So I call up Sammi about something or other (most likely to ask her how to spell Frangelico for my blog, she is super-smart) and I get the wrong number. Which I totally cannot understand as I have her on speed-dial.
The machine says, “Hello, you have reached 555-7399 but we are not available to take your call. If you could kindly leave your number, we will be happy to call you back. Thanks.” Beeeeep!
I immediately hang up, not because 555-7399 is not her number (it is), but because I do not recognize the male voice.
I call again, this time punching in each and every digit with extreme care and precision.
There is that Y-chromosome voice again. A hunky, husky, deep, wonderful Australian man’s voice. With a thick, beefy Australian accent. I can practically see kangaroos hopping behind him as he puts another shrimp on the barb-ee.
I swoon. Then hang up.
Re-dial. Swoon. Hang up. A half dozen more times.
Poor Sammi is getting more hang-ups than a Justin Timberlake look-alike two days before prom.
It is absolutely Sammi’s number, I’m sure of it. But her husband, nice as he is, is not Australian, nor even British. His mundane accent is, well if you must know, Lawyer.
“Hi Sammi,” I manage to say into the phone, finally, “Uh, it’s me, uh, MOV.” (Long silence where I somehow think that the Australian guy will magically start talking to me again, and maybe even address me directly instead of just generically. “So, uh, hey! I wanted to ask you a quick question, umm, could you call me back? Or could your, uh, friend call me back? He sounds nice.”
I hang up, completely embarrassed. Who flirts with a voice on the phone?!? Apparently I do. But not even a real live voice, a taped recording of a voice!
I call again to apologize for myself and my bizarre hormonal imbalance.
“Hi, me again. Well, you know. Your, ah, your machine cut me off, I think. Sorry. So, how do you spell Phranjelyko? I Googled it, but couldn’t find it. Maybe I spelled it wrong. Like maybe I dialed your number wrong. This is you, right? Sammi? Are you screening calls? So, uh, well, what is with the voice on your—”
Geesh. I cannot call back. I contemplate emailing her, but think better of it. She will call me.
She does call me, the next day. She jabbers on and on about some Important Grant she has just received and I dutifully ooh and ahh. There is a slight lull in the conversation. I expertly maneuver the topic over to the voice on her phone with subtlety and finesse.
“WHO IS THAT SEXY GUY ON YOUR ANSWERING MACHINE??!?!!”
She laughs, a hearty Sammi-laugh, and I get the feeling this is not the first time she has been asked that question.
“It’s a very long story. Okay, not really that long. My cousin Sophie is married to an Australian guy. They lived, like, five minutes from here. Then, he was dying to move back to Sydney and next thing you know, they’re moving. I love love love his voice, which I apparently tell him all the time, so Shazam! he hijacks my answering machine and leaves this message. I am still not exactly clear on the details of how it happened. I just know I call and check my messages bare minimum five times a day now. From my cell phone. In the driveway.”
At least I’m not the only one.
(“Magical Otherworldly Voice”)