Ring My Bell

Apparently, J-Fed didn’t get the memo. It doesn’t matter whether you’re here, there or everywhere buddy – we’re still divorced. That means, you no longer have to check in and tell me you’re okay. In addition, you probably shouldn’t list me as your next of kin – because more than likely I’d inadvertently throw a going away party instead of planning a funeral.

All jokes or half truths aside… It’s a funny thing about J-Fed, but he feels there is no place like home. By home, I don’t mean the house we used to share. I guess I’m just talking about the general location of where we both hold residence. You see, every time he crosses the state line, he feels it imperative to keep me on speed dial, and to use that option frequently.

Now, these are hardly the days of yester where our divorce was still fresh and new. It’s going on six months now. We don’t spend anytime together. In fact, we barely speak unless it’s a nasty argument over something or other. So it was much to my surprise when my phone rang bright and early this morning.

“Hey there!” he chirped. “I’m in Atlanta. I was just calling to let you know.”

Mmmmmmmm, okay. I wasn’t really sure why he felt the need to keep me abreast of his travel itinerary, but I was polite nonetheless. I mumbled civil responses to his statements, although it was so early I couldn’t even tell you what he said in retrospect. I figured that would be the last I’d hear of him for the next couple of days.

“Hiya! I’m in Boston. We’re in the cab,” he told me happily. What the hell was with the play by play? I didn’t get it. Then it sunk in. He was traveling with someone else, and I would venture to say that person was probably using the phone. So, of course, J-Fed had to use the phone too. Monkey see, monkey do. I’m assuming he probably couldn’t get in touch with any of us his other “friends” who are unable to take phone calls during work hours so I was probably a last resort right falling somewhere between calling 411 or some sort of sex hotline.