Whatever Wednesday: Wrong Number


Note: The following is based on a true event but details are grossly exaggerated. Maybe. Sorta. I plead the fifth. Mum’s the word and all that. Oh, and if you’re drinking or eating anything? Swallow it first and don’t take another bite or sip until you’re done reading. You’re welcome.

I just sat down at the desk to check Facebook for a few minutes when my cell phone started to ring. I looked at the number and didn’t recognize it. So, I did what any sane person does when an unrecognizable number calls you. I flipped it to silent and Googled the number.

I expected it to be some unknown land line. You see, I don’t give out my real cell number to anyone these days, I use my Google Voice number. So when a number from the area of my real cell number calls, I figure it’s probably a wrong number so I don’t answer.

Google’s results shocked me.

The number belonged to an adult lingerie/fantasy store.

Um, ‘scuse me?

I use Ama, er, um, uh… yeah. I’ve digressed enough. Anyway.

It gets better, yes it does.

I PM’d a friend on FB about the call, through tears of laughter.

“So… a lingerie store just called me….this has the potential to be hilarious.”

“What’d they want?”

“They left a voice mail… listening now…”

“It’s a message for Mary. Her item has arrived and is on hold. Oh, I want to call back and pretend to be Mary.”

“Poor Mary isn’t going to get her fantasy lingerie.”

“What if it’s not lingerie?”

“Maybe you don’t want to know what Mary’s into?”

“Yeah…maybe I should call them back and tell them I’m not Mary.”

“Hahaha.. Yes, before they reveal something indelicate!”

And so I did the good Samaritan thing, against my meddling blogger’s instinct’s gut reaction. I called the lingerie store to let them know they’d just left a message for Mary on my voice mail, that I wasn’t Mary after an initial resurgence of wanting to claim to be Mary.

Apparently, Mary gave them my number (or they transposed the numbers) when she placed her order for her item. Is her item lube? Cootchie cream? Whips? Deep Throat numbing spray? Cherry Anal Lube? Adult, um, toys? Lingerie? The suspense is KILLING ME, people! (All of the aforementioned are indeed items they sell through their online store – I am not making up the Cootchie cream or the cherry lube, y’all. Swearsies.)

The store owner/employee sounded horribly embarrassed, even uttering an “Oh myyyyy” which would have made George Takei blush, making me even MORE curious about Mary’s item.

After a few exchanges of pleasantries, we hung up. After some consideration, I think I need to call them back tomorrow to, you know, follow up and make sure that Mary hasn’t also used one of my accounts to pay for her, ahem, item. I don’t think she has, but this is just odd.

So, Mary?

Wherever you are, your item is waiting for you. It’s all alone. It’s yearning to be in your hands, against your skin, with you. It’s miserable without your warmth beside it or, ahem, around it. The spice in your love life will have to remain at the requisite level until you get your phone number right. No fifty shades of grey shenanigans for you tonight, sweetheart.

I hope you call to check on your poor lonely item soon…perhaps you will hear it calling for you, moaning all alone in the darkness in the store where they hold all the items people forgot to pick up.

Don’t leave your item in the lost and found, Mary. Just don’t. Be nice to your item, Mary, and it will be nice to you.

Go get ’em, Mary. Rock it.

Whatever Wednesday: My Mom’s New Rack


On Monday, my mother was practically bursting with excitement. The following is how the conversation proceeded. Sort of. Mostly. Mmmk, I’m getting older, my mind is slipping, and I have a twisted sense of humour. If you’re drinking something, put it down. No seriously. Put.IT.DOWN. And swallow that sip still in your mouth.

“Guess what I ordered?”

“A Capuchin monkey that’ll scratch your head while you play Angry Birds on your iPad?”

“No, silly! Something with much more oomph than a Capuchin monkey. Jeez.”

“What, then? J-Lo’s ass?”

“Lauren!”

“Well… you gotta admit, J-Lo’s ass has FAR more oomph than a Capuchin monkey. Although a Capuchin monkey would fit much better into a Fiat than J-Lo’s ass – I’ve digressed. What’d ya get?”

“It’s a curvy, sleek, stylish, auto-draining stainless steel dish rack. It sits up on four rubber nubs, and has curved stainless steel prongs, and the angle is such that it doesn’t collect water but instead keeps the water running straight into the sink!”

“So…what you’re saying here is that you got a busty new rack for your dishes?”

“Yes, and it’s simply fantastic. It’ll gleam in the soft light of the kitchen lights as the dishes drip dry rested atop silver rods.”

“Sounds like you’ll have some extremely happy dishes soon, Mom.”

“Oh, I will. I will.”

“I’m gonna leave you and your new rack all alone then, mmmmk? My Capuchin monkey is signalling to me that lunch is ready. And when the Capuchin says jump, by GOD, you jump. Because it just gets ugly when they fling poo.”