I can’t make this crap up. Really. Sometimes life is so….funny. Or not. Depending on how you feel about booty calls at 3 a.m. Oh, I know what you’re thinking, but don’t get the wrong idea about me because this has *Nothing* to do with me and my booty, or Whiskey’s for that matter. Or even pirate booty.
I was asked to write about this occurrence in our lives by friends who were exposed to it on FB and I couldn’t quite figure out how to fit it into the blog’s theme so I’m not. I’m just going to offer up one of the weirdest set of months and occurrences that has probably ever happened to me.
So let’s start at the end shall we? Just to mix things up a bit? It ends with me texting on a regular basis to “men” that they should“Check your digits. You got the wrong # this ain’t Peaches.”
Who is Peaches? Whiskey’s better half? Oh dogs no. Peaches is a “call girl” who put my number up on her ads. Yeah, that’s plural. ADS. Okay, to be fair she didn’t really put my number up on her ads. She put a number that is so strikingly similar that were a man… um… distracted… perhaps… he might dial the wrong digits, also perhaps because to keep “her” # from being grabbed by whatever you would call those nasty programs that search the internet and use the #s they find for spam and getting lots of nonrelated texts/calls she used this weird way to write it. For example I might spell it 1 two doublethree 4 six Oh ate. Or some other such weirdness… I read her ad about 10 times and EVEN I read it wrong, so I can’t fault those guys. I thought, omg, she’s put my number down for a call girl ad… oh lord. And the picture! WOW! And the site! Wow! I had no idea that place existed. I’ve been educated. And now so has everyone I work with, because I proudly got to walk into my bosses office after I finally figured out what was going on and announce “Excuse me, I’ve got to take a break and call a hooker.” I mean, really, when do people get to announce such a thing in their lifetime? NEVER! It was sooo cool.
But that was probably one of the only few cool moments. It is not cool to have sex crazed men call you at all hours saying “Hey Peaches, You in Birmingham? I wants to see you.” In their sexiest hood drawl. So let’s go back to the beginning and discuss this drawl. Probably because the roosters were wanting to impress “Peaches” (is that even your real name young lady?) I couldn’t understand a word they were saying for the first few months. I began trying to figure out what was going on, since I couldn’t communicate with my harassers. I typically got the phone calls, after dark, when I was walking my dog at the local park. Usually the calls came around Thursday – Saturday, but not always, but almost always they did. Still, one of the more easily understandable calls came at work, on a Monday morning (see the above quoted pick up line). I figured that this woman was going to clubs and giving out my number instead of her own in order to get them off her back. I sympathized but it was making my life crazy. People said, maybe it’s a mistake, or maybe she used to have your number? Not so smartypants. I’ve had this # for about 17 years. I doubt this girl even knew how to use a cell phone then. She might have still been in diapers!
Sometimes the guys texted or called as late as 3 a.m. Really? Not. Cool. At. All. I need my librarian beauty sleep. How will I ever coordinate all those sweater sets without proper sleep? And Whiskey, poor Whiskey- hovering about the vibrating phone alerting me to texts and pawing at me to answer the phone. Poor dog. Not to mention how often his walks were interrupted with me going “Huh? I’m sorry. What?” ::indistinguishable mutter from a male:: “I think you have the wrong number. I can’t understand what you are saying.” Click. It is a testament to how unclear their diction was that it took me nearly 3 months to figure out the name of the person any of these men were asking for. Peaches. The ones who texted scared the poo out of me asking me questions I would not dare write here for various reasons. But they weren’t specific with names of fruit, even if they were specific about certain names of anatomy and skin color.
But then I had a break through after about three months of thinking I was receiving phone calls from a woman dodging um…suitors at her clubs. I finally got a text from a 256 area code #. Now I figured based on the area code that this guy and I had a better chance of understanding one another’s dialect. I wrote him back imploring to him to help me figure out what was going on. After a half hour of back and forth texts he called to speed up our process. He was a country boy with a clear country drawl that I totally could understand! I was elated. He helped me find the ads and I have to admit he seemed like a nice guy. I told him I was so very thankful for his help. He thought someone had done it to me on purpose because both he and I had read the # wrong and thought it was my phone number- it was that hard to read. It was only much later after we hung up that after a slower calmer inspection I realized why people were reading it wrong. And I knew I had to let the hooker know. I mean, I’d hate to let her lose the business right? Right. I just wanted these damned guys to quit calling me! I told the guy, that I was sorry I wasn’t the person he was trying to reach. You know, just trying to be nice and apologetic that he didn’t get the call girl. He got silent for a minute then let out a low chilling short laugh “No, trust me it’s better for you you weren’t” he said. I had no idea how to interpret that, but late at night sitting in the middle of my side of the bed in my night gown on a dark quiet night it filled me with a terrible dread about a particular kind of person who might seek out call girls, and what they might want to do to those people they find. I couldn’t help but flash back to my criminal justice days and my serial killer class… or my homicide class in college. I clutched the neck of my night gown closed with one fist and pressed off on my phone with the other. I hope Peaches knows how to take care of herself. I hope she has a Whiskey guardian on her side. Or a gun.
But the story doesn’t end there. I did call the call girl and I did leave a nice message for her about how much “work” she was losing by having her number listed the way it was. I explained how many calls a week I got for her (or a day, I can’t remember now). I told her exactly what the problem was in how it was listed and how changing it would definitely increase her business. Despite obvious cultural and socioeconomic differences I was hoping she’d take my perky white girl message and make the suggested changes. I also had hoped like hell that I wouldn’t actually have to talk to her (ty God I didn’t) and hoped she would not call me back (so far she hasn’t). I didn’t want to talk to her- not because of her um, profession- but because she scared the bejesus out of me. I had this perhaps irrational fear of her getting mad at me and threatening to beat me up. Anyway, I’m digressing… Over the course of a week or two the phone calls completely stopped ::knock on wood:: . I try very hard not judge anyone so I cannot make any pronouncements about Peaches, but I can add a few more comments on a few facts. Her age is unknown as even in ads placed a month apart her age ranged from 19 to 21 at any given moment. She has a large booty and a small kitchen (I know this from her pictures. Her booty is larger than several of mine and did not remind me of a peach. Maybe it wasn’t supposed to….) Also, I don’t think Peaches is really her name. I hope Peaches is taking care of herself and is safe out there and I also hope she learns to list her phone number more clearly in the future.
In honor of our recent trials we will be making Whiskey Peaches for my writing group which is coming tomorrow night to Moonshine Farms to congratulate me on my first official rejection letter and my success at getting rid of peaches- all in one month!
You can make these too! Recipe found at http://allrecipes.com/recipe/tipsy-peaches/
- 1 tablespoon butter
- 4 cups sliced fresh peaches
- 2 tablespoons brown sugar
- 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
- 1 (1.5 fluid ounce) jigger whiskey
- Melt butter in a skillet over medium heat. Add the peaches, and cook for about 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. Mix in the brown sugar, vanilla, and whiskey; simmer over medium heat for about 20 minutes, until peaches are soft and the sauce has darkened. Serve as a side dish or over ice cream.