"I was born a ramblin' man" --Allman Brothers

I used to get messages from one particular friend that would be stream of consciousness for five minutes, sometimes more. Each message would contain whatever she wanted to say to me but also whatever thought flew into her head, a verse of the song on the radio, even her telling her kid which drawer had the good scissors. It was bizarre. Although I am not that bad, I know I can be guilty of being a little rambly on my messages.

Conversations are like tennis games... there's back and forth. And when I call someone and get their voicemail, suddenly, it's a one-sided tennis game; I'm lobbing into empty space. There aren't those little cues to let you know, okay, what you said was good or it's okay to hang up now. There was a time when I would just hang up when the voicemail came on but, in the era of caller ID, it seems a little cheesy. So, I leave a message... a message I haven't thought through.

Them: Leave a message!

Me: Oh, hi...

Me: Um, I guess you're out...

Me: Or screening, haha...

Me: It's L.A. ...

Me: You said to call about getting together and doing something...

Me: So, here I am, calling...

Me: Remember, when we were at that place downtown like a month ago? You had that huge plate of wings? Well, not huge. Well, it was kinda huge. Not like you eat a lot. Just that they brought a lot.

Me: Um...

Me: Anyway, remember? You said something about getting together like mid-January?

Me: So, it's sorta mid-January... a little past mid-January, I guess... where does 'mid' technically stop?

Me: By the way, I really thought that sweater you were wearing was a great color for you...

Me: Really great. Like the perfect color...

Me: You know, on you. I can't wear that shade of brown. What would you call that? Like baked potato brown? Not that you looked like a baked potato. Just the sweater.

Me: The color, I mean.

Me: Um, so, I'm gonna go.

Me: You have my number right?

Me: I think you have my number.

Me: So, okay.

Me: Well, why don't I just give you my number just in case you lost it. Not that you would lose it. You're not careless. That came out wrong.

Me: Anyway, it's 703-555-1234.

Me: Um, forget that thing I said about baked potatoes. Not that there's anything wrong with potatoes. Let's face it, with a brown sweater, I could have come up with something far worse than potatoes to compare it to, right? Haha... I like potatoes. Everybody likes potatoes, right? Does anybody bake potatoes anymore? I mean, not in the microwave... I don't remember the last time I baked a potato in the regular oven.

Me: Okay, then...

Me: Um, bye.