Emily vs. The Phone, Part I.

This post absolutely cracked me up. About once a month I get a phone call from someone who is absolutely positive that not only does my phone number still belong to some guy named Lanell (I think?), but that I am either covering for him or am, in fact, actually him. The calls usually go like this:

Me: Hello?
Person: ‘Sup?
Me: Nothing… Who is this?
Person: Who’s THIS?
Me: I think you have the wrong number? [Either this or in squeaky tones, "Emily?"]
Person: Where Lanell at?
Me: I’m sorry, you have the wrong number.
Person: Quit playin’. Where Lanell?

And so on and so forth until I’m pleading and offering up my first born and such to get off the phone.

It’s better than when I was a young teenager and my number was one digit off from the Marriott’s. I’d have belligerent people call me and try to make reservations or want me to bring their bags in, and not understand that I was just a little thirteen year old and not a hotel chain. It hurt my self-esteem immensely! (But I also dyed my hair with Kool-Aid and had a crush on a guy who wore skirts, so my judgment was a little off.)

In related news, I just turned on my cell phone for the first time since Christmas. We’ll see how many days it takes before I hate it again.