Livestream of Consciousness

This morning I woke at 7 AM to the muffled sound of a recorded message on an answering machine. The machine wasn’t mine. I could hear the names being recited, though: if you’d like to leave a message for her, press 1, for him, press 2, etc.

This puzzled me, but as I am wont to do early in the morning, I decided it was my neighbor’s machine through the wall.

Until I realized I recognized the names that were being recited, and I knew wasn’t my neighbor – it was the agency I’d phoned yesterday.

I jumped up, thinking I was insane, and began searching for the source of the sounds. I found my cell phone in the bed—I had been lying on it—and the phone itself had placed a call to said agency. I pressed a bunch of buttons but couldn’t get it to hang up. Closed and reopened it—nothing. (Although I was still fuzzy-headed at this point and I have no idea if this was the phone or my brain’s problem.)

I finally got the call to end, and I checked my “Calls Made” list. Every single one of the 20 recent calls made was to that agency phone number. Thank God it was early enough that they weren’t in the office. I really, really hope they don’t have caller ID.

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One of my Facebook friends referred to “Baby It’s Cold Outside” as the date-rape song. My first reaction was “oh, stop, it’s not about date rape” because I thought it was just about a boy trying to persuade a girl not to leave his house. But today when I heard it on the radio I listened to the lyrics, and I really think you can make the case that it IS a date-rape song. “What’s in this drink?” the girl asks at one point. Roofies, honey.

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I am declaring that I like sausage. (Get your minds out of the gutter. I’m talking about the actual product.) It was always something I thought I shouldn’t like, because basically it’s just scraps of pig ground up together and stuffed in a casing—gross, right? Well, it can be. BUT . . . good sausage is actually really tasty and awesome. So, I love sausage. Deal with it.

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I’m burning through my Battlestar Galactica discs at a rapid pace. I rent 5 discs at the video store and finish them in a matter of three or four days. I really, really love this show—but not the spiritual, dreamy Cylon/God/gods crap. I don’t care about that. I like the relationships on the Galactica, the political intrigue, the questions about torture, choices, military action, and (occasionally) some space battles. Really, I would be happy if most of the episodes were just relationship eps. I just noticed in an upcoming one that a character will be dealing with his failed marriage, and that’s the kind of thing that sends thrills through me. Dealings with failed marriages! Hooray!

I think I’m getting old, because I find myself rooting for middle-aged hookups. Of course the hot young people with the sexual chemistry should get together, and of course they will. But what about the older people? They need love and companionship, too! They’re friends who care about each other! They’re both single! Why aren’t they together?! The scenes won’t be the same; there won’t be any blue-lit shots of smooth skin and limbs entwined, because no one wants to see 50-year-old skin, but still. Make it happen, writers. (When the writers don’t write the stories I want them to, I make up new stories in my head when going on walks. I can’t rest until the characters are doing what I think they should do . . . and I'm actually kind of good at calling it. Basically what I thought should happen DID happen in an episode last night. Good times.)

Anyway, if you’re not watching BSG, you should be. That’s the lesson here.