Message in a Bottle
20 March 2006OR, the best things sent my way this weekend via my cell phone, with small explanations attached.
I. Mary. also known as “jordan’s mom.” I worked for Mary at her bookstore for a good eight years so we have her to credit/ blame for my current employment/ projected life’s work in publishing. Since I started my big-girl job, I’ve continually had people trickle back from various publishing events and tell me “Oh, we met your parents there!” thinking that I was yet another gifted offspring of Bob-and-Mary. (Sadly not so. Were it true, I’d either be Jordan, in possession of a full ride to Columbia’s PhD program in English, or slutting it up across the UVA campus. While I come very close to two of those things, I am actually none of the above). Anyway, jordan informed me on St Patricks day, at the bar, that his mom had just learned how to text message, so I sent her a few jaunty lines. Three days later, she comes back with:
hi cristen i have not done this enough to make it worth it i have forgotten how to do anything except lower case letters but i love you mary
Amazing on many fronts, not the least of which being the fact that she’s known me for almost ten years and is still misspelling my name, it’s somehow cute and endearing here– also, she falls into the Mom-trap of all written electronic communication. My mom has the same problem with IMs– she signs all of them “love, mom.” It’s so, so cute I can’t stand it.
II. Cesar. One of Brendans friends from the Academy, Cesar is known for being (a) hilarious and (b) tiny. No, seriously, I could eat him for lunch and still have room left for string cheese. Cesar is a tiny, Ecuadorian whirlwind who danced with every. single. woman. at my brother’s wedding, regardless of age, marital status, or (I’m guessing) sexual orientation. I had no idea where in the world the Navy had taken Cesar until I got this voicemail Friday night, delivered from my brother’s cell phone:
Cristin, This is Cesar F. Morales, and the “F” stands for “Fucking.” I’m with your brother celebrating St Patrick’s Day at a Cuban club, and he’s doing everything he can with his white irish ass– shaking it to the left, throwing it to the right, so if you wanna hang with us, you’d better do some stretches, maybe eat some carbohydrates, cause you aint there yet, doll. Peace!
Aside from this being mildly insulting– my white irish ass is capable of holding its own at any club you land it in– I can’t get over this. Is this the perfect voicemail? Can it be? Can you ALL start leaving me messages that straddle the line of inappropriateness so well? Please?
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