Ah another day, another dose of insanity.

The phone rings, the answer machine picks it up

(Side note: There is actually a small war going on in the family regarding answer machines. The Family Female Collective think everyone should be Olympic sprinters running flat out to the phone when it rings and should only let the answer machine get it if they are more than 3 miles away from it, severely ill or dead. Even then they give themselves the most time possible, making sure the phone rings 9 times before the machine picks it up, then they have a message that says their number, their mobile numbers and possibly good psychics that may be able to contact them - don‘t ring them from a pay-as-you-go mobile, you‘ll run out of credit before you get to leave a message. Beloved and I have a machine that picks up after the second ring. We don’t even try to answer it. The Hive Vagina {accepting their noble responsibility of policing two males who have no woman to control them properly) accuses us of the evil crime of call screening. To which we say “yes, of course.” This is apparently NOT the right answer and is on par with saying “Of COURSE I drowned toddlers and eat their brains, doesn’t everyone?” But I digress.)

So the answer machine has picked up. Spying the little blinking light, beloved plays the message. then scrambles for the volume so the neighbours aren’t struck deaf.


Nana *recorded*: Now you stop talking and listen to me, never mind talking over me! I’m going to have MY say and you’re going to listen to me, do you hear me? Well? Well? Now you’re ignoring me! That’s wicked! WICKED! I never thought you’d do something so bad to me, my own family, it’s wicked *sniff*. I wish tha-

Robot woman who lives in answer machine: END OF MESSAGES

Beloved: Your grandmother just had a steaming argument with the answer machine.
Me: I fear my genetics sometimes.