I Think Not

There are many times during the day when GOM can't get to the phone so I've developed a short, sweet method I can deliver automatically enough that it sounds like I know what's going on. I say, "Hello, GOM's residence, this is Jane." Usually it is the nurse or the shower lady or a doctor or one of his kids. They know me, know where GOM likely is and it's all good. On occasion it is a telemarketer. I try to be polite to telemarketers. It's not my house for one and they are just doing their job for another. Usually they are polite enough to say they will call back when he's out of the bathroom. If they persist, or want to talk to the lady of the house, I tell them Mrs. GOM is dead. That never fails to get an "I'm SO sorry." Click. Once it got me the offer of prayer - I said sure, everyone needs prayers, right?
Yesterday though, totally took the cake for telemarketers. It went down nearly exactly like this:
"Hello, GOM's residence, this is Jane."
"Is GOM available?"
"I'm sorry he's not available at the moment, can I take a message?"
"No, we can try back at another time. Is this the beautiful and talented wife of GOM?" (I am so not making this up.)
"You've got to be kidding me...(apparently he wasn't kidding me) I'm his granddaughter."
(So much easier than explaining that my husband is the oldest son of GOM's oldest daughter.)
"...Um, granddaught -" Click.


This is me, day eighteen of twenty-one.