N.B.: This is the first post of two today, since either Blogger was having Issues last night or I am too incompetent to figure out how to work my computer.
Those of you who have been reading my blog for more than a few months will know that in the past year and a half I have been, shall we say, not ungenerous with my favors. This does not change the fact, however, that I am an incurable romantic when it comes to actual relationships. For years, whenever I fell in love with somebody, I would spend hours fantasizing about what our answering machine message would be.
“Hello. You’ve reached Faustus and Chad. We can’t come to the phone right now, but leave us a message and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.”
“Hi, this is Chad and Faustus. We’re out, but we’ll give you a call when we get back!”
Or, most revoltingly, this:
FAUSTUS: “Hey, there. This is Faustus.”
CHAD: “And this is Chad.”
FAUSTUS: “We’re sorry we missed your call,”
CHAD: “but leave your name and number and we’ll call you right back.”
TOGETHER: “Thanks for calling!”
Eventually I moved in with a guy (my now-ex, N.T.) and for a while we actually had, God forgive me, a variation on the last example above. The problem, though—I mean aside from the nausea the message induced in everybody who heard it—was that our voices sounded almost exactly alike, which pretty much ruined the antiphonal effect.
The other problem was that N.T. was a cad who ripped my heart to shreds before grinding it into dust beneath his heel.
Now I fantasize about normal things like accidentally stowing away on a Navy submarine, or telling policemen I’d do anything to get out of a speeding ticket, or spacious apartments in the West Village with eat-in kitchens and southern exposure.
And I have voice mail.
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