Voicemail
“Will you please stop!” I shouted.
I was at my weekly eat-out with my fellow widower friend, and saw I had a voicemail in my iPhone.
I triggered it. One minute 27 seconds = a record.
My iPhone occasionally gets voicemails, since I don’t answer if that caller ain’t in my phone. Often a business has multiple landlines, and I may only have one number in my iPhone. Calls from such numbers don’t get answered — voicemail for them! If it’s that important, they’ll voicemail.
The unknowns are always after my wallet: charity solicitations, reduced interest on my credit-card balance — I don’t even owe anything. Neither a borrower nor lender be. “Please press one to speak to an actual viper.”
I just got a new dog, a rescue Irish-setter. My vet noticed a fair amount of tarter on my dog’s teeth, and recommended dental-cleaning.
I did so a while ago to a previous rescue Irish. I’m leery. Doggy dental-cleanings require anesthesia. The results are frightening.
This dog is nine, fairly old, but very lively.
“Yada-yada-yada-yada!” One minute and 27 seconds. Most voicemails are only a couple seconds. One minute 27 seconds requires sit-down with intense concentration.
I shut it off. No way can I cogitate all that while consuming broccoli and a cheeseburger.
An entire night passed, including bedtime. I also walked that silly dog this morning at the park — probably almost three miles, if not more.
Now to siddown and glom my cereal. Unholster iPhone, then trigger that message. My cereal had to wait until I listened through. One minute 27 seconds of ceaseless yammering. I felt like I was listening to “War and Peace.”
Yesterday at the Canandaigua YMCA, oldsters in the locker-room complained. “I couldn’t get away from that guy,” one said. “What that guy likes most is the sound of his voice,” another said.
I hope that vet contact doesn’t read this blog — I don’t wanna hurt her feelings.
But SHEESH!
• My new dog, “Killian,” is a “rescue Irish-setter.” He’s nine, and is my seventh Irish-Setter, a very lively dog. A “rescue Irish setter” is usually an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. (Killian was a divorce victim.) By getting a rescue-dog I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. — Killian was fine. He’s my fifth rescue.
I was at my weekly eat-out with my fellow widower friend, and saw I had a voicemail in my iPhone.
I triggered it. One minute 27 seconds = a record.
My iPhone occasionally gets voicemails, since I don’t answer if that caller ain’t in my phone. Often a business has multiple landlines, and I may only have one number in my iPhone. Calls from such numbers don’t get answered — voicemail for them! If it’s that important, they’ll voicemail.
The unknowns are always after my wallet: charity solicitations, reduced interest on my credit-card balance — I don’t even owe anything. Neither a borrower nor lender be. “Please press one to speak to an actual viper.”
I just got a new dog, a rescue Irish-setter. My vet noticed a fair amount of tarter on my dog’s teeth, and recommended dental-cleaning.
I did so a while ago to a previous rescue Irish. I’m leery. Doggy dental-cleanings require anesthesia. The results are frightening.
This dog is nine, fairly old, but very lively.
“Yada-yada-yada-yada!” One minute and 27 seconds. Most voicemails are only a couple seconds. One minute 27 seconds requires sit-down with intense concentration.
I shut it off. No way can I cogitate all that while consuming broccoli and a cheeseburger.
An entire night passed, including bedtime. I also walked that silly dog this morning at the park — probably almost three miles, if not more.
Now to siddown and glom my cereal. Unholster iPhone, then trigger that message. My cereal had to wait until I listened through. One minute 27 seconds of ceaseless yammering. I felt like I was listening to “War and Peace.”
Yesterday at the Canandaigua YMCA, oldsters in the locker-room complained. “I couldn’t get away from that guy,” one said. “What that guy likes most is the sound of his voice,” another said.
I hope that vet contact doesn’t read this blog — I don’t wanna hurt her feelings.
But SHEESH!
• My new dog, “Killian,” is a “rescue Irish-setter.” He’s nine, and is my seventh Irish-Setter, a very lively dog. A “rescue Irish setter” is usually an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. (Killian was a divorce victim.) By getting a rescue-dog I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. — Killian was fine. He’s my fifth rescue.
Labels: cellphone follies
posted by BobbaLew at 1:21 PM
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