First, I need to create a context for the story I am about to tell you.
When Mike calls from work, it always displays as a different number with the (619) area code. I can’t save it in my phone because every time he calls it registers differently.
The good news is, I don’t get a lot of phone calls from strangers. Most of my stranger-contact is reserved for the coffee shop or weird spam e-mails that come through the blog. Today the spammers told me to talk less about myself, which hurt.
Right now I am sitting across from a man who is negotiating a coach trade in the NFL. The man also has a daughter named Barbie who just moved into her new house. I sincerely hope this house is pink. And plastic.
All this to say, I don’t expect strangers to call me. But today was a special day.
I need to tell you about a phone call that was so awkward even Bailey looked flushed. And that’s hard for her… because she is black.
I will leave you with the transcript…..
Me: (quickly glancing at the number… it is a 619 area code… ) “Hey Baby!”
Other line: [Silence]
Vespa Dealership: [cough. clearing throat.] “Um hello, this is the Vespa dealership calling to schedule your routine service.”
Me: [heat in my cheeks. sweat in my armpits. can’t… breathe…]
“Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry. I thought you were my husband. I’m so embarrassed. Sometimes he calls from the an unknown number and I thought this was him.”
Vespa Dealership: (uncomfortable laugh) “No it’s fine.”
Me: “I’m so sorry. Seriously, I am so embarassed.”
Vespa Dealership: “I mean. Wow. Ha! Ha!” (He laughed just like that… like a declaration)
Me: “I bet this is the most friendly phone call you have had in a while, huh?”
Vespa Dealership: “Yeah. I mean wow. I don’t mind. Hey baby.”
Me: “Okay, so what appointments do you have available?”
Vespa Dealership: “Yes. Let’s talk about scheduling you for that appointment. And perhaps we can schedule you for a massage too?”
—–This is when things take a turn for the super weird—-
Me: (uncomfortable laughter) “Wow. Okay. Actually, let’s keep this professional. Just the scooter. What do you have available?”
Vespa Dealership: “.. this is crazy… but here’s my number…call me maybe…”
Me: “Are you singing Carly Rae Jepsen’s ‘Call Me Maybe’?”
Vespa Dealership: (gaining confidence… round two of the chorus..) “hey, I just met you…”
—“Call Me Maybe” Interlude—–
Vespa Dealership: “Okay. Okay. Well I guess I should at least get your name.”
Me: [skin crawling] “It’s Bekah.”
Vespa Dealership: “Oh man. This is going to be so awkward when you come in on Friday. (dissolves into laughter)
Me: “Um. Okay. Sorry again.”
Vespa Dealership: “I’m so excited.”
Me: “Okay. Sorry again. Bye”
I hung up and laid on the floor for twenty minutes. My insides were too embarrassed to breath. I think I may have lost some hair… and possibly some weight. I don’t know.
To date, the shcooter has been such a clean, awesome source of awkward-free fun.
Sure, it involves some straddling and Mike has accused me of farting on him while we were riding, but never has the shcooter been bastardized into pick-up-line banter.
Never has it made me feel like a fool. Rather, the shcooter specializes in making me feel awesome.
So now I’m hurt. I’m disappointed. Mostly I’m weirded out that this guy has my number. And that he likes Carly Rae Jepsen.
I plan on walking into the dealership on Friday without taking off my shcooter helmet.
That’s right. Helmet. On.
I will wear sunglasses indoors and look like I am part of a dangerous shcooter gang. That will show him.
And then I will run out of there as fast as my little legs can fly.
Please don’t call me. Not even maybe. Please definitely no, not ever, call me, weird shcooter man.