One of the first things I learned when moving into my house in ’97 was that my phone number confused a lot of people — namely, people trying to call the auto parts store and drug treatment clinic/halfway house, both of which are one digit off of my number and yield no fewer than three wrong number calls per week. You’d think that with my answering “HELLO” and not “Hello, Cheezer’s Pizza!” or the name of some other business, that they’d clue in that they’d called a private residence.
With the house on the market, I answer all calls since it might be a realtor calling to show the house. Yesterday, the Caller ID showed a 415 area code calling, so I picked it up. A woman said she was moving to the Sacramento area from the Bay Area (“This is going well so far,” I’m thinking), and she needs to make an appointment. I said, “OK, when do you want to come over?” She told me she needed to get set up on her regular schedule. “Regular schedule?” I asked, especially confused since she woke me up from a nap that had me in deep REM mode.
Continue reading “Sorry, wrong number”
