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| How my wife and I actually looked in 2008 |
In 2008, my wife Michelle and I had just celebrated our third dating anniversary. That very same night, I got a random phone call that was quite a treat. The following is my official account of that phone call; the names have been made-up to protect the derps.
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If I told you that my girlfriend was a defacto prostitute, you might become confused, and wonder why she's still with me if I were to refer to her in such a manner. This is a relatively new phenomenon in our relationship, because until just recently I was kept in the apparent dark regarding her shadowy nature.
We had just returned from a rather expensive and wonderful anniversary dinner at a rather posh steakhouse in Nashville when my phone rang, as I entered the bathroom to relieve my bladder. The caller ID read "Private Number," which didn't surprise me terribly, as my friend Gabe's number often comes up with such a moniker. The exchange that occurred when I answered was the stuff that literal dreams are made of. Not in the fanciful romantic sense, but in the very real way dreams often have an exceedingly random nature that somehow feels natural while we REM away the night.
"Hello?" I answer, expecting to jib briefly about Blindsided (our now dormant podcast), or the many blog assignments that still haven't been completed. "Why do men," started the overly pronounced African American woman on the opposite line, with an appropriately hilarious amount of ebonic inflection, "spend hundreds of dollas on a prostitute, but not spend three dollas on a decent woman?"
My mind raced: was this Karma catching up with for the many pranks of my younger days? Was this a co-worker that knew I was now broke jibbing me? Or could this be a glorious gift from the Almighty to give me a wonderful laugh? Surely not.
"I wasn't aware that this was the case," I responded evenly in my best radio voice, with an obvious smile plastering my face, despite my initial confusion. "Yes you do," she began again with the conviction of Al Sharpton and Louis Farrakhan rolled into an angry uneducated Oprah-monster. "All you men gladly spend all your damn money on a AIDS havin' HIV prostitute, but you won't buy your own decent woman McDonald's!"
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| Whore! |
Wow, I thought to myself. We actually hadn't had McDonalds in awhile, so maybe she wasn't completely wrong. But wait, I had just had an expensive dinner with the prospective Mrs., so maybe I should let the kind young McDonald's rep (which is the best I could assume at this point) that I had indeed had taken my decent woman to dinner on this very night – to avoid her possible embarrassment.
"Well, I did just take my girl out for a $130 dinner tonight... Did that not count?" She stammered briefly and retorted strongly with "What? A hunnerd and tirty dollas? Mo like a dolla tirty!"
Oh my.
She continued amidst my wake of shock with, "You spent dat hunnerd and tirty dollas on a damn hooker. A dirty prostitute!" Admittedly, I have had slight drug and alcohol problems in the past – maybe I had relapsed in a black out of prostitute dinners over candle light I had indeed spent that money on some HIV-AIDS hooker. Dear God.
Or... Maybe... Was my girlfriend just a hooker I had failed to identify? The possible revelation nearly floored me. I stood in the bathroom as I continued to exchange our increasingly surreal dialog with my penis in my hand, failing to pee. Realizing that I wasn't going to be able to expel my urine under the current conditions, I packed him back up and headed back to Michelle's room (yeah, I'm switching to using her name, as calling her "girl," "Girlfriend" and "Potential Mrs." is starting to confuse me) to share this lovely experience with the one that I love. She looked at me quizzically, asking "Are you faking a conversation?" "I couldn't make this shit up," I responded to her while keeping the conversation going with my tele-host.
"Hang on, we're going on speaker," I inform the Demonoprahmon so she could be prepared. I then announce to Michelle that the lovely caller had insinuated that she (Michelle) must be a prostitute due to the amount of money I spent on our dinner. "Well damn. Sorry honey," Michelle responded with a confused laugh. Our guest, who I think should be named Shantiqua, or LaQuineesha, or maybe even Queen of the Shrouded Crazies, responded "Oh, hell no, don't bring her into this. She'll just defend your sorry ass!"
Disclaimer: I'm not saying that all people that wear shrouds are crazy – I am simply saying that of those that meet both requirements of shroud wearing, and crazy are ruled over by this woman.
Understanding QSC's trepidations at me bringing Michelle into the mix (it was rather impolite, QSC did call to talk to me, and I shouldn't double team on her) I returned the phone to its normal hold to ear operation. I did, however continue to talk to Michelle during the remainder of the conversation.
"Who is that?" Michelle understandably questioned. "I don't know, she called from a private number," to which QSC responded "Dat's right. Dis be a private residence!" "That's fine, I understand why you must feel that way," I began, "But how did you get this private number?"
As if to increase the surreal atmosphere of the phone call, she replied somewhat subdued, and conversationally "Oh. I used to work at T-Mobile and had access to the database."
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| Gabriel and his homey, Mohammed |
While the ever lovely QSC continued spouting her interesting take on my relationship with Michelle, I raised my voice in anger at Michelle, telling her to shut up and put her veil back on. I then turned back on my caller, telling her the same. Informing her that the Apostle Paul, Mohammad the most Holy Prophet and (I could only assume) Allah all seemed to be in agreement on the subject. She seemed to start to refute the Paul part, but then turned into confusion regarding the bit regarding the Islamic prophet, "I never heard of Mohammad sayin dat," she retorted, apparently confused that a white-male infidel would even know the names.
As a brief caveat, I only have a cursory knowledge of Islam – I do have the Koran, but I haven't had the time yet to devote to reading it intently.
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| Mr. Farrakhan |
She revealed herself as a member of the Nation of Islam (which is often known to be about as informed and racially tolerant as the KKK) and as a follower of the 'great' Louis Farrakhan.
Excellent, I thought to myself.
Tiring of the conversation, I started to wind down. "Darlin, I have enjoyed this immensely, but I do have to admit that I'm not a Christian or a Muslim, but a Buddhist... Sorry!" She got all riled up with this "YOU ARE AN IDOL WORSHIPPER!" Oh fun:) "You worship that pot-bellied statue!" Confused, I tried to inform her a bit by tell her "Oh, no. We don't worship the Buddha statues at all," I started calmly to which she replied "Yes you do! You worship that GODLESS IDOL."
"FUCK!" I responded with shock and frustration. Turning to Michelle, I announced "I've been doing it wrong this whole time! I'm supposed to WORSHIP the damn statue." QSC then quickly corrected me by telling me that I wasn't supposed to, which confused me further. "But you just told me that I do, but I hadn't been, and I wouldn't want you to be wrong... so which is it?" I asked, with a decent amount of sincerity in my voice, "You are supposed to worship ALLAH!" she proclaimed in victory.
Finally, I asked, "Are you wearing a veil?" I was getting really bored, because she kept repeating herself in the same delicious ebonic tone, which is only entertaining for so long. "I do when I am out in public," she said proudly. "Oh, but when you're home alone you call up and harass strangers?" I asked, to which she quickly replied "I only speak da truf!"
"Oh, you only speak da truf! Werd, my nigga! One-Love, Peace!" then I hung up.
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