The Great Cell Phone Disaster of 2011

Before I even start on this story about the most horrible, epic fail of all time, I have to explain a handful of things.

First, I am the tiniest bit crazy. Not cut-you-up-and-make-you-into-a-lamp-shade crazy. Not refuse-to-trust-you-when-you-go-out-without-me crazy. Not even check-your-phone-or-email crazy. I’m crazy in a way that is probably endearing when we first meet and then is not so endearing later. Like I fall down a lot. I’m afraid to sit in recliners because I’m 99 percent positive they’re going to fall backwards. I count the wheels on 18-wheelers (to myself. I don’t force other people to participate in this particular slice of crazy). I have a sense of direction that’s so horrible, I was once an hour late coming back from lunch because I got lost getting back from the restaurant that was two blocks down the street. (I ended up on a scary freeway near downtown. I worked off Monroe. How does this happen?) I line up my French fries in size order and then eat them large to small. Are any of these things certifiable? No! So stop judging me. I’m not Gary-Busy crazy!

Fig. 1.1
Gary Busey: Bat-shit crazy.

Second, I live alone and I have two dogs, so I talk to my dogs like they’re people. Stop it right there. I don’t dress them up. I don’t carry them around in ridiculous dog-holders. I do not treat them like accessories. I don’t discuss important topics with them, like Darfur or the recession or Tyra. But when I speak to them, it’s in complete sentences. Also, because I am the slightest bit narcissistic, I believe that when they misbehave, it is with the express purpose of ruining my life and has little to do with the fact that they’re just dogs. I believe that this is a side effect of watching the film Homeward Bound when I was little. Those dogs had purpose. I guess the cat did, too. But he was a cat so I don’t care.

Fig. 1.2
Reasons I hate cats almost as much as dolphins

Third, I would hate for someone I thought was attractive, funny and interesting to know these things about me all at once. I feel like it’s best to dole out the crazy a little bit at a time so that by the time it’s all out there, the escalating dose of crazy has been so gradual that the attractive, funny and interesting person doesn’t really notice that I’m a full-fledged maniac.

That being said, last Friday, the Guy I Think is Attractive, Funny and Interesting got a 100 percent concentrated dose of full-fledged crazy. And it was because my cell phone betrayed me.

Like so many people who are totally normal, I have made regrettable mistakes involving my cell phone in the past. I’ve dropped it in a glass of Malibu because it was dirty (I was also very drunk on Malibu). I’ve texted one particular friend every time I drunkenly hear the song Cupid Shuffle. I use it to update my Facebook status to “Drizzunk at Tizzaco Bell” when I’m drunk at Taco Bell. I’ve even used it to attempt to drunkenly extort Emeril Lagasse for $5 million.

Fig. 1.3
We still have business, you and I, Emeril

And here’s my next point: If you do something stupid with your cell phone because you are drunk, the person on the other end of that call writes it off as a drunk dial. (Let’s hope that Mr. Lagasse realizes that, “Dear Emrl, U still owe me $5 million for stealing ‘BAM’ from me or ELS!” was a drunk email. I also sent it to emrl@emeril.com, so it’s possible that he never received it). If you’re not drunk and your ass dials someone because it’s in your pocket, whatever you say has to be taken at face value. So I decided a long time ago to not keep my cell phone near any part of my body that can dial people at random. Because I sit on my ass and I do not sit anywhere near my exquisite, near-perfect breasts (didn’t I tell you I was a crazy narcissist? Get off my case already!) I keep my phone in my bra, because I am also very, very classy. I will also tell you that the only time my boobs accidentally called one of my friends, I was about to make a poor dating decision. My friend called me back and the poor dating decision was averted. That’s right. My boobs recognized the situation, problem solved and then phoned for help.

I told you all of that so that I could get to the actual story.

Friday morning, I was getting ready for work. Did I say morning? It was 10 a.m., which, in all fairness, is morning to me. The night before my basset hound was crying for roughly 100 hours straight because she wanted to sleep on my bed. When she sleeps on my bed, she sleeps on top of me. Literally on top of me. I wake up and she’s curled up in a heavy, spiteful ball on my back. This is not a good night’s sleep. So despite her cries, I leave her in her kennel so I can sleep. This obviously doesn’t work, because when she cries, it sounds like a cross between a bird that got hit with a car, a woman falling off of a cliff and a werewolf.

