The Art of Miscommunication

Hello and goodbye used to be so easy…

My family believes I communicate by smoke signals. They think my phone needs updated. Clearly, they aren’t thinking. When the art of miscommunication has been mastered with no Gs, why pay for four Gs?

I’ve answered the phone in the voice of the Soup Nazi. I was sure it would be my husband on the other end. It wasn’t. It was the doctor’s office with the results of my mammogram. The tatas were fine, but the doctor must reevaluate the results of my mental health exam and call me back.

I’ve answered my husband’s cell phone with; “Butch’s Bitch, how may I help you?” The person on the other end wasn’t my brother-in-law. It was the doctor’s office again. The doctor offered to send someone right over with a straight jacket.

I’ll never program a phone number for a member of my church’s congregation into my phone again. By some kind of cellular voodoo, a picture of me and my girlfriends sitting in a hot tub, exaggerating our cleavage, and drinking margaritas was errantly sent.

Hot tubs are portals to the nether world and liquor buys your admission ticket, according to last Sunday’s sermon. Next girls’ weekend, I’ll be riddled with guilt knowing I continue to sit on the edge of Hell, ticket in hand.

I’ll never take a picture of my cleavage and send it to my husband. My mother wondered why I sent her a picture of my knees.

Before leaving a message on voicemail, I make sure I dialed the correct number. My Dad showed up with a covered dish for girls’ night at my house.

The song “Crazy Bitch” as a ring tone for my older sister was a mistake. My younger sister wanted to know what I chose as a ring tone for her. I had to confess that her ring tone was also “Crazy Bitch.”

Remembering what song I picked as a text alert could have saved me from a near death experience. “Ha, ha, ha, wipe out” sounds like “ha, ha, ha, get out” muffled in my pants pocket.

A co-worker and I were cleaning an empty, creepy house tucked off the main road. Outside, faint voices were attributed to rustling leaves. Inside, we noticed a light on in the attic. Maniacal laughter echoed off the empty walls.

Imaginations ran wild with demented clowns and poltergeists. The sound of beating drums matched the pounding in our chests. My co-worker dug her nails into my arm. Then I remembered the phone in my pocket and the song “Wipe Out” as a text alert.

When breathing returned to normal, my co-worker admitted to readying herself to flee and leaving me as maniacal clown bait. I knew where I really stood with her. She knows I’m really stupid.

Correct letters and spaces are imperative to convey correct text messages. “In the course of our business relationship” easily became “intercourse of our business relationship,” which brought an entirely different meaning to the correspondence.

I now check spelling before sending text messages. My parents preferred reservations at a condo on the beach as opposed to staying in a birth control device. A new cell phone may have saved me from this one. The MNO key on my old phone sticks.

A suggestion of stakes for a dinner party had my husband questioning if our guests were vampires.

“Spaying late at work” confused my husband because I’m not a veterinarian where spaying late makes perfect sense. Canker and cancer are two different illnesses. My car needed gas not ass. I stopped for a couple drinks not kinks with friends. Getting worn shoes fixed makes sense since I’m a wife and mother. Getting porn shoes fixed raised a few flags.

Correct spelling would keep me from going over my text allowance due to long explanations of the previous miscommunication.

Never sext, even a bit of suggestive language may reach the wrong person. Your daughter may text back. “Mom, that’s gross. I think you wanted Dad.”

Who needs an updated cell phone? I’m throwing my old phone away as soon as I figure out how to delete everything.

Smoke signals? Forget it. I’d probably start a forest fire.

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