I have a new number.
That’s right. Another new number for you not to call.
Oh, I put on a brave face. Gussy it up. Feathered mules, lightly-soiled peignoir. A floral theme. Little smudge of Helena Rubinstein, light spritz of “Joop!” behind the ear lobes. Or wherever I can still reasonably aim after sitting on a horsehair ottoman sipping gin from the cat dish since 7 A.M.
Morning oozes into afternoon – like clear lymph might ooze from the nasty little nicks you would get on your hands from, for example, peeling sweet potatoes for oven fries with a dull swivel peeler – and I fantasize that someone’s pitching the story of my life for movie of the week:
“It’s like ‘Bleak House’ meets ‘Texas Chainsaw Massacre’. On the Titanic! Oh boy oh boy they’re gonna love it in Des Moines!!”
Is this, as the catatonic, barely audible Miss Peggy Lee was wont to declaim, all there is? A seventy-nine dollars, all taxes included (but not the duty) porcelain and brass novelty French telephone with little red roses painted on – this and a great, big, lonely world full of “not called”?
<breaking down then pulling oneself together with heart-rending bravery or some such nonsense, usually represented by the clamping on one’s head of a faded, once-stylish hat decorated with artificial cherries, the whole moment making it excruciatingly obvious that one’s stated ambition of climbing to the top of the stenographic pool was nothing but a charade>
No point being bitter.
Since you asked: It’s 437 580 3040. For real. All kidding aside, as I live and breathe. And I bet dollars to donuts you’ll get right on it, won’tcha, snookums?
Not calling, I mean. Yeah…