Is Smart Phone an oxymoron?

I admit it.  I have, over the years, abandoned telephone etiquette.  Mea culpa.
I too was taught, once upon a long-ago time, to offer information upon picking up the receiver:
"Hello; Kirke residence."
This quickly began to sound affected: why?  I don't know.  But it does seem a shame, in light of our current practice of answering with a slightly suspicious, unornamented "Hello?" which offers no information to anyone.
Perhaps it's because we don't want to imitate (the surely inimitable) Hyacinth Bucket (pronounced Bouquet).  Possibly it's just that we don't want to admit anything to possible telemarketers.
But you have to admit that it is unhelpful, if not unfriendly.
Yesterday, during lunch, I looked around the kitchen to identify the source of an insistent buzzing sound, clearly designed to notify me that something was wrong with some appliance or other.  The laundry room is next to the kitchen, but this noise was not one I identify with the washer or dryer (still, they are fairly new, so you  never know).
"What is that?" I asked.
"Somebody's cell phone," Jane-Clare said.
"Right here," added Melly, who does not have a cell phone but likes to be helpful. "It's coming from your purse."
Well, that narrowed it down, to be sure.  I retrieved my cell phone, which had been set on vibrate lest it ring during Mass, and flipped it open despite the utter unfamiliarity of the number displayed.
"Hello?"
"Hello," a female voice responded.
I waited.   And waited.
"Who is this?" the voice demanded.
--Well, you called me, I thought but did not actually say.
"Is this Joanne?"
"No," I said, relieved to have a question I could answer so easily. "You must have the wrong number."
I could say this with some confidence.  See, wrong numbers always happened.  Some of my mother's favorite, and most often requested, stories dealt with her responses to inquiries from the well-meaning but ham-handed trying to contact Holy Family rectory.
Now as then, surely, the general response is "Oh-I'm-so-sorry," followed by a quick hangup and dial tone.
Not this lady, the unknown pursuer of Joanne.
"Do you have a cell phone you are holding?" she asked.
At this point I felt fairly certain she was a Verizon representative bent on urging me to upgrade to something with a QWERTY keyboard, and I winked at my daughters.
"Yes, certainly," I assured her.
"Well, it is MINE."
Now, my cell phone is several years old and has a lovely display photo of my husband and me at Pizza Hut following an All-County concert which, two--nearly three-- years ago, necessitated our early departure from my father-in-law's birthday party because Jane-Clare and Melly were both performing.  Therefore I was able to reply with some confidence:
"No it isn't; it's mine."
Unknown Female Voice was not easily convinced.
"Is the number 434-5555?"
(Okay, I made that up.  I'm sure anyone who reads this is just delightful to speak with in person, but all the same I am not putting out my actual number. Especially since yesterday.)
"No, it isn't.  It's close, and you must have meant to dial that, but my number is just a bit different."
This, clearly, was a cue for UFV to back off, apologize, and hang up.  Is anyone surprised that she did only Number Three in that sequence?
Presumably she redialed, and we can hope that she did so with more accuracy, but really this is all just speculation on my part.
Oh, once upon a time, children, telephones were black, and large, and fastened to the wall.  If you wandered, you risked missing a call.  Oh yes; I assure you, it was as I say.  Princess Phones, given only to the pampered, came in pastel colors but were similarly anchored.
And we were taught (should the Pony Express fail) to speak the family name into that receiver, casting that information boldly and momentously into the information stream, which in those days could not have been more than a trickle.
Yes!  It could have been ( I suppose) a stalker; or a truant officer; or even a creditor, although credit was less easily obtained, and less abused, in those far-off times.  We were not cautious.
Great-Grandma had a maid who would announce, whether or not with strict veracity, that Madam was Not At Home. We have answering machines, and voice mail; so why are we still scrambling to deal with UFV and her ilk?
Could we (perhaps) return to those days of admitting which house has been reached, but then filter the calls by means of personal identity as seems fit?
"Hello; Kirke residence."
"May I speak to Marie?"
"Oh, I'm sorry; she isn't available at this time.  May I take a message?"
See how lovely that is?  Even if I am Marie (I admit nothing, nothing) I can easily decide to be unavailable "at this time."  And why not?  You, caller, may leave a message.
And if there isn't a message to be left... well, oh my goodness, aren't we all fortunate not to have wasted our time?