…is a squirt. See photos below for proof:

Or listen to this story. We have a friend, Jay, who is recently divorced, and trying on the player thing like OJ tried on the glove. It’s liberating and sad for him at the same time, and I feel immense sympathy for him right now. He feels like half of himself has been amputated, and I feel it. But he covers it well.

Anyway, a genial time was had by all at Papadeaux’s, eating crawfish and talking about nothing of importance. Jay tries to get my husband to go to this lingerie party, and Tony insists that he has “permission”. I make a crack about how he has to get the Boss’ permission first. You know. Blah blah, pass the alligator.

So Jay says, “I’m going to the bathroom, Tony, get me that chick’s phone number while I’m gone.”

God, should I tell this story?

Oh, why not…

So Tony decides to be a squirt. We scrawl down my cell phone number and make up a name while we’re at it. Her name’s now May, and my phone number is her phone number. Ha ha ha, very funny. Jay goes through phone numbers like my sister goes through boyfriends. So it’s cool. We think he will call the number and my phone will ring. He doesn’t, so it doesn’t. Joke is no longer all that funny, and we kind of forget about it.

Suddenly Jay says, “She hasn’t come over here all night, I wonder why. You think she’s shy?” We all mumble something appropriate, and wait to see what happens.

When leaving, “May” is standing next to the tables on our way out, cleaning up. She chirps, “Have a good evening!” Jay says nothing. Mr Cool. I said, “Get ‘er tiger!” and he just ducks his head, grinning, and continues on. We get outside and he’s all she’s so tall and how old do you think she is? and I say, probably 16. He looks at me in shock. OK, whatever, dude.

I go home, to bed, and forget all about it.

Next morning I am late and I thank God that my angel husband has put my cell phone in my purse. I check the charge, because the charger cord has been serving as feline dental floss lately and may not be working all that well unless you futz with it. Full charge. And the screen says “1 new message”. Message? It doesn’t say anyone called me. I open the message and read the first line.

Hello May!…

May?

Oh shit, May…

Dude. I don’t respond to the message. I get to the work site and call my husband. Tell him not to tell anyone. But it’s funny, right? Sad-funny, like feeding the cats wet food with saran-wrap over the top.

Teaching class later and it rings. I have all my important numbers in call groups, and this one is ringing the tone for a non-grouped #. I look at the number. Is that…Jay?

I didn’t answer it. Of course, we put my cell phone # down, so he thinks I am May…And May isn’t even May. She’s someone else, just a face at Papadeaux’s. Sometimes things go too far, and it’s not funny anymore, just embarrassing and uncomfortable. Like when you hide pretty little Easter eggs and bust them 6 months later, all rotten. I just hope he doesn’t call me again…