(I am on the phone with my aunt. I told her I was excited for a certain superhero movie coming out later this month, but I didn’t elaborate because I wanted to avoid the movies-like-that-will-give-you-nightmares-and-make-you-lose-contact-with-reality speech. I’m 26 and have lived on my own for years now, but my family has a habit of forgetting that. I’m a huge geek and love science fiction and fantasy, but my aunt detests it.)

Aunt: “What was that movie you wanted to see called again? Game of… something?”

Me: “Oh, Endgame!”

Aunt: “You sure? I saw something on TV about some movie, all science fiction and lots of fighting, and I thought it might be that movie you were excited about. But it was called Game of something, I’m sure.”

Me: *thinking I know what she’s referring to* “You mean Game of Thrones?”

Aunt: “Yes! That was it! That’s not what you were telling me about? It looked like what you described.”

(To be fair, I only told her it was a science fiction movie about superheroes and that she wouldn’t like it because there was lots of fighting in it. But I know trying to explain the difference between fantasy and science fiction to my aunt is a waste of breath, because she doesn’t care.)

Me: “Oh, no, that’s not it. It’s a popular television series, and the new season is coming out. I don’t watch that, though.”

Aunt: “Oh, good, because it looked ghastly. With those big horrible birds.”

(I’m thinking, “Birds? What is she… Oh!”)

Me: “Ehm, I think those were dragons.”

Aunt: “Oh, whatever, it looked dreadful. I’m sure it would give me nightmares.”

(I decided it was time to change the subject.)

When answering machines are still relatively new contraptions for home use in the mid-80s, my parents get one for our house. Our dog has been trained to bark on command via hand signals, so, for the novelty value, it’s decided at some point that the greeting message will be the dog barking a few times.

Normally, we don’t get a lot of calls — just family every so often. One day, we return to find the machine blinking that there are a number of messages waiting. The cassette is rewound and the first several messages are nothing but hangups. After a couple of these, there’s finally a stranger’s voice:

“Martha! MARTHA! COME QUICK! They’ve trained a dog to answer the phone!”

I’m sitting at home on my computer when a text comes in from a random number. It just says, “Be A Man. Call me back.” I figure the spammers are trying out ways to get people to call them instead of vice versa, so I ignore it.

Fifteen minutes later, I get a call from a vaguely familiar number that turns out to be the same one that sent the text. A woman’s voice I don’t recognize, but which seems a bit antagonistic, asks, “Who is this?” Somewhat confused, I give my first name. She doesn’t seem to believe me and gets more agitated. She keeps asking who I am, and gets more and more upset as I tell her, basically, that I’m a middle-aged man who has no idea who she is or who her son is. Suspecting I’m talking with a crazy person due to how aggressive and upset she is, I don’t give out any specific details. She then segues into, “How do you think I got this number?” I have no idea and say so. “This showed up on my son’s phone. How did it get there?” Again, I have no idea.

She doesn’t believe me, starts ranting at me to leave her son alone, and gets quite worked up. I’m usually upset by confrontational situations, but I surprise myself by staying calm. She obviously made a mistake and is now yelling into the phone loud enough to make me pull it away from my ear, but this has nothing to do with me. My calm only makes her more agitated, since I’m not “taking her seriously.” Eventually, she slows down and ends with a short segment with the theme of, “I better not see your number on my son’s phone again!” I figure that is easy for me to agree to since I have no idea what her son’s phone number is. She then hangs up.

Five minutes later, a text from the same number: “I am SO SORRY! I mixed up your phone number with a punk kid my son has been hanging out with. I am only doing my best as a mom and sorry to bother you.”

Those two sentences explain more about the situation than all the ranting she did over the phone. To be polite, I reply, “That’s okay. Hope you can resolve your situation.” She replies, “Thank you. Sorry again,” and that is the last I hear from that phone number.  

I do hope she resolved the situation, but ten minutes of yelling and a lot of vocal cord stress could’ve been avoided if she’d double checked the number, or actually listened to me when I said I didn’t know who she or her son was.

(My spouse works delivering and picking up medical supplies from individuals, usually homes. I call him most days to tell him how my day is going and what the baby is up to and to talk to him about how his day is going.)

Spouse: “The GPS says it’s this dilapidated old building.”

Me: “That’s weird.”

Spouse: “It’s a taxidermist.”

Me: “Now you’re just making things up.”

Spouse: “No, it really is! Maybe they work here. I’m going to go knock.”

Me: “I’m never going to see you again. A gang of kids and a Great Dane are going to have to solve the mystery of your disappearance.”

Spouse: “I’ll be right back.”

(He calls me back a few minutes later.)

Me: “You survived?”

Spouse: “It was abandoned. There was a dead bird in the window.”

Me: “Oh, well, oka— Of course there was a dead bird in the window! It’s a taxidermist, not a pet shop!”

Spouse: “No, I mean a real dead bird!”

Me: *laughing*

(A friend has called me to whine that her husband blames her for their twelve-year-old daughter breaking her arm.)

Me: “How did she break her arm?”

Friend: “She crashed a motorbike she was riding.”

Me: “A motorbike? I didn’t know she rode one.”

Friend: “It was her first time; it was my friend’s kid’s bike. I don’t know why she crashed. My friend’s kids don’t crash and they’re younger than her, so she should have been able to ride better than them because she’s older.”

Me: “How long have the friends been riding?”

Friend: “Oh, ever since they were four years old; they are only ten now.”

Me: “What makes you think that [Daughter] would be better than kids who have been riding for six years?”

Friend: “Oh, great. Now you are sounding just like [Husband], I called you because I knew you would understand that it wasn’t my fault. She’s twelve, so she naturally should be better than ten-year-olds.”