Out there somewhere is a guy named Jonathan.  Jonathan drives an infinity.  Jonathan goes to a doctor in Norwalk.  A lot.  Jonathan also is good with the ladies.  Ladies named Sarah, Michelle, Monica, Laura.  These ladies call him a lot.  Mostly, late at night.  I’m thinking they are definitely booty calls.

I don’t know Jonathan.  But he definitely knows my cell number.  To be specific, my work cell.  And he gives it out.  A lot. To the doctor.  To the infinity dealership.  To the ladies.  And recently too, or so I gather from some of the scandalous text messages I’ve been receiving.

Tonight was Sarah.  And Sarah was psychotic.  Girl, even if this was Jonathan’s phone he’s not going to call you back after you leave him FIFTEEN messages in ONE hour.  Learn to play hard to get!

Damn it

(Yesterday I made my phone call home right as the conductor of Metro-North came on the intercom to list the hundreds of stops past Stamford.)
Him: Hello?
Me: Yo! I did it!
Him: Did what?
Me: I climbed all the stairs in the subway. I didn’t have to take an elevator once! (I’ve been having excruciating leg pains ever since the 41-flights-of-stairs-earthquake fiasco. Apparently preservation of life (yeah yeah I’m dramatic, but I honestly did think there was a bomb going off in Penn station when I bolted down the stairs) and adrenaline overcame physical limitations… but only for that moment.)
Him: Okay…
Me: Anyway, I’ll be home at 8:30.
Him: What’s that sound?
Me: The conductor. Anyway, I’ll be home at 8:30.
Him: What?
Me: Are we still going out to buy batteries?
Him: Are you at work?
Me: What?! No. I just told you when we talked last. We finished our project (our annual kick-us-in-the-ass-it’s-so-painful project) and went to crackhead alley for drinks.
(Conductor finally stops talking so I can hear the familiar tone in the person’s voice when he goes:…)
Him: You are where?!
Me:… Dad?…
Him: Yes.
Me: Oh! Hey. Huh. I really thought you were Ryan.
Him: Where are you?!
Me: Joke joke. I was across the street from my office at a beer garden. We just call it crackhead alley because it’s where all the crackheads hang out.
(Silence.)
Me: So how are you?!

Earthquake Ramblings

  1. 41 flights of stairs is hellah tiring to run down.  Seriously, my legs are still trembling over 1 hour later.
  2. When everything else failed (a.k.a. no cell phones were working for the first 5 minutes and we had no idea what caused the building to shake) Facebook came through letting us know the news of the day with status updates like, “I’m currently sunbathing on the Jersey Shore and felt the beach shake.”  Slackers.
  3.  The rate in which people re-entered the building seemed to directly correlate to how much money they make.  In other words, I totally don’t make enough to reenter that building until I’m sure there will be no more tremors.
  4. Phone call to Ryan (made 20 minutes after I realized that every other co-worker had reached out to loved ones).

Me: Just called to tell you I’m okay.

Ryan: Huh?

Me: We all evacuated.  I ran down 41 flights of stairs.

Ryan: Why?

Me: The earthquake.

Ryan: Oh.  I think someone mentioned to me there was an earthquake.

Me: Well… that’s all then.