We’ve had a series of breakdowns here.

Our phone stopped working. It’s only the landline—the number used mostly by our octogenarian mothers and the odd long-lost friend on a sweep through the city—but we’d like to have it working.

Then a switch in healthcare providers inadvertently dropped me from the plan, as I discovered while I was at a doctor’s appointment. Ingo was dropped from his dental plan, too, although he’s in college and should be covered, as we learned while the dentist was already drilling.

Scariest, though, is the subtle gas odor emanating from our stove that alarms everyone who walks through the door.

Any one of these chores can eat up hours of time on automatic phone prompts leading through a maze that often cycles back to the beginning. These phone-prompt mazes can leave me crying in rage and despair.

Chris has dubbed these life-sucking tasks “trolls,” and approaches it like a game. To this end, he co-opted Ingo’s bedroom whiteboard—formerly used for scorekeeping darts games.

The players are: Phone, Dental Insurance, Health Insurance, Stove, Internet. By jotting down each call, each dropped connection, he follows, if not exactly progress, at least the effort he's put in.

Point for Chris! I’m now included on our insurance plan.

To slay the insurance troll he spent long muzak-filled sessions on speaker cellphone, hoping he wouldn’t lose connection mid-way through, as he did several times.

“I knew we were on the right track when someone used the word ‘glitch,’” he said, replaying the point with relish.

Meanwhile, I made progress with the gas odor when I managed to get a live person to schedule a repairman for Monday afternoon.

“We can’t guarantee it’ll be afternoon,” she said.

“So I need to wait at home between 8 am and 4 pm on Monday?” Frustrated, I watched my work-week slip away before it had even begun.

“If you call again Monday morning we might be able to be more specific,” she said.

“Call you? Personally?” I wanted to hang on to this rare live human connection as long as possible.

She hesitated.

Of course I know there is no “you” in the world of insurance, internet, phone or stove repair. There’s only “What’s your serial number?” “Spell your last name,” “Is this your correct address?"

“You can try this number,” she said finally. “Someone here will help you.”

Says you, I thought bitterly.

But I jotted down my effort on the whiteboard and made a note to call Monday morning.

It's what troll-tacklers do.