Over the years, we have had lots of confusion related to the fact that there is a person who shares the same name (and the same EXACT birthday) with my dearly beloved. The other Paul Dixon also lives in the same state. We first discovered this when (my) Paul tried to help out a teacher friend by volunteering at the local school. He had to have a criminal history check, and when it came back, it asserted that he was a convicted felon and had been in prison during the exact same years he had been living with me, fathering our children, and getting a Ph.D.! Sneaky guy! We straightened that out, only to start getting bills for knife wounds that he had been treated for at an Indy hospital. I tried to call and let them know that I was sure my Paul Dixon wasn’t wounded and hadn’t been in the emergency room. Their first question was, “What’s his birthday?” Have you ever been talking to someone and realized they think you are lying, or deluded, or brain damaged? It took several of those kind of calls to let them know that they were billing the wrong guy.
The other Paul must live a very interesting life, as evidenced by the phone message we got yesterday, which I will now transcribe for your edification:
I don’t know if this is Heather or Maggie or Paul or whoever. This is Meg. Paul’s sister. Somebody needs to call me. I’d like to check on my niece. That would be great. If no one wants to call, then I don’t care. I won’t call Dad. I won’t give him your number. My number is ###-###-####. Paul, give your sister a call, dumbass. I don’t know what your problem is, but call me!
Wouldn’t that make you want to call? Is it possible that dumbass is a term of endearment in their family? Would anyone like to count how many levels of sadness that one message contains? Poor Other Paul Dixon!