Tempus Fugit

Don't call me on the phone, please don't call me on the phone, I hate phones and avoid them whenever possible. I have a cell phone, but glory be if I know the number...it's used for calling parents from class or for ordering food on the road. I am still not used to people talking as they walk.

Last night a dear friend called me and I spoke of this mild phobia. "Even with friends?"she asked. "Yes, with everybody." "With me? You don't like talking to me?" "No no no, I like talking to you, what I don't like is talking on the phone...." "But why, what do you think people are going to do to you?" "They Ask Me Questions," I said, trying to hurriedly think of something to say to clarify. "But they can't hurt you, they can't reach through the phone! And you know I'm not going to hurt you, I'm a friend! Why is this?" She tried to fix me for three more minutes. I haven't been able to do it in over fifty years. I waved the white flag and made it go away. "It's okay, it's okay, nevermind, really, I'm fine." Stop asking me questions, please.

Look, General Audience, I love you dearly, but I hate talking on the phone. Keep it short, twenty minutes is wonderful. I don't want to know what your daughter in law said to you and how you're plotting revenge when you know she's just plain nasty to begin with but nurse every slight into crisis status because it gives you importance, I know you have not had an easy life, me neither, but for god's sake get a hobby and stop overmedicating yourself and scaring the bejeezus out of the both of us. I don't care a rat's patoot what relatives stopped at the diner on Route 33 and complained about how they got gypped with not enough bananas in their pie and then Aunt Margaret said to her hairdresser's daughter's friend that it wasn't the same as in her time. I especially don't want to hear how your lover from thirty years ago had a schlongka usually found on a Palomino and what you did in the glory days and how many men you could take on because men are idiots after only one thing and your vulva had an IQ better than any of them. Those days are over, thank goodness. Your sexuality was frightening, and your vulva needed to be strapped back in every morning after it ran around the bed sniffing for testosterone. It stole your car keys and drove into the city, trying to snag homeboys from the Seven Eleven on beer runs. Lured them into the backseat with a bag of chips on a string, then made them sing the Meow Mix song.

I am blessed with wonderful friends, but there are a few that like to relate inch by inch every minute detail of conversation and by god, maybe I'm jealous because my memory is not that good. Every look, inhalation, pause, comma, and utterance is reported and I know I'm not the only one having to listen to it. The doctor has suggested that I be tested for ADHD, so maybe I am the fidgets. Forgive me. Now tell me again about the doctor, the boss, the son, the grocery person, the television, the ex husband.

Meow meow meow meow.