How is it that deep breathing crank callers always find twentysomething women home alone as opposed to ninety-four year old men with tattoos and no teeth named Bruno? I mean, is there some code for finding our *unlisted* figging phone numbers?! Like divide 1980 by a prime number and – voila! – sexy chick will be found!
I’m stepping out of the shower tonight – no flying joke, here! – and the phone rings. After a nasty break up, I found myself living in a large house all alone until I invited my parents to move in with me (insane but wonderful). But tonight they’re at a friend’s home theater watching “Brokeback Mountain” (yes, I’m serious) and I’m home alone and due for some quiet time working on some new boosters.
So the phone is ringing, right? I’m toweling my hair. The stereo is playing “The Open Door,” the new Evanescence CD. I suspect the call is my mother deciding to share with me that she’ll never let my father pick the movie for “date night” again, and so I pick up the cordless with a jaunty, “Hey there!”
Silence.
Open line.
“Hello? Mom?”
Quiet. Then... a breath... another breath... another.
Hm.
I’ve always preferred the talkative types, so this isn’t really my speed. I hang up. Eeew. Weird. Creepy. Whatever.
I refuse to rush. I go about picking out my comfy work clothes – an ancient MTV tee and a pair of faded jeans. I braid my hair. I put on the kettle for hot water and grind some beans for a bold French press of java. Hey, it’s only 9 PM. Perfect time for an ole cup of –
The phone rings.
No way.
I consider letting the machine get it. But then I’m like, isn’t this *my* figging house? I mean, come on, people, right?! But then I think about this really ugly argument I once had with a close friend (Hi, Sarah! Do you still luv me?) about date rape and whether or not dressing and acting provocatively is truly “asking for it” and who is truly to blame and other evil and sharp issues like that. I think about my blog (you know, this one) and how I don’t censor myself and I have a lot of fun and I’ve been told that there appears to be a lot of sexual innuendo... especially for a Christian girl.
And the phone is ringing and I’m thinking, “Did I ask for this? Is this a message? Because I’m all saucy, is this what I deserve? To be semi-silently harassed by a stranger? Is this a wake up call to a mistake I’m making in my life? A divine call to redirect onto a straighter and narrower path?”
I pick up the phone.
“Hello?” I say, nervously. “God?”
Strangely, the caller hangs up.
Hm.
It must not have been mom. She would have loved being called “God.”
I’m such a kill-joy ;)
E.J.
