My mother clings to the 20th Century by refusing to get caller ID – so she screens her calls with her answering machine. Which leaves me the task of coming up with a clever message each time I call. Sometimes, to thwart me I’m sure, she answers the phone before it goes to the machine. She does this just often enough to be completely unpredictable. This morning she answered.
Me: Argh! I had the perfect message to leave!
MoC: You want me to hang up?
Me (joking): Yeah!
Me: Aw, crap!
Machine: Hello. You have reached …
(Thinking fast because I actually did not have a message to leave, clever or otherwise)
Me: The cat did not meow. The dog did not bark.
Me: Um … that was it. That was the message. You can pick up now. MoC? Hello?
MoC: I just wanted to be sure you were finished with the message. Now that I have permission to talk …
(insert mindless chatter here)
Me [surfing the net]: Oh, look. The hottest $40 per hour jobs. I could be an art director …
MoC: Or a pole dancer.
MoC: I saw something about that the other day. There’s a push to make it an Olympic sport. You have to have a lot of upper body strength, though.
Me (ignoring the fact that my mother is encouraging me to be a stripper): Or I could be a mathemetician. Or maybe a drug dealer pharmacist.
We conversated about some uninteresting stuff and then I told her about my job search. I applied for a couple different jobs – one as an IT person at a restaurant, the other in insurance. I even applied to be a Geek Squad person at Best Buy, but I had to take a personality test with the app, so I’m sure my anti-social, non-team-player attitude took care of that opportunity.
MoC: Well, you have to throw a lot of shit at the wall sometimes before something sticks.
[Thinking: I guess I am full of shit, but wouldn’t “pasta” put a more positive spin on that analogy?]
MoC: Oh, I’m sorry. Was that not comforting?
Not so much, MoC. Not so much.