I just checked my voicemail because the mailbox is full, and I’m expecting a call from a guy about a refund, and you know that I don’t want to miss him. Voicemail is useless, unless it’s about a refund. Then, it’s vital. I mean, if I wanted to hear your voice, I’d call you. Text me, for heaven’s sake. Or send an email. It’s so wonderfully immediate and impersonal and ignorable. At any rate, as I was scrolling through the messages hitting “7” every time I heard it pick it up, I paused for a moment and listened to a message from a Sergeant Geskuda (jess-KUDE- ah) of the Tredyfferin/Easttown police from “at least 7 days ago.” I couldn’t get the exact date because that would have required that I press at least a dozen buttons, and while these multifocal contacts are pretty awesome, they’re not that good when I’m
Earlier tonight, my friend Michele texted me: “Guess who won’t go the fuck to bed – of course!” Me: Go The Fuck To Sleep is like the best children’s book for parents ever written. You have to go to youtube and hear Samuel L. Jackson narrate it. Note: For those of you who have not seen/heard it, take a peek. It is worth the five minutes: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OW0A6L9kx4c&playnext=1&list=PLF63D12D36F4A3CC2 Michele: Is that really a book? Me: OMG. Best.Book.Ever. For parents. Michele: A kid’s book with that title? Me: You have to read it to “get it”. It’s what you want to say at bedtime but don’t. Michele: There is also a book called “Monsters Eat Whiny Children”. We need to write one of these. I’m listening to this and laughing my ass off. Me: It is the best. Michele: I’m dying. Me: Let’s write “The Rich Girl’s Guide to Being Poor on the Main
Text I received from Jay about an hour ago: “You stole my shoe.” Apparently, he is packing to evacuate because Hurricane Irene is headed straight for Berwyn and he doesn’t want his monster truck to be damaged. I waited a moment, thought about that, considered not answering, then replied, cautiously: “When?” Seconds passed and “I hate you.” popped onto my Blackberry screen. I’ve opted not to respond to that. What good could come from it? I’m sure he does hate me. And he’s opted not to elaborate. So far. And some of you may find my response to him a little odd (“When?”), but that’s only because you weren’t there for The Great Shoe Meltdown Part I (I guess, because who could have imagined that there was going to be a Part II to a shoe meltdown a month after we’d moved out and left him, shoes and all).