I avoid using phones if at all possible. It’s not that I have some tinfoil hat theory or think they’re giving me cancer. Nope: on the phone, I might be just plain stupid. Pete, who spends more time with me than anyone I didn’t gestate myself has, calls me every day at my desk.
Pete: I just called to hear the sound of your voice!
Tata: [Insert sound of post-pre-verbal stage person trying to remember what words are.]
I’m pretty useless on the phone; so much so that when the internet phone service message center became suddenly and explosively incompatible with my laptop, I didn’t even miss much. I can see who called but can’t hear the messages, which is fine by me because I don’t check them for many, many weeks and can’t muster the strength to hold grudges.
You’d think then a person who returns calls on a more or less monthly basis wouldn’t have a fishnetted leg to stand on where return phone calls were at issue but no. Everyone knows I’m either sitting at my desk or sitting on my couch or haunting a grocery store or weeding my garden or gift-wrapping for the populace. My whereabouts are seldom mysterious, and when I want to talk I want to talk RIGHT NOW. I’m waiting for a woman to email me back. She checks her email every two or three days. What’s the matter with her? Doesn’t she know I’m waiting?