Well, Yeah, We Have Drugs (Just Not That Kind)

A few months ago I got a new cell phone to use only for emergencies, and not for casual chatting. When I gave my new number to my son's dad, I told him to call it only if the kiddo got sick or injured and they needed to get in touch with me. Because of this, as you might imagine, it's very unusual for the phone to ring.

However, I swear, in the three months that I've had this phone, I've received more wrong-number calls than I can count. Some of these people have called so often that I've programmed their numbers into the phone and given them a special "wrong number" ring so I can at least know I don't need to answer the call. I've also looked up several of these numbers on switchboard.com and mapquest.com and discovered that a handful of them belong to addresses close to the prison near the border. My son's dad used to work there as a psychotherapist, and we saw the outside of the facility once. Creepy. Guards with guns stationed on the rooftops. Prime real estate and beautiful sunsets, however, if you're not locked in a cell.

As a side note, and for whatever it's worth, when I've given in and answered any of these calls, the voice on the other end is never a native English speaker. That's not necessarily significant, given the area I live in -- just one more piece of information. It is interesting, however, that none of the answered calls or voicemails (yes, I've listened to those, too) have ever been from native English speakers. Not sure what to make of that. I guess I'd have thought there would be at least a few native English speakers scattered in there somewhere. The voicemails are usually open lines with Spanish being spoken in the background, and the callers who get through to me ask me who I am. I tell them they've reached a wrong number and ask them to please not call my number any more.

Recently I told my sister-the-shrink about the profusion of wrong numbers and the unsettling fact that so many of them are coming from an area just down the road from the prison. Her response: "Maybe you got a drug dealer's old number...?"

Hmm. Hadn't considered that. Whether she's right or wrong, though, I think it's time for a new number.

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In other news, the kiddo is coughing in his sleep, so the only drugs anyone will be getting from this house are children's cold medicine and Tylenol. About an hour ago, he woke up to go to the bathroom and wash his face because his eye "was hard to open" because of some discharge. I considered the possibility that it was an allergy thing (thanks, Mary!), but he's never had this problem before and we've lived next to a field for the past three years, so I doubt that's it. (I, however, have allergies in the spring when the beautiful wildflowers start to bloom.) He does have a cold but, again, he hasn't had this problem with past colds. It's still not as extreme as pinkeye cases I've seen, but I think we have a trip to the doctor on our schedule for today. And I think the kiddo will be staying home.