In Media Res
So anyway, last night, for Mrs. Pops' birthday, we hit the World's Greatest Mexican Fast Food Place. I know, you're thinking "Whoa, fast food on her birthday. How does she ever keep her hands off you?" The answer is a) she doesn't, b) if you don't understsand the cultural caché of Miguel's Jr., that's your loss and c) it is a restaurant in which nothing is breakable by my children. Plastic furniture, paper cups, plastic forks and knives. We can be reasonably sure that when we eat fast food, nobody dies. Well, not immediately. The latent middle-age heart disease is non-negotiable.

She got off work late last night. As we're enjoying our meal, I start to worry that I'm letting my wife's birthday cut into my precious and necessary TV watching time (Tropical Storm Beryl on The Weather Channel! These things do not track themselves, people), so I check my cellphone for the time.

At first I was very confused. Where the time should have been there was this weird bar-looking thing with some letters on it. It read "Voice Mail." I looked up and counted the people around the table. Yep, five. Everyone I knew or who would deign speak to me was there in my immediate presence. So really it was very nearly a scientific certainty that I should not have been receiving any so-called "voice mail." Unless maybe it was from Jesus.

It took me a few minutes to figure out how to operate and navigate this "voice mail" business, but when I did, it sounded something like this:

[A woman's voice] "Hi, Korvath! It's been a long time, just thought I'd call and see what's going on. I'm having a little get-together tonight and I was hoping you could come by. You don't have a girlfriend do you, because I was hoping we could hook up. If you do, don't bother coming. I hope to see you soon. Call me. 926-43[GARBLEDY-GARBLEDY]. Byeee!"

This was clearly not from Jesus.

As a married man, in many respects, my first mission in life is not to become a Divorced Man. Divorced Men are sad people who do things no grown man should do like color their hair and drive Jettas. I can't afford a Jetta so I--ashen-faced, aback-taken--immediately hand the phone to my wife and make her listen to it.

At first she looked confused, concerned. Then when it was all over, she laughed at me. At first I had been so desperate to make sure she knew about it so there would be no misunderstanding, but then after being mocked, I immediately switched to "Hey, it's not IMPOSSIBLE that I could get a booty call."

She thought that was adorable.

Sadly, she knows I have no slutty ex-girlfriends. She also knows I've only ever had two cellphone numbers in my life, both of which were acquired WITH her at the same time. So I'm probably not lurking in the back of anyone's whorish little black book.

The question is: wrong number? Some kind of sex-chat-line stealth advertising? I can't call back and check because the number was inaudible at the end. Just to be safe, I'm going to be calling lots of locally based sex-chat lines and asking many, many probing questions about their advertising practices, the ethics of voice mail spamming and if they have anyone there who can do a Scottish accent. The girl in the voice mail didn't have one, but my God, those are hot.



This post on the Narcissus Scale: 9.975


Pops
- posted by Pops @ 10:28 AM