[cell phone rings]

Me: “This is Geof Morris.”

Her: “Who is this?”

Me: “Geof Morris.”

Her: “Who?”

Me, a little slower: “Geoffrey Morris.”

Her: “Did you call [number I've never heard before]?”

Me: “No, I did not.”

Her: “Are you sure?”

Me: “Ma’am, I assure you that I did not.”

Her: “Well, your number was on my caller ID.”

Me: “Well, I don’t know how. I’ve never called you.”

Her: “Aight den.”

[hang up]

What the fuck, people? I don’t randomly call people who call my caller ID—I always figure that it was a wrong number. It happens. With exceedingly small cell phones, the numbers are easy to mis-press—although heck, don’t most of us store numbers anymore? [I know I do.]

However, I’m just not hip to this. Why call me back and start playing 20 questions? If you’re going to do that, don’t do it in this accusing, menacing tone, like, “Boyeeee, I don’t know why you all up in my BIZness, but you best back off!?”

I assure you that I was the epitome of seriousness and properness, with a phone manner that befits my profession, but in my mind, I was thinking, “I am not your hollaback girl, bitch.”

And no … I have never heard the song. I’m probably mucking with pop culture with this reference, but God knows that ain’t the first damn time.

[I am sorely tempted to post the number here so all of you can call my darling associate and ask her if she's called you. That would be fun, but it would also be wrong.]