When Phones Attack

We have this thing at home called a landline. It's stupid. Not only is it connected to the biggest phone you've ever seen in your life, but you can't even check your email, or update your Facebook status on this thing. What kind of genius invented this phone that is only good for making calls? It doesn't even have a camera. Stupid phone.

I hardly even answer this phone anymore, because the only people who call on this number are people trying to sell me something or people who accidentally dial our number when they're looking for their pot dealer. A few weeks ago I answered it and someone asked for 'Cy' (or was it, 'Sigh'?) I told the guy he had the wrong number and then he became belligerent, like I was lying or trying to keep him from talking to Cy/Sigh and maybe cut in on his pot deal. He never actually said the words 'pot' or 'deal' – he just said, "Bitch!" and then hung up – but I know what he was thinking.

My mother also calls me on this number, which led to the single most ridiculous incident of 2012 (so far.) I recently recorded a new outgoing message with my voice, replacing the one of Rigel's voice that had been on there for the past few months. For some reason my mom thought this was a sign that we had gotten divorced, and I had to assure her that this was America in the 21st century and that women were allowed to have their voices represent the household, at least on a phone machine and as long as they ended the message with a high-pitched giggle and the words, "Husband is King!"

(I know everyone is getting rid of their landlines, but we're hanging on to ours since we figure if there's some sort of catastrophic cell outage, or a monster sun flare it will be good to have a landline handy. Unless there's a meteor, in which case we're screwed.)

But tonight was the last straw. Around seven o'clock the phone in my office started ringing, and I decided to answer it because, what sales person or druggie is going to call me that late? (Okay, maybe the druggie, but I didn't want to make any more enemies.) As I was bringing the receiver to my ear I accidentally whacked myself in the face with it, and after blaming Rigel and the kids (all of whom were out of the house at the time) I started yelling at the phone and cursed its mother. Luckily it was only a recording, but I think I made my point.

Anyway, I've decided to never, ever answer this phone again. So if you want to get in touch with us, call our cell or knock on our door. (Just kidding - don't ever, under any circumstances, come over unannounced.) I think we may even just change the number, which means the telemarketers and the pot dealers are going to have to work extra hard to find me. Cy/Sigh, I hope you're listening.

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