Some of you keep trying to call me. First of all, its 2018. Talking on the phone stopped being a thing in 2005.
But sometimes, it’s necessary – I know. And I know you’re frustrated that I never pick up.
But you don’t understand what I’ve been through.
I’m being controlled, held hostage. And I’m ashamed to admit it.
They look so small. They poop their pants. They wear footie pajamas for cripes sake! But they own my ass. I swear they’re evil geniuses who have figured out how to train me, like a dog. I’ve lost all integrity.
It’s gone. So gone.
One time I was disputing a fraudulent charge on my credit card bill and the poor customer service rep had to brace herself while I yelled things like, “Stop putting your fork up the dog’s butt!” and “Stop rubbing Desitin on your sister’s face!” and “Oh No. Sweet Lord Jesus, NO! Is that the Sharpie I keep hidden in a small hole in the storage room’s drywall? Oh god oh god oh god oh god, I gotta go Marcia!”
Just last week my literary agent called me. When I picked up my phone, I tried to slip away, ever so quietly. I whispered “Hello?” as if I was a bank teller hiding under a desk during a robbery. By pure instinct they launched into some UFC fight until they were screaming. They both chased me for mutual comfort and I kept running from them, pretending to be a professional, asking questions like, “Do you think the sample chapters are in good shape?” And she tried to answer, but had to keep pausing because it sounded like a daycare in the background that was violating several laws. And they just kept following me, screaming louder and louder. I finally had to hide in a storage closet under the stairs while they started to drill off the door’s hinges. I was afraid!
Another time I dared to talk to my mom about a recipe I wanted to try. The girls were peacefully watching Sesame Street and like a fool I thought I could get away with a pleasant mid-morning chat. By the time I was done they had snuck away from the family room and teepeed the entire house with a Cost Co palette of toilet paper. I knew something horrible was happening because they were being so quiet, so good. But I was in a willing denial. Like a woman who knows her husband isn’t actually “working late again” – I allowed myself to believe it was true because I was an adult! And I can talk on the phone if I want to! I have rights!
And I paid for those rights. With an economy box of tampons completely unwrapped, one by one, being tipped into the toilet like tea bags.
So, you see – I just can’t talk on the phone and I’m sorry. The cost is too high. They go streaking around the house covered in toothpaste. And not just any toothpaste, the expensive Tom’s kind I get at Whole Foods!
So, if you can, just text me, k?