The phone rang when my hands were 6-inches into the pizza dough. I managed to get it under my ear without getting flour in my hair.
"Um, yes, hello," said the telemarketer. "May I speak to...uh...Doctor...(insert horrible pronunciation of my son's name)."
"Are you physic?" you wonder. "How did you know it was a telemarketer?"
Well, as smart as my son may be, I have yet to pay for him to complete hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical school. And he is three.
But I politely handed the phone into his sticky, eager hands.
The caller hung in there through several renditions of the ABC's. She called it quits when he asked her if she makes chocolate kisses on the potty.
I guess Capital One doesn't have training for that.
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