Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Just say something, dammit
Maybe that title pertains as much to my mood today as it does to this post, seeing as how I've become a mime.
Which would amuse many longtime friends and acquaintances, if they were still around to know. Oh, I'm still the same Chatty Cathy with those closest, for the most part - except less prone to ebullient moments of unadulterated joy - and for obvious reasons.
But at work, no matter what court, it's George Romero Day of the Dead zombie time for me. Sans the whole flesh eating nastiness, naturally. Not sure what, but something happened between 35 and today's 39.
Nevertheless, doesn't it bug you when someone calls and doesn't say anything?
Don't get me wrong -- I love the calls themselves: all mysterious and 007. It's the stuff of romance and espionage novels. They inject just the right amount of je ne sais quoi into an otherwise dreary work day.
Just think -- they could be some secret crush, or former love, completely unable to say anything, so moved are they by the voice on the other end of the receiver. Or it could be MCI. In my case, it's most likely the NSA, calling about my new book on teenaged phone-tapping called "Are You There George, It's Me, Margaret: Whatup, Homey?"
Regardless, I'm sure I speak for most of us when I say: just keep those calls coming. Only next time - if you are someone good - say something! Don't leave us all saying Hello over and over again, like dorks. Say anything! Fake an accent. Offer term life insurance or a hot deal on Tempur-Pedic mattresses. Make beeping noises and breathe lightly, thus feeding into our fears of Big Brother. Whisper. Shout. Laugh maniacally. Order pizza. Whatever.
Unless of course feeling forced to say something would result in your not calling at all. Wouldn't want that.
It's just that, after a few minutes of silence, I feel compelled to go all Gypsy on your ear and belt out the chorus from Everything's Coming Up Roses - or worse. And by worse I mean really cheesy jokes, or the Dylan impression.
Please, save us both that embarrassment.
Which would amuse many longtime friends and acquaintances, if they were still around to know. Oh, I'm still the same Chatty Cathy with those closest, for the most part - except less prone to ebullient moments of unadulterated joy - and for obvious reasons.
But at work, no matter what court, it's George Romero Day of the Dead zombie time for me. Sans the whole flesh eating nastiness, naturally. Not sure what, but something happened between 35 and today's 39.
Nevertheless, doesn't it bug you when someone calls and doesn't say anything?
Don't get me wrong -- I love the calls themselves: all mysterious and 007. It's the stuff of romance and espionage novels. They inject just the right amount of je ne sais quoi into an otherwise dreary work day.
Just think -- they could be some secret crush, or former love, completely unable to say anything, so moved are they by the voice on the other end of the receiver. Or it could be MCI. In my case, it's most likely the NSA, calling about my new book on teenaged phone-tapping called "Are You There George, It's Me, Margaret: Whatup, Homey?"
Regardless, I'm sure I speak for most of us when I say: just keep those calls coming. Only next time - if you are someone good - say something! Don't leave us all saying Hello over and over again, like dorks. Say anything! Fake an accent. Offer term life insurance or a hot deal on Tempur-Pedic mattresses. Make beeping noises and breathe lightly, thus feeding into our fears of Big Brother. Whisper. Shout. Laugh maniacally. Order pizza. Whatever.
Unless of course feeling forced to say something would result in your not calling at all. Wouldn't want that.
It's just that, after a few minutes of silence, I feel compelled to go all Gypsy on your ear and belt out the chorus from Everything's Coming Up Roses - or worse. And by worse I mean really cheesy jokes, or the Dylan impression.
Please, save us both that embarrassment.
