Pop Quiz: What’s the best way to get a message to me?
A) Stick it in a bottle and toss it into the Rio de Flag (and then wait for it to rain).
B) Write it on the back of a Martanne’s tortilla on any given Saturday (and then slip it back into the pile next to Anne).
C)Put it in the “personals” section of the Arizona Daily Sun. (Just address it to “Rick”–the “honey” or “darling” part is optional.)
Or D) Call my house.
The answer, of course, is “A, B, or C”–anything but “D.” Never “D.” I wish that people understood this; I wish that they understood that by calling my house and leaving a message with one of my children, they have essentially just released that message into the Great Void of the Universe, where it has about as much chance of finding me as I have of winning the lottery (and I don’t even play). Sometimes, if I’m very, very lucky, and the gods are feeling very, very benevolent, when I get home there will be a piece of paper left for me (usually someplace convenient, like behind the refrigerator) that says, “Mom. Someone called. A while ago. Call them back.”
Even though I know it’s hopeless, I’ll follow up on it.
“Who called?”
“I dunno. Some guy.”
“It was a man?”
“Or a woman. I couldn’t tell.”
“When did they call?”
“A few days ago. Or maybe this morning. I forget.”
I try to tell myself that if it was important, they’ll call back, but the problem is, it was, and they did, and I didn’t get that message, either. Recently a friend of mine came to town and tried to get a message to me–since he had been in New Zealand for the last six months, and was getting ready to move to Australia, my window of opportunity for seeing him was very tiny. Of course, it got even tinier when I never received any of his calls.
The worst part of it is that these days, with cell phones, texting, instant messaging, twittering, and email, people expect you to get their message, and therefore assume that the reason that you are not getting back to them is because you’re blowing them off. But, the thing is, I’m really not–my kids are.
Of course, heaven forbid that my kids should be so slack when a telemarketer calls–the same kids who couldn’t be bothered to look for a pen if the King of Sweden phoned to tell me my Nobel was ready will track me down relentlessly if a telemarketer asks for me by name.
“Phone!” they’ll shout, thrusting it into the shower with me. “For you!”
“Take a message,” I’ll say.
“But you’re here. And it sounds important–I think they’re calling from India.”
Ooh–India.
Still, at least that means that there are actually four ways to get a message to me–bottles, tortillas, the personals–and now, calling from India.
[Newsflash: Since I recently decided to join the 21st century, there are actually now three more ways to get a message to me. You can contact me through my website,
kellypoewilson.com, follow me on Twitter, or waste time with me on Facebook. Just don’t try and call me on my cell phone–I still refuse to get one of those. For now.