Wednesday, January 3, 2007
Baby, I've Got Your Number
"WHY DIDN'T YOU TRIM MY BUSH?!" Unless you are currently employed in a salon specializing in the maintenance and upkeep of lady business, you've probably been lucky enough to avoid hearing the above sentence ever being uttered. Of course, if you happen to live in our apartment, you'd hear this phrase, or variations on it, all the damn time. Allow me to explain...No, J and I are not running an underground bikini waxing joint out of our place (I mean, we've discussed it, but the numbers just don't work). We simply have a phone number which is apparently very similar to the phone number of Roberto, World's Laziest Gardener/Landscape Artist. It started, as most absurd situations do, inoccuously enough. We'd occasionally get a voice mail saying something like, "Hey, Roberto, you didn't come by this week." We shrugged it off at first. But the calls got more frequent. Roberto, it seemed, had gotten lazier. And the calls got wayyyy more entertaining. You know how, in Swingers, Mike keeps leaving increasingly weird/desperate voice mail messages for this girl he just met, basically carrying out the entire life cycle of a relationship with her answering machine? That's sort of what coming home after a day out and checking our messages was like for us. "Roberto, are you coming?" "Roberto, where ARE you?!" "Roberto, I'm getting upset; please call." "Roberto baby, you're so money, and you don't even know it." [Okay, maybe that one didn't happen.] "You dumb lazy bastard, where the hell are you? You're fired!" And...scene. Sometimes, the messages were kind of creative: "[Sarcastically] Thanks soooo much for coming to mow the lawn. [Normally] This grass is ridiculous. All I need are some sheep, and I'd have a pasture! Ass!" Personally, though, the old ladies were my favorite, because they managed the perfect balance of rudeness and propriety. Par example: "Roberto? It's Gladys. I just wanted to inform you that I have retained a NEW gardener. So don't come again! Not like you ever did before!" Of course, the plaintive wail of "why didn't you trim my bush?!" was the best message of all. And she called a lot. Each time, it reduced us to giggles, because we are apparently 14. (Lest you think we're jerks, most of the people who called had unlisted phone numbers, so I couldn't call them back. And also, Roberto didn't die or anything, because we'd sometimes get messages wherein people would reference jobs he did for them last week. So, not dead. Just super lazy.) We're not sure if Roberto: a) had a similar number to ours, or b) was just so incredibly lazy, he was actually giving out the wrong number. Either way, we couldn't be bothered with that mystery, because we recently started getting harrassing collectors' calls for Iris. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, IRIS, PAY YOUR DAMN BILLS! You'd probably be shocked to find out that when a bill collector calls looking for a woman named Iris, and you ARE a woman, but claim not to be Iris, the bill collectors don't believe you. Surprised? So was I! Ugh. Thanks a lot, universe. If this is some sort of karmic repayment for prank calling all three "Buttmans" in the phone book when I was 9, then....well played.