Don't Say I Didn't Warn You

I get the Cablevision internet phone service called Optimum Voice for a flat rate so I can call my brother, my sisters, Dad, Grandpa, Siobhan and Paulie. The service has its pros and cons. The fee is less than I paid for regular service and my two-tin-cans-and-string constant connections with Daria and Siobhan. On the other hand:

Siobhan: What the hell's wrong with your phone?
Tata: What? Nothing. Why?
Siobhan: Did you notice I didn't call you?
Tata: No. I called you, right? I didn't notice except I guess I did. Please tell me immediately what you are getting at.
Siobhan: You had no phone all afternoon.
Tata: Hmm. I guess it was just me, Larry and the voices in my head murmuring, "Kill! Kill!"
Siobhan: If only they'd whisper useful things like, "Check your dial tone! Re-grout the tub! Comb the soap!"

Every weekend for the last month, I've had no phone service for some period of time. Since I hate the phone, hate paying for the phone, hate talking on the phone, hate the ringtones, hate the interruption of whatever I'm scheming about, hate the whole thing, I haven't been too upset about it. Every weekend, I call Optimum Voice and tell another disinterested customer service representative it's happened again. In fact, since moving into this apartment on 19 August, I've called Cablevision twice a week most weeks to report some new problem. It's fatiguing. Setting up the voicemail took three calls to Optimum Voice for a service I should have been able to set up myself. I talked to no less than seven technicians and about half of them were outright rude. You should be shocked that I haven't said "pigfucker" even once in this context.

Daria: I've hit a parenting roadblock. Sandro has strep and wouldn't eat all day. When he wanted Wheaties, I gave him Wheaties. He wanted bananas. I gave him bananas. When he wanted chocolate milk, I said, "What the hell..." and poured that over the top. If he upchucks I'm calling right back.

I hold a black belt in Ten Words Or Less but the dojo belongs to Daria.

Daria: What up, Dog?

These may be the most densely packed three words you'll ever see. They unpack this way: "Hi, how are you? I'm calling to tell you two of my three children spent the night puking into every container in my house, including the bathtub and the laundry basket, and the six-year-old woke me up at 2:15, saying, 'Mama, my tummy hurts' just in time to throw up in my bunny slippers and since it was too late anyway I heard myself say, 'Tyler Two, go back to bed.' I dissed my kid! Can ya believe it? My husband is on a business trip to the golf course but it doesn't matter because he's coughing like an old-fashioned fire alarm and the baby's upset by all the noise. Remind me: why do I have three kids?" I leave a message on her machine.

Tata: I want my two dollars!

This does not unpack. It means "I want my two dollars." Sort of. It means: "Transmission received," or "Just checking in," or "I am eating delicious melted cheese." Daria, Todd and I quote early Saturday Night Live, Steve Martin, Better Off Dead, and a few Gene Wilder movies. For years, I called Daria's house and said the same thing:

Tata: Do you take pictures? Well, give them back!

...Until the time her mother-in-law answered the phone and indignantly asked, "Who is this? Who is this?"

Oops. Sometimes I am stupid. At least now I know what it'll cost me.