More Texting Turmoil

Oh, Singletons, Singletons, Singletons.  Have I got a story for you.  Might not be my usual novel-length potboiler, but still... it's definitely worth telling.

Last night, as I quietly tucked myself in for a few pages of my most recent book choice (which should also lend itself well to blog material, but that's for a later date) before turning in (it was a school-night afterall), my cell phone started to ring.  I looked down and immediately noticed that I didn't recognize the number.  I will be straightforward with you about my phone call screening process:  if I don't know the number, you'd better leave me a voicemail if you want me to call you back, because I never answer calls from numbers that I don't already have stored in my address book.  But, it only rang twice, falling short of the necessary commitment to get to my voicemail.  I shrugged it off until another little jingle rang from my bedside table.  A text message.  Hmm...  Who could this be?  Everyone I'd spoken to yesterday knew how tired I was.  I made no bones about the fact that all I wanted to do was go home, crawl into bed and catch some much needed z's. 

I looked down and saw that it was from the number that had just called me.  Not the first time this had happened, so I opened it.  "?s up, lady," followed by a text signature of "NoMercy4No1" stared back at me, almost mockingly, from my inbox.  Really?  Because I have recently wiped out my phone address book by mistake, I wondered if I did, in fact, know this grammatically incorrect person, (although the gangster-like signature pretty much sealed their fate) and just hadn't reacquired his or her phone number.  I wrote back:  "Who is this?"  Well... within seconds of receiving the response, I was no longer confused.  There was no way that I knew this person for multiple reasons.  The response read:  "Dis Spank, Wanda."  1).  Last time I checked, I'm not acquainted with anyone whose given or chosen name is anything resembling "Spank."  2).  I am not Wanda.  Politely, I wrote back:  "I think you have the wrong number."  Almost before my phone had completely sent the message,  my inbox lit up again and I read, "Oh sh*t my bad."  (I censored this particular text.  Who does that?  Who writes back to someone they don't know and uses profanity as if it is a common and acceptable way to speak??)  So, assuming that this meaningless conversation was over, I hunkered back down and cuddled up to my favorite pillow to finish a few more pages before calling it a night.  A couple of minutes later, I realized my eyes were starting to droop, so I turned out the lights and laid down my head.

What? What was that? Was that another text message? Are you serious?  Almost disgusted, I picked up my phone and saw that Mr. Mystery Man had once again sent me an inquiry.  "Who dis," he asked.  Well, I'm pretty sure he asked it, since there was no such punctuation to reinforce that idea.  I wrote back in hopes that my obvious lack of desire to really communicate would stop the flow of messages.  I said "Not Wanda."  Because, you know, I'm not.  Again, light off, head on pillow.... come on!!!  Really??!?  "I c dat but Im trying to make a new lady friend," he explained.  Poor Wanda.  Written off, just like that.

Now, here's where my sarcasm usually gets me in trouble.  This obviously very educated and wellspoken gentleman had absolutely no notion of my gender at this point.  He hadn't made it to my voicemail message or he would have known that he had the wrong number (unless "Melanie" ocassionally sounds like "Wanda," but I'm thinking he at least has the intelligence to be able to decipher between those two very distinctive sounding names).  Maybe assumed that since I used punctuation, I must have been female.  Maybe it was just the fact that I'd responded to "Who dis."  I don't know.  Part of me wanted to have some fun with this particular scenario.  Creative Melanie had visions of delight at the thought of completely flipping this guy out with something shocking to do with having a particular male body part (which of course, I do not) or acting like he'd somehow managed to mistakenly contact a local celebrity, a priest or a police officer.  Instead, I decided to take the moral high road and simply respond with:  "Sorry.  Good luck."  Before I could lay the phone back down, yet another message glowed from my screen:  "?s ur name Im trying to get lucky with u."

I kid you not.  I can't make this stuff up, my friends.  I decided that this was the final straw and did not continue our "conversation."  When I woke up this morning, I had four additional texts from Mr. Mystery Man, all saying "?s ur name."  I'm assuming that by adding an "s" to a question mark translates as some kind of conjunction for the words "what" and "is" in the language known as Stupid, or at least in the dialect spoken with the 706 area code.

I know I've said this before, but I have now reached the absolute bottom of the dating barrel.  Surely.  Please God.  How can you possibly get worse than an incorrect grammar-ridden, wrong-number text proposition from an absolute stranger??  Text messages are the bain of my social existence!  How do I manage to attract such communications even at a random level?!?  The dating gods have been laughing at me for months, but this is just a low blow.

After twelve straight months of examining and writing about my life as a Singleton, the silliness never ceases to amaze me.

P.S.  I missed the eHarmony deadline, but ever-predictable in their marketing, I received an "Offer extended!" email just a few minutes ago.  We'll see which side the coin lands on after a few more days of pondering.  For those of you interested in giving it a shot,  you can communicate for free throughout the weekend.