Wrong Number....Again.

There's this guy who has my number.  Unfortunately for him, he has the wrong number.

One year and one month ago I got this text:

Wrong number:  Yo, Brett, Dude....Fantasy Football this year?  Pick your teams.

Me: Yo, Dude, Who's Brett? And why is he fantasizing about football? Is that what guys fantasize   about nowadays?

Wrong number:  ROFL  Who is this?

Me:  Not Brett. And my fantasies don't really involve playing any kind of football. I might break a hip.

Wrong number:  LOL . Sorry!  This was my friend Brett's number.

Me:  No worries, Dude.  Good luck with the FF.

Wrong number:  LOL

One Year Later (for those of us not good at math, like me, last month):

Wrong number:  Hey you still up for fantasy football?

Me:  I'm the wrong number you texted last year.  And I haven't learned a thing about FF since we last spoke.  And I'm still old enough to break a hip and never recover.

Wrong number:  LMAO.  No problem.

Me:  Maybe next year.

Wrong number:  Who is this lol

Me:  I'm Chicken!   We do not know each other, though.  Unless Kevin Bacon is somehow involved.

Wrong number:  LMAO haha idk why I have you saved under my buddy Brett's number.

Me:  Yup.  Brett. That's the one.  I don't know him either.  Good luck with your league, though. Really, it's lucky for you I'm not playing.  I'd probably win ALL the fantasies about footballs, and everyone would be mad that you let the wrong number lady play.

Wrong number:  LOL Good luck in life. (Do I sense nervousness here?)

Me:  Thank you, Dude.  You too.  Same time next year?

Wrong number:  lol. Thanks.

You know what I like about this guy?  He's polite, consistent and he doesn't give up on his friends.  You know what is really ironic about this situation?  Not many people are named Brett, but my girls happened to grow up with one, so I can't help but wonder if the Brett my kids grew up with is the one degree of separation between Wrong Number and me.

It's a small world, isn't it?  Some day, I'll be somewhere, maybe Sports Authority, for instance, on a Tuesday night at 8 pm, and I'll hear this young store clerk talking to another clerk about a strange chick he keeps texting by mistake every year about Fantasy Football.  He'll mention how, at first, it was really funny, but this year she invited him to Thanksgiving with her and her family, which was really, like, creepy,  you know? And of course, he said no, but thanks anyway, lol, and now he's afraid she might be stalking him because he keeps getting this feeling like he's being watched.

Like I would ever stalk somebody.  Not that I will be ignored, either.

Chicken out.

credit:  The americanconservative.com

Chicken Scratch: 10 Bits of Randomness

Hi Worldians,

Hope you've been well.  I've been thinking, and similar to Lady GaGa's thoughts, it almost never ends in a good place.  At least it ends in a lucrative place for Lady GaGa.  For me, it just generally leads to more disassociation.

1.  I've been thinking about purses.  I don't like any of the names we have for lady bags.  Purses, pocket books, bags...these terms are all outdated.  Brand a better name. Boots are in this year. Maybe you could call it a BodBoot. A ShoulderSack. OMG there IS no good name for a bag that hangs off your shoulder. That's it. We should just all stop carrying them. Hear Chicken's call for a new social order. I like to call it Occupy Coach. We will camp in front of Coach headquarters until someone comes up with a new name for..I can't even say it....But hey, Who's with me? Anyone? Someone?  Please? 

2.  I've been thinking about head lice.  There's a vaccination for Chicken Pox, which you can't even see until it hits you, but no bright-eyed Stanford major has figured out a way to rid the world of these foul, itchy, jumpy little bastards? 

3.  I used to think that "genius" was all about what you know.  Now I think it is all about understanding what other people think they know. 

4.  I can't buy anything artificially red or blue anymore.  Food scientists, are you paying attention?  I'm terrified of color additives.  I heard they make my kids hyper.  I'd probably buy your "energy drink", under pressure, if it didn't look like Smurf ambrosia.  Just sayin'.

5.  "Just sayin'" is a horrible thing to say.  It is crass, it is disrespectful, it is grammatically incorrect and it is sarcastic.  And I'm going to stop saying it.  Tomorrow.  Just sayin'.

6.  I'd like to be young or I'd like to be old.  Being middle-aged is too close to average.

7.  Well.  Middle-age can be sort of a fun hodge-podge in this baby boomer age.  Who really knows what is normal?  It's like jumping down Alice's rabbit hole and meeting Elton John first thing.  And he introduces you to his baby.  And then Martha Stewart comes along and wants to teach Elton how to grow an organic garden and make his own baby food.  Elton is so touched that he writes a song about how Martha is misunderstood and fragile, probably like a candle in the wind, and then Ralph Lauren is inspired to design a whole line of organic clothing, aptly named "Just Martha", and through it all, Yoko Ono maintains that Elton's song is about her.  As does Mick Jagger.  Then Kirstie Alley loses 60 pounds eating Martha's organic baby food, hooks up with Ashton Kutcher and Miami Vice wear comes back in style, and....well...I could go on and on.  It's a confusing age.

8.  Come to think of it, Middle-age is the age to be, as long as you live it with confidence.

9.  Until the World Ends next year, in which case many of us baby boomers might have a bit to answer for and offering to make the Pearly Gates a little more pearly, if you know what I mean, isn't going to get us far. 

10.  Unless you are very pleasant, humble and easy to be around, in which case, why wouldn't God want to hang with you?  Hey.  I learned that in Kindergarten!

I started out with purses and ended with apocalypse. Is there a connection?

Be well, Worldans. To those of my blogger friends facing challenges right now, please know my thoughts are with you, and to those of you celebrating the sweetness of life, my thoughts are with you.

Chicken out