Usually the only ones who telephone me at home are SBC (often), and Chabad (rarely).
This is because most of the folks who actually know my home phone number also know that I don't really use the phone as a social tool... and both Savage Kitten and I have message numbers - in her case so that her family can reach her without finding out that she's living with a weird white guy, in my case so that I can screen my calls from the people whose calls I want to screen.
SBC knows my number, because I used to be a customer.
Chabad knows my number, for entirely different reasons.
SBC keeps farming out their phone-list of recalcitrant former customers !WHO! MUST! BE! CONVERTED! BACK! TO! RIGHTEOUSNESS! to a multitude of trailer-parks all across the country. So every month or so, there's another bunch of hopefull, enthusiastic, and not very bright individuals ringing me up, to try their luck at 'reforming a telephone sinner wot forsook the fold'.
I've gotten SBC sales calls from folks in Arizona, Boston, New York, poor bleeding Kansas, the deep south, and even Canada. And heaven only knows where else.
What does this have to do with tubers?
Years ago, Savage Kitten had acquired a very large yam at the market, and as she was showing it to me, SBC called with a sales-pitch. I loudly shared with them my amazement at the size of that thing, and they hung up. Hurriedly.
Both she and I now standardly tell SBC that "mah girl-friend's got a bigg-ass YAM!". It cuts the calls, and stops 'em in their tracks. The phone now hardly ever rings.
The other day, while she was at home, the phone rang. Without waiting for SBC to identify themselves and start their pitch, she gleefully hollered into the receiver "mah girl-friend's got a bigg-ass YAM!".
As she later explained, a soft-voiced gentleman mumbled something in response about 'wrong number, sorry', and hung-up.
Five minutes later, at work, I got a call from a very confused Chabad rabbi.
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