Just scanning through my missed calls over the last few weeks it would seem that there is a very persistent person or group of persons unwilling to infer, from my continued refusal to pick up, that I want them to die a horrible death, pinned under that bus that has them all riled up and chat-happy. Seriously, if the person you are attempting to reach hasn't picked up after 43 attempts, it's possible they are using your misery to fuel their own petty amusements.
Or something.
It's not that I hate talking on the phone. Husband will testify that I can happily spend the better part of a day on the phone with family or friends, and often do. It's that I specifically hate talking on my cell phone. I can and will happily answer a text at my leisure, confident that Emily Post considers anything up to four hours a reasonable length of time in which to respond. A ringing phone, and more specifically a ringing phone while (at the bank/ in the library/on a jog) or any other euphemism for coitus interruptus that you can imagine, really steams my broccoli. I find the ubiquitous use of cell phones for conversation in public one of the most obnoxious social developments of the 21st century.
That and people who don't plan their order while in the line up for coffee.
My cell doesn't even have voice mail or caller id. If I had my way, it wouldn't even vibrate when a call is coming through. Instead it would order me a selection of lacy things from the Victoria's Secret online catalogue and charge it to the Mystery Caller's card.
How do you feel now, Mystery Caller? Dirty? Wait 'till the mail comes in...
