So, I might call you out of the blue, and you answer, and I'm like, "Huh? Um...Hi! Right!" and then babble on some chit chat for a few minutes, all about dogs are good, Gary is good, horses good, weather nice, business ok, no not much art, yep to a dog show, then hang up sort of mysterious and you're like, why did she just call me? Left scratching your head for a minute, then back to whatever it was you were doing before I disrupted your life with my vaguery.
And I'll just tell you right now it would be due to the fact I somehow turned blind as a stump. I go to dial a number in the phone and your little name looks like blurry ants running across the teensy tiny phone screen and I think it's someone else's name and I call whoever I call. Which is frequently becoming not who I am trying to call. And I don't even like calling people in the first place.
Don't say, "Did you try to use the voice command thingy?"
I tried to use the voice command thingy. That's the other reason I call you sometimes out of the blue and hang up on you super fast. Or have the pleasant random chit chat.
Voice command thingy hears me say, Call Gary and she's British and says back to me, Call Vice President Joseph Biden. Crap. Next time I call him, I just hang up super fast. Hope Secret Service doesn't call back when my number pops up in their phone. I just won't answer.
I hate using the phone. Unless I'm stuck in traffic. Did we live lives once upon a time where we couldn't make all our calls in traffic jams, waiting to go by a wreck, possibly caused, by some jerk yacking on their phone? Was that a long, long time ago, back before weave poles had wires to help wayward dogs in finding the entrance? When dogs had to cowboy up and just go through those poles? Back before cupcakes, when cakes were big, hearty fellows weighing at least 4 lbs? Back when there was no evil arm, all arms created equal and everyone was ok with that? Back when all the dogs were wolves and the people just hucked bones at them in the back of the caves and hoped they didn't eat the babies?
Anyways. Grandma crankety. From now on, she just sends email. Isn't 40 supposed to be the new 25? Or wait. Am I backwards? The new 55? I read that somewhere, except I didn't have my glasses on.
Did you ever dream that you were a dog agility super champ except then it switched and you were at some germy, grungy, derelict seaside park in the dark and the carnies were actually drug addled zombies that were shambling after you with hammers and their big teeth? And then as you're trying to escape your way out from under their oily, horrible claws by clambering up a rat infested palm tree, you're all, this is about dog agility like, how?
4 comments:
Forty is definately when the eyesite goes south....along with a few other things. Stylish glasses, good foundation underwear, generously cut jeans-hey, nobody will know!
The only good thing I've heard about it is that no one who cares (i.e., anyone your age) can even see the age spots on your mother's (I mean your) hands.
Might be a good idea to get glasses or find someone younger to spot the incipient skin cancer spots, though.
I find if I don't wear my glasses, my house is always clean. No dog hair on the stove or on the carpet. My eyebrows never need plucking, my legs never need shaving. My life has become maintenance once my eyesight went south. I can't even find my phone so I never need to worry about calling the wrong number.
Ya'all are making me cry now.
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