of that, I am scared to answer a phone. How often is it someone you want it to be?

Now that three of the four of us in the house have cell phones, no one wants to answer the archaic land line. Except S, the only one without a cell phone. The land line is for her and 911 and annoying sales calls. And that’s why I asked her to answer it, because chances were good it wasn’t for me.

She said hello, and what, and then what again, and then she sighed and hung up.

“Who was that?” I asked her while I stirred the pasta sauce.

“I have no idea. Some freak,” she said, popping a grape in her mouth.

Immediately, the phone rang again. We all just stared at it.

“Well, don’t look at me,” S said. “I answered it last time.”

I picked up the phone and said,” Hello?”

Why do we answer the phone with a question, anyway? Is it because we aren’t sure that we want to greet the caller? We don’t want to commit to pleasantries yet?

“Your daughter just hung up on me.” Oh God, it was my mother.

I wouldn’t say that I am estranged from my mother, but I would say that is what I strive for. To say she is crazy is an insult to people with mental illness. Whatever her many untreated mental conditions may be, they are significant enough to warrant some serious boundaries on my part. I haven’t seen her since we met for a cup of coffee last December, and we have no plans to visit anytime soon.

I do talk to her about once a month or so, but not because I want to, more because I feel I should. She doesn’t call us or even speak to her granddaughters on any kind of a regular basis. Had anyone known she was the original caller, we would have let her go straight to voice mail. S didn’t recognize her number, and why would she, so that’s why she answered it in the first place.

“Hi, Mom,” I said. “S didn’t hang up on you intentionally. I don’t think she knew it was you. What did you say?”

I mouthed to S “It’s your grandmother,” and she rolled her eyes.

“I said hello, and when she asked who it was, I told her it was someone who loved her,” my mom said. “When she still didn’t know it was me, I told her I loved jewelry too. And that’s when she hung up on me.”

“Ma, she didn’t do it on purpose. She probably didn’t hear you. Or understand. She tends to be a very concrete person. It’s best to just be direct with her and not be all cutesy,” I said. I was going to add something about how she doesn’t have any use for game playing, but I was trying to be nice. “Would you like to talk to her now?” I offered.

“No thanks, I give up after twice.” You could hear the sneer over the phone.

“Well, technically, this is the second call,” I told her. “So here she is.”

“It’s your grandmother,” I said  loudly and sweetly to S and handed her the phone. She glared at me and grabbed it.

“Hi, Grandma. I didn’t know it was you.” S put on her innocent voice. They talked for maybe ninety seconds, and S handed the phone back to me.

She was only calling to thank me for the plant I sent her for Christmas, but as usual, she managed to turn it into a small scene complete with hurt feelings and misunderstanding. Go big or go home.

After we hung up the phone, I asked S,” So what did she say to you?”

“I don’t know. Something about being a person who loved me and jewelry. How am I supposed to know who that is? I thought it was a crazy person."

Oh, it was, honey. It was. If it’s wrong to be delighted that my child hung up on my mother, I don’t want to be right.