This is pretty much what it sounds and looks like:

Needless to say, we were not on speaking terms when I woke up. I let her out of her kennel, groggy and irritated, and let her run around the apartment like a dog who has never before tasted the sweet flavor of freedom. She’s extremely dramatic. At this point I was half dressed. Skirt on, bra on, phone in its correct position, when the basset sneaks into my closet and runs out with my one of my favorite shoes. Have you ever had a pair of shoes that were not only the cutest shoes in the whole wide world, but also actually fit? That was this pair of shoes. So I screamed. She dropped the shoe and jumped on my bed. She jumped up, put her paws on my chest and pushed off of me like a gymnast trying to use a pommel horse. About that time, my neighbor came over to ask me a question. I threw a shirt on, went to the door, answered her question, and came back just in time to see the Dog Sent From Hell to Ruin My Life devouring my shoe.

Me: LOVIE! (her name is Lovie)
Lovie: chompchompchompchomp

I got closer to her and she did that thing dogs do where she stuck her ass in the air and started to wiggle like this was a hilarious game. (note: this was not a hilarious game). I screamed at her like some sort of banshee that was just run through the heart with a joust. She ran, chewing and slobbering as she went.

Remember how I said I talk to my dogs like they’re people? This was no exception. The only difference was that this time, I was screaming like a maniac.

Me: YOU ARE RUINING MY LIFE! YOU ARE THE WORST DOG IN AMERICA! I AM LITERALLY GOING TO KILL YOU WITH MY BARE HANDS! WHEN I CATCH YOU I WILL RIP OUT ALL OF YOUR TEETH AND MAKE THEM INTO A NECKLACE AND YOU WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO DESTROY ANYTHING AGAIN! I’M GOING TO FEED YOU TO GIL! I WILL NEVER LET YOU OUT OF YOUR KENNEL FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE! IF YOU WERE IN A DIFFERENT COUNTRY YOU’D BE A COAT BY NOW! YOU'RE CRAZY! I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!
Lovie: chompchompchompchomp

She clearly didn’t understand any of this because in response, she just ran around the apartment with my shoe in her mouth.

Fig. 1.4
What my dog looks like when she thinks she's playing a hilarious game.

In my hurry to remove the shoe, my phone fell out of my bra. Classy. The screen looked weird, so I picked it up to investigate. I had apparently been leaving a very long message for The Guy I Think is Attractive, Funny and Interesting.

Has a realization so awful hit you that you lose time and then find yourself alone, rocking in a corner under your desk crying, eating yogurt with the wrong end of a spoon and listening to More Than Words by Extreme? Because I was half a panic attack away from that. I scrambled to remember what I had said, what I had done, what had happened (because so, so many times I’m alone in my apartment singing Kanye West or Paula Abdul. Badly.) and realized that I had threatened the life of a 30-pound basset hound while screaming maniacally. I had also accused her of being the worst dog in America, and suggested that she was purposefully trying to ruin my life. I assume the visual of what I looked like was a little like this:

Fig. 1.5
I did NOT look like this, if you're reading, Guy Who I Think is Attractive and Interesting

I sent a quick text, attempting to not sound crazy, apologizing for the call and telling him that he could just disregard the message.

Then I panicked again. He lives in California. It’s 10 here, but it’s 8 there. And he’s probably sleeping. So not only did I call and leave a four hour message of myself screaming, I machine gun texted directly after that. Nope. I’m not crazy.

When I heard from him later that night (after hours of thinking “I am the biggest idiot alive and he will never want to talk to me again because I am full-on-Gary-Busey crazy and why do I even OWN a cell phone) he laughed and promised it was ok (whenever The Guy I Think is Attractive, Funny and Interesting tells me something is ok, I just assume that it’s not).

I’m pretty sure he’ll never talk to me again.