Beep. Beep. Boom!

I have a long list of pet peeves. The list includes several variants of the same peeve - a lot having to do with driving, or a lot having to do with people in general. For instance, when it comes to driving, it severely irritates me when a person slows down before merging into the turn lane. On the same vein is the inbred notion of driving ten miles under the speed limit because you are talking on your cell phone. And a little further down said vein: old people. Not all old people, but you know the ones of whom I speak.

Earlier today I was reintroduced to a simmering peeve that I've had ever since I was introduced to the concept of voicemail. For those who still have another year's lease under their rock, voicemail is basically a message sent to a person, but instead of being handwritten or typed, the message is derived from you, speaking vocally. It's a great concept when getting into contact with someone who is either at work, not at home, or busy saving a busload of nuns from careening over the side of a cliff that would most definitely lead to a watery death; because, let's face it, any time you think of a cliff, you think of water and rocks and impending doom, not a mailman in a bar.

Unfortunately, the concept of leaving a voice message when the person is away is lost on some. For people like me, who abhor using the phone because you don't see the person's face (this statement being made from using a cheap Verizon LG camera phone where the only special feature is you can manually turn on and turn off the flash when using the camera) it means a lot when you take the time to call, and then take even more time leaving a message for the person to listen to when they find the time. Some people, being of the same sentiment as myself, understand the importance of taking the time to listen to a message someone has taken the time to record, especially for you; however, not all share this sentiment.

My mother happens to be a member of the latter grouping. She and I talk on the phone almost every day. When one of us calls the other and doesn't get in touch, a voicemail is left; these usually entail the same, "just calling to say hey, give me a call back" vibe to them, which is fine. It's always nice to know that someone called just to say hello. It's a much different story, however, when you call and don't leave a message.

When at work, I'll try to call my mother, for the basic "hey, hope you're doing well, what's new?" chat; yet, when it connects to voicemail, one of two things happens. The first is that I listen through the outgoing message and leave my own message for her; the second is that, because I'm at work and because my mother's outgoing message is so long and "professional", my patience level drains to below the "need to refill!" line and I simply hang up. The problem with performing the latter, however, is that once you hang up without leaving a message, one must prepare himself to receive a call or two from my mother - no more than a minute after the initial call.

I'll answer the phone. "Hey."

My mother, her voice set on inquisitive and ready to move a notch to "worried": "Hey, everything okay?"

"Yeah, why?"

With the same inflection as before: "Oh, I saw that you called, but didn't leave a message, so I thought I'd call to see if everything was okay."

This makes me wonder where my mother got this idea that if a message wasn't left for her, then something is wrong. If I call and she answers, everything's okay. If I call, she doesn't answer, and I leave a message, everything's okay. And yet if I call, she doesn't answer, and I don't leave a message, then we may as well be dealing with the Apocalypse. However, this sentiment seems to somehow contradict the one she has about messages that are left for her.

My mother has this really bad habit of calling back, shortly after a message has been left. At times, it seems, these are the messages that carry some bit of importance to them; and yet, she never seems to listen to them.

"Hey," I'll say after I have clicked the button to engage the conversation.

"Hey," my mother will repeat. "What's up?"

A moment. Then: "Did you not get my message?"

"I saw that you called and left one," my mother will say innocently. "But I figured I'd just call you back."

Call me dramatic, but my mother's habit for doing this worries me. She's going to become so comfortable with simply calling me back after a message has been left, that one of these days it may just very well cost me my life. One unheard message and it's bye-bye-Andrew.

I think of the movies that involve a good guy and a bad guy. The good guy is captured and strapped to a chair while the bad guy is waving around a detonator of some kind; however, the joke's on me: the detonator is a hoax, just a universal remote that blinks "VCR" when the bad guy tries to change the channels on "Cable". It's the phone that's in the good guy's pocket that is both detonator and soon-to-be detonated. And, while the bad guy's back is turned, him waving the universal remote while singing some bad version of a Donna Summer song, the good guy manages to use his tongue to push the buttons of his friend/sidekick/relative's number to let them know of his impending danger. Of course, the friend/sidekick/relative is out at the moment, watching the latest television-turned-movie cinematic blunder, so the good guy leaves a voice message; it's a code that the two of them have practiced, a sort of "If you get a message that says this, do not call back - just do what we have been training to do for this type of situation" message.

Unfortunately for the good guy, the friend/sidekick/relative forgets the code upon leaving the theater, incredibly dismayed at wasting twelve dollars and two-and-a-half hours to watch a cinematic rehashing of a popular '80s show about a fuzzy alien. He sees the good guy had tried to call him, but decides that, instead of listening to the message left for him, he'll simply call the good guy back to see what was going on. Unbeknownst to him, he has just killed the good guy, and the series has ended; as soon as he hits the "Send" button on his cell phone, the phone doesn't get a chance to ring - the phone's signal sets of a charge and the good guy is blown to a million pieces.

In this situation, I would be the good guy, while my mother would be the friend/sidekick/relative. We've trained for years: if you call someone but you get an answering machine, leave a message. It has been pounded into my subconscious and becomes reflex when not otherwise occupied.

You may call me dramatic, that's fine. Just don't call me before you listen to a message I've left for you. My life may depend on it.

Author's Note

This was originally written as a blog entry. It is in raw form, and thus is free-flowing writing; my way of telling a story as if I was actually talking about the story. It is merely meant for enjoyment - not looking for critiques; just thought it'd be nice to post something.