If you can't pronounce my name, please don't call anymore.

Moving in to a house is amazing. There's nothing like it in the world, and each experience is different, causing you to stop and have "Whoa..I'm an adult" messages pass through your head about..every 14 minutes. Last night, I received a phone call that made me realize that whether I like it or not, I'm turning in to my mom. 

I got a call from a "800 Customer Service" number, which obviously meant a sales call. But what I've learned from living in Casa Raju, and then moving on my own, is that salespeople are fiesty little nuggets. They will never leave you alone. 

Unless you pick up the phone. 

 So, I did. And because I never changed my name with the phone company, I get the lovely stuttering, confused, scared sales person who can't say my last name right. So, even after being a Rutter for a lovely year and a half, I had a conversation that took me back to my days on Pecan Ridge.

Salesperson: Uh, hello. Is this Mr. or Mrs. Nada...Nada..Nadogara? Hehe is that right?
Me: Who is this? 
Salesperson: Is this Mr. Nada--
Me: I'm going to stop you before you butcher my name again. Who is this?
Salesperson: Jack.
Me: That's it? You're just Jack?
Jack: Uh..Mrs. Nada..Nada..I work for ADT. Uh..is Mr. Uh Nadagaro home?
Me: If you can't pronounce my name right, please don't call anymore. 

WOW. There it was. I turned in to my mom. That same phrase, just a mere 20 years ago, was used to combat cold callers who conveniently called between the hours of 7 p.m. and 9 p.m. It was as though they knew the exact moment we sat down for our mandatory family dinners each night. Growing up in an Indian household, this is huge. You can't get up until everyone is done eating (at least at Casa Raju). You don't kick people under the table (Oops.). You don't leave the dining room until every last rice piece is picked up (ga-rooosss..) and you Do NOT answer phone calls when you're eating. 

Dinner time was a big deal for us. No television (unless it was Doogie Howser, because I think my mom thought it would inspire us to become doctors...uh, not.), no phone calls, just solid conversation. I think my mom envisioned this to be a peaceful Cosby-show like time for us. Instead, it was filled with my brother putting the food he didn't like on my plate when I wasn't looking (bittermelon is as gross as it sounds), my mom reaching over the entire table for the mango pickle, despite us being the first family on the block to have a Lazy Susan (best thing ever), or my grandfather slurping his yogurt from his plate. Good times, good times. 

Oh, and for the record, it's not that hard of a name to pronounce...Jack.

Hahaha.