>Phone Home

>Dear Tommy and Rachael Creswell,

It’s me again. Lindsay. Yes, the Lindsay who’s left four years worth of rambling messages on your answering machine. The Lindsay who called once at 1am seeking a remedy for croup, who repeatedly inquires about the health of your mother, who told you the olive puff recipe you e-mailed me gave Hubs diarrhea. The one who has ranted more than once about how you never call me back. You must feel like members of my family, which is interesting, considering we’ve never met.

I’m sure you figured out long ago what it took me four years to discover. Our phone numbers are identical except for the area code. I’m in Tennessee; you’re in Georgia. Obviously, I think I’m calling my parents in Georgia, but I end up dialing my own damn number after their (and your) Atlanta area code. You must think I’m some kind of imbecile, huh? Anyone can make a mistake like that once, but making it repeatedly? For FOUR YEARS? I have to assume you find it funny to get these messages from me, since you’ve never bothered to pick up the phone and tell me about my mistake.

The sad thing is, I might have continued calling you if I hadn’t left you yet another message on Tuesday and then called my mom’s cellphone immediately afterward.

“Where are you?” I asked when she answered.

“Why, I’m at home,” she replied.

“I just called you and left a message,” I said.

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes. I did,” I said testily. “I wanted to know what you think about Bruiser’s poop. It’s really liquidy today.”

“Well, I’m standing right here beside the answering machine,” she retorted. “I think I’d know if you just left a message.”

Suddenly, the truth dawned on me. I realized that there was a reason why sometimes, a robotic woman’s voice played on the answering machine and other times, my father’s voice was on it. I had always thought it was a glitch in the system. It was, in actuality, two different machines.

“I may have dialed the wrong number,” I said quietly to my mom after a moment. She was merciful.

“Well, tell me about that poop,” she said kindly.

As I recounted the contents of Bruiser’s diaper, I thought about all the misunderstandings we’ve had over the years about who’s not called back whom. All the I-left-you-a-message-no-you- didn’t-yes-I-dids, not to mention the I-told-you-we-weren’t- coming-until-the-24th-no-you-didn’t-yes-i-dids. It dawned on me that my parents weren’t experiencing early symptoms of senility, after all. They really didn’t know that Little Joey Finnegan from elementary school was now a cocktail waitress at a gay bar.

But you did, Tommy and Rachael Creswell.

I’d like to say that you’ll never hear from me again, but the truth of the matter is that you probably will. I have four kids, an extended case of sleep deprivation, a touch of postpartum craziness and I’m breastfeeding. It’s not exactly a lifestyle that’s compatible with Mensa membership.

But I would like to ask one small favor. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, would you mind adding one small line to the end of your answering machine message?

If this is Lindsay, hang up now and call your mom.

Thanks,

Lindsay