“Hey, Diane…it’s Carrie. Over in Business Development.
Uh, yeah. I was at a meeting in El Paso for the last couple of days with Bill, you know Bill in your department, and anyway he asked me to “give Diane this little interoffice mail packet” when I see her. I told him I see or talk to Diane just about every day and that it’d be no problem but then I got to the office this morning and realized maybe he was talking about YOU Diane and not the Diane “I” was thinking about which is a totally different Diane!
Anyway. So, I looked in the interoffice mail packet and I probably shouldn’t because it was really none of my business what was in there, but you know I can be a tad nosey at times and well…it’s some work lookin’ tapes and stuff. That kind of crap wouldn’t go to the other Diane, would it? I mean, she’s in purchasing and I don’t have a clue as to why she would need this stuff and then that’s when it hit me it’s probably YOU he wanted me to send it to. I was totally thinking of the wrong Diane. Well, not that SHE’S wrong at anything…just had a different Diane in mind.
I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m rattling off this crap to you. I should have probably just said “Hey, it’s Carrie…call me about some tapes I have.” But no…I gotta babble like a fool and make you listen to all this.
I’m sorry…just hang up now. You probably already did, huh? God, I’m lame and I know you already know that so why did I have to include THAT in this 14 year long voicemail? Don’t hate me. Anyway…it’s Carrie. Just call me when you can.”
Yep. That right there was the load of shit I left on a co-workers voicemail.
Without leaving her my number. Which absolutely pisses me off when people do that to me.
(“Hey, girl…call me.”)
(Uh, OK…who the F is this? No name? No number?)
(And I’m supposed to magically know WHO to call with your kids screaming in the background and the car window down and the dog barking with the radio up?)
Diane should completely hate me at this point.
(The Diane I left the message for. Not the Diane I was originally thinking of that turned out to be the wrong Diane.)
(Apparently I’m still in voicemail mode while I type this.)
WHO DOES PHONE CRAP LIKE THAT?
(And my momma.)
(It really ticks my dad off that neither of us have the ability to just shut up and leave a simple message.)
When that little beeeeeep goes off, I get bug-eyed and just completely lose any ability to function as a mature, professional woman.
I can’t think straight. I can’t see straight. My throat goes dry. My pulse starts to ferociously pump.
It’s pretty much just like that gunshot you hear at the start of a race.
I just go nuts and I’m out of my mind and I start flailing my arms and running and totally getting out of my lane and I don’t have a clue what I’m doing but I ain’t about to admit it so I just keep going and I can’t breathe and I feel like I’m gonna puke after the first 4 feet of the race because I’m stupid-ass-ish-ly out of shape but I can’t stop because people need to know I’m not a quitter and once I start anything I can’t stop until I know I’ve either finished or completely jacked it up to the point of no return and then I finally start to see the finish line and realize I can stop in a bit and then my breathing will slow up and I can puke and feel all better.
Because it’s over.
But I did it.
I looked stupid and I made a jackass of myself. But I did it. I finished.
Then I hang up.
So, yeah. Me leaving a voicemail is about the same as me in a race.
No need for it.
Diane called back.
Howling. Laughing freakishly hard. Couldn’t talk.
Every time she’d take a breath to say something, she’d start up again.
I couldn’t understand a damn word she was trying to say. I apologized for my assinine-ish-ly long voicemail but I don’t think she was listening because I was all but yelling over her laughing.
Gasping. Gagging. Whatever.
I got tired of it so I hung up.
Ain’t nobody got time for people who don’t have their shit together before they call.
I’m a mature, professional woman.
I mean, really.
WHO DOES PHONE CRAP LIKE THAT?