The other day I was over at my parents' house, doing my laundry,* when the phone rang and my little sister answered.
"Hello," she said, and then went silent for a lengthy period of time. She often does this when on the phone, forcing the caller to momentarily wonder whether or not they've been disconnected until: "LAUREN!" (loudly and straight into the receiver, even though I wasn't in the receiver. I was in the kitchen). "The phone is for you."
"For me? Really?" It felt a bit surreal considering I haven't lived in my parents' house for about seven years now, aside from two summers in between school semesters. "Um, yes?" I asked, picking up the phone.
"Hello, Lauren, I am an admissions counselor from Langston University and just wanted to call and follow up with you about our business degree. We have a really amazing opportunity for business majors like yourself to finish their bachelor's degrees in less than two years, especially if you've already got a few credits under your belt -"
I interrupted her and said, "Um." I meant to say, "Excuse me, what are you talking about? I don't even live here!" but it came out as "um" instead. You understand my confusion. I already have my B.A. I've never been a business major, nor did I ever want to be. Also, I've never had any interest in transferring to a school in Oklahoma. So that conversation ended on a weird note.
It did, however, bring back fond memories of my boss at the local grocery store calling my parents' home phone to ask why I was late for work, two years after I'd quit and moved out of state.*
I have also received the occasional piece of mail at my parents' address from time to time. Granted, the majority of it is addressed to my maiden name. You know, mail from solicitors who want me to vote for them, join their protest, sign their petition, or accept their credit card.
Also army brochures. I thought I might join the army when I was sixteen and let me tell you, if you ever so much as request a single piece of information from them they NEVER STOP sending you brochures.
Also bank notices. Apparently my repeated calls to cancel the account were ineffective (it had boasted a whopping sixty-two cents for about five years and they reminded me of this terrific balance every month). I never liked that bank account anyway. For whatever reason, the bank employees made it a joint account between me and my brother.* Let me rephrase. They made it a joint account between Mr. Norm K. and myself. Since my brother's name is Noah I could only assume they meant him, but I still have no idea why they thought we would want a joint account. Go figure.
All that to say:
Does this sort of thing happen to anyone else?
* This actually happened.
* Also this.
* And before I forget: That whole mouse problem I was having with my washer/dryer wasn't resolved after all, despite disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling both appliances. So I'm still doing laundry at my parents' house. I might as well have my phone calls and mail forwarded to their address, since doing my laundry there makes me feel like I'm seventeen and on fall break anyway.