Every time my phone rings, I pick it up. Not because I want to, but because I'm a mom.
(Speaking of which, I love that all the ladies in our building stop me to ask:"How is John?" "Is John in school?" "Where is John?" We don't know their names. They don't know our names. But they all know John.
Today my phone rang and a man said a lot of things in Italian. (Because I live in Italy, natch.)
I told him that I was sorry, I didn't speak Italian, I spoke English.
He said more things in Italian.
I said I didn't understand.
He asked me why I didn't understand.
I said because I speak English, not Italian.
He asked to speak to Mike. I told him Mike was working and to call back later.
What makes this call so remarkable is that it took place IN ITALIAN on both ends, not just his. I'm not saying I spoke well or used correct verb tenses but I said actual Italian words and had a back and forth conversation with someone that I couldn't see and he couldn't see me, so I couldn't rely on any facial expressions or gestures to convey my meaning.
I felt vomity when I hung-up because I hate talking on the phone in general and in another language it isn't any better, but then I felt triumphant as I had done something I couldn't have done even two weeks ago.
I told Mike my very proud news that I had managed to converse in Italian. It was horrible, halting incorrect Italian, but it was Italian nonetheless.
Mike told me that I had been speaking to a telemarketer.
However, it was NOT a telemarketer. It was a furniture store calling to make arrangements to deliver our dining room chairs and television stand. We had ordered them in early September, but because the furniture was being shipped from France, we were told that it would take up to 30 days to arrive and we wouldn't receive it until October 1st. Imagine our surprise and delight that we are already receiving our furniture and it is barely December! As always, well-played, Italy. Well-played.