We've been going over telephone etiquette around here. I've taught the older two children how to answer the phone politely, to take a message, to graciously end the conversation.
One of my pet peeves is kids who answer a ringing phone with a yell. You know, like: "HELLO?! WHAT? HUH? YEAH, NO, SHE'S NOT HERE!"
And then hang-up without saying goodbye. I think it's disrespectful. I'm old-fashioned like that. Except, I'm also something of a hypocrite.
One day the phone rang and I checked the caller ID. It was Matt's cell phone. Using my best gangsta voice, I yelled into the phone:
"YO, WASSUP G????!"
Silence.
It was the kind of silence that precipitates disaster. The kind of silence I've experienced more than once in my life when my tongue blurts out a family secret, ruins a surprise, commits a faux pas. If you've never experienced that kind of silence, thou art blessed.
"This ain't no G," the voice said with a distinctive Texas twang. It was a voice I instantly recognized: James' baseball coach.
"Uh…uh..," I stammered. "I am so sorry! I thought you were my husband."
"Well, I am callin' from yer husband's cell phone," the coach said, "because he left it right here at the pizza parlor."
I fell all over myself trying to apologize again. Silence.
And then, thankfully, the coach burst into laughter. "Is that what'chu Californians call yer husbands? G?"
"I'm never going to live this down, am I?" I bleated, sheepishly. Is there anything more ridiculous than a conservative, white, suburban housewife shouting into the phone like she's Snoop Dogg? I mean, it's crazy enough that I even know Snoop spells dog with two g's!
Anyway, the coach just laughed. And laughed. He was still laughing when Matt showed up to retrieve his cell phone.
"Here ya go, G," coach said, handing it over.
From then on, I've always answered the phone a bit more cautiously.
Because you can't always trust caller ID.
That's fo shizzle.


