I Feel Like I Should Send Elton John A Condolence Card Because I'm Definitely Not Feeling The Love Tonight

Yesterday evening as I was walking into the nursery, mentally preparing myself for an evening of guaranteed insanity with a whole herd of children under the age of six, I felt my phone vibrate in my purse. By the time I finally succeeded in locating the damn thing from those murky depths I had managed to miss the call, which totally just succeeded in pissing me off as I’m attempting to train myself to always pick up the phone and not choose to just let it ring because what if it’s that British guy from the Transporter calling to tell me he’s desperately in love with me and will I run away to Fiji with him? Seriously, I would stab MYSELF in the eye if I missed that call.

When I looked at the missed call list I noticed that it was an international number. There is only one person in the whole entire world who’s ever called my cell phone, my only phone, from an international number and after doing a mental calculation I figured out it would be roughly 3am his time, not a time usually associated with phone chats. But the displayed number looked roughly the same, meaning that it was an unintelligible string of numbers with a bunch of dashes thrown in just for shits and giggles, so I shrugged my shoulders and sent him an email expressing my deepest deepest sorrow at missing his call. Because if someone makes the effort to call me from another country I might as well be nice enough to pick up the phone, no?

About that time I got a beep on the cell indicating a voicemail had been left. Much like the on-going training of Teaching Robin To Pick Up The Phone, I’ve been undergoing therapy for Letting Voicemails Pile Up Until The Phone Explodes Disease. Part of my rehabilitation program is to immediately check my voicemail no matter how much I’d rather bypass the annoying little reminders and beeps and vibrations.

The voicemail connects and I’m listening to the message, fully expecting to hear one very distinct voice on the other line and then totally confused when that voice isn’t there and I’m listening to a random conglomeration of vaguely Arabic-sounding individuals, all speaking at once and making not one lick of sense. Because we were lucky to get a French teacher in Mississippi, much less a language involving a whole ‘nother alphabet, I couldn’t tell you if they were speaking Frigminish or Giplinic. And yes, I totally just made those up. My point being they could have been telling me that the shoes I returned to Cole Haan had been received or that my great-grandmother was a dirty rotten whore and I would never have known the difference.

At this point I’m starting to doubt my original suspected caller identity and I’m getting kind of freaked out. Because who really wants random international calls coming to their phone? Exactly.

Thirty minutes go by and I’m still obsessing over this call. I need a hobby, I know. But about this time the phone vibrates again and it’s the same number, the random international one, so I answer it, still half-way listening for the Expected Voice, the one that speaks Yankee with a Twist-o-Cali. But instead I get this:

Mufasninliueoashgiuwer?

Er, no. This is Robin.

Thees ees Mufasninliueoashgiuwer?

Er, no. Still Robin.

I speeeak weeth Mufasninliueoashgiuwer?

Er, no. You speak with Robin.

Yeeww speeeak weeth Mufasninliueoashgiuwer?

Not lately.

Yeeww not Mufasninliueoashgiuwer?

Um, who is this?

She ees meye Umehrican guhlfreend.

Definitely not me, but you have a good night.

Not guhlfreend?

Dude, seriously. I’m not your American girlfriend. And neither is Mufasninliueoashgiuwer if she gave you this number.

I speeeak weeth Mufasninliueoashgiuwer?

*click

This cat called back twice that evening, each time leaving vastly unintelligible messages. Personally, I think it’s time that Mufasninliueoashgiuwer gave somebody a break-up call. Just saying.