1001 Things I Hate: No. 2

After a man in an elevator told me to smile, I decided to start a series on Dan’s blog called 1001 Things I Hate. 1001 things? Well, yeah. I hate 1000 and 1 things, and I have a list.

Talking on the Phone

Seriously, don’t call me. The last time I enjoyed talking on the phone was with my 6th grade boyfriend, Andrew Goodman, a quality kisser and excellent conversationalist. Dan and I, despite our witty in-person and written repartee, are freakishly awkward on the phone with each other.

Dan: “Hey. What’s up?”
Brooke: “Nothing.” (Pause.) “Have you se–”
Dan: “Where are you?”
Brooke: “I’m at th–”
Dan: “Wait, did you say something?”
Brooke: “What?”

In the good old days, you could masturbate in your car without being interrupted. But since the advent of cell phones you can never really be “not here right now.” You are always here. So this has, in effect, turned the phone from a convenience to a giant homing device. We’re left to grope for excuses (“no reception,” “it was on silent,” “forgot the phone in my car”). Lies!* We’re all sitting somewhere with our phone next to us so that when Michael Jackson dies we get the CNN alert. You know what, I did hear the phone ring. I’m freaking attached to it. I just decided not to answer. And don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t love my phone. I incessantly check my email, peruse Facebook, and refresh my stock quotes. I just don’t want to talk to you.

The calls I dread most are of the “let’s catch up” variety. Look, I get it. You live in New York and I’m in Miami. Or we’re more than Facebook friends, but not so close that you know what I did last weekend. You feel obligated to call and catch up. But the thing is, I’m not twenty. I haven’t made plans to travel abroad, discovered a new career path, or had a drug-fueled one-night stand that I want to mull over in detail (“and then he put his penis in my armpit…”). Nor do I moonlight as a vigilante crime fighter (vigilantes have the best stories). I have the same job, live in the same place, and am still with Dan. Nothing interesting has happened this year. And our thirty minute attempt at sharing has just highlighted the monotony of my bourgeois existence. I have no news. Oh wait! Did I tell you I went for ice coffee this morning instead of drinking my usual drip coffee? It was crazy! I waited on line for fifteen minutes and then the barista gave me decaf by accident. Hahaha! Listen, if there was something to tell you (“I have a rare disease!”), I’d call. Otherwise, assume everything is the same. And no, I’m not engaged, but thanks for asking. Again.

A close runner up: people who call to make plans. Friend, this is why texting was invented. We don’t have to talk about what time we’re meeting for dinner tonight. You write, “8pm?” and I write back, “Sure.” Plans made. Instead, you want to have a conversation about it with all the boring pleasantries. “Hey. What are you doing?” Well, until you called and I felt obligated to pick up because we just IMed and you know that I’m sitting at my desk, I was writing something. I think it was something profound, maybe the best sentence ever written. There was a nuanced flow, an ironic turn of phrase, insight into the human condition, and a subtle reference to The Bachelorette. But then my phone rang and it was lost. All so we can have a five minute conversation about what time to meet for dinner. 8pm. Let’s meet at 8pm. Ugh.

Thing I love: bagels.

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* Really though, I don’t get reception in my apartment.