My House is NOT a Dojo

After my husband and I moved into our new house, it quickly became apparent that our new phone number used to belong to a martial arts studio. It was hilarious at first, as I pondered the notion of adopting a really terrible, fake, un-PC accent while I added "son" to the end of everyone's name as I let them know of our upcoming workshop on board-breaking for the low, low price of $250 per head.

The situation took a turn from hilarious to annoying, however, when I repeatedly heard the same response when I said that my house, is not, in fact, Master Dumbly's Martial Arts Studio and Dojo, regardless of what the circa 1998 website may be espousing. I went as far as to research the place to see if it had a new phone number where I could refer people (and possibly mail them some UFC approved arm pads), but I came up dry. Apparently, Master Dumbly's has vanished before our karate-deprived eyes. Meanwhile, I feel like someone who received the old phone number of a person with bad credit, where the horrible, half automated, half real-life person refuses to believe that I do not owe $375 to JewelryTV.com for charging some cuff links in the shape of dalmatians, and that no, I am not Mary Smith, have no idea who Mary Smith is and do not know where she could be hiding. Next time, I'm telling whoever calls that Mary Smith and Master Dumbly flew off to Ecuador while dodging the mafia to elope and have their human/alien hybrid love child.

Oh, and for the record in case you didn't catch it, my house is NOT a dojo.