Turns out, my old email with my maiden name is ~quite~ common. I base this on the fact that I receive frequent maintenance requests for my Ford Taurus from Findlay Motors of someplace, Arizona. I also am “allegedly” the fine-ower (finee) of several overdue books from University of Syracuse or some other place. I’m nothing if not absent-minded.
I have never owned a Ford Taurus, nor attended the University of anything east of WSU. I definitely have, and probably still do, owe overdue fines for books. I like books. Once I get them it’s really hard to part with them.
I also “allegedly” worked for a firm in Florida. I’m not sure what I did, but I got a lot of corporate-ish messages from someone who said things like, “can you set up an appointment with the blah blah blah client so we can discuss blah blah blah?” First, what the hell am I, your secretary? Second, if you’re such a high-roller, why are you contacting your admin via a GMAIL account? Third, you just reek of douch-baggery.
I started responding with things like, “I called blah blah blah client, but they couldn’t meet due to the fact that one of their children sprung a leak. Drool everywhere. Their Italian leather sofa is RUINED! They are having a burial next week. For the sofa, obviously. The child is still alive, but they mentioned re-homing.”
Another time I explained to him what “el Nino” is and why it made for great skiing. And also that was the reason I couldn’t respond right away. Then I attached a photo of myself skiing. Why not one of my bare butt? Well, that’s just not the kind of photo we want out on the WWW, is it?
Today, I received three messages. “David” sent me two (thankfully clothed) photos from his iPhone. David was a nice looking guy, and clearly the messages were meant to give the recipient an idea of his nice-looking-ness. Because the messages and photos were of an un-nasty tone, I thought I should let him know he had the “other” me:
Very sharp, David. You are a nice-looking guy.
That said, I’m positive you’ve sent these to the wrong email@example.com. I occasionally get overdue book notices for a teresaoliver from Syracuse University or someplace like that. I’m betting that’s the Teresa you’re looking for. (Which, in spite of her inability to return books on time, is still a good thing. It means she didn’t intentionally give you a hokey email address in hopes of ditching you. But, it does bring up another point — is she kind of ditzy? forgetful? Something to think about in case you guys are dating.)
Since you’ve shared a little of yourself though, it’s only fair for me to return the favor. Besides, this will confirm for you that I’m not the “other” teresaoliver, just yanking your chain.
First, I’m married. He’s a great guy. As one person described it, he’s “funnier than a fart trapped in a space suit.” I can’t attest as to how funny that would be, but any comparison of my husband to a fart makes me laugh.
Second, I can yodel. No shit. In my car I’m pretty much a reincarnate of … of … of some famous female yodeller. Oh, that’s right… there aren’t any.
I’ve shoplifted before. I know, it wasn’t a proud moment. I was with my best friend and we each stole a candy-bar from Payless (back when Payless was a store and not a shoe-store). We stole it, hopped the bus, and rode the bus to the police station (which just happened to be where my mother would pick us up so that she could drive us the remaining 10 miles home — we lived in the middle of nowhere). Anyway, so we felt pretty bad-ass to sit in front of the Police Station eating our stolen candy and TOTALLY GETTING AWAY WITH IT! I think if I’ve shoplifted since then, it was probably by accident. Like your TeresaOliver, I can be a little absent-minded.
I had a pet rooster when I was growing up. His name was Chuck. I trained him to sit on an old broom-handle that I would put across my shoulder. He was too big to sit on my shoulder because i was just 4 or 5. Anyway, I tried to teach him to talk like a parrot, because, hello, what kid doesn’t want a pirate-parrot-chicken that can say dirty words? The closest he ever came to speaking was… well, actually, he never did anything remotely similar to speaking. But, i could hypnotize him. So, sometimes when he was in a trance I tried to TELL him he could talk, and that when he woke up he’d be a talking chicken. Sadly, this didn’t work.
I gave up on the whole talking-chicken thing for two reasons — 1.) it was too hard to walk around with an eye-patch on and 2) my older brother convinced me that I was “retarded” and that everyone was keeping this secret from me. I really felt that the non-talking-parrot-chicken and constant tripping/falling due to the eye-patch were evidence in support of my brother’s assertion. Chuck was put back in the coop with the rest of the non-talking chickens and I converted the eye-patch to an arm-sling for my cat.
You are correct, cats don’t have arms. However, I felt certain that with one leg in a sling (like a person with a broken arm) that the cat would heal from her limp.
Her limp was a result of getting partially run over as a kitten. Frankly, the sling was just too little too late to help her with the limp, given she’d been run over at least a year before I devised the eye-patch-sling. While I certainly had the enthusiasm for vet medicine, I really never had the practical sense to go into that field.
So, best of luck tracking down the “other” teresaoliver. Hope she likes your pictures.
For most, a response like this achieves multiple goals:
- sets a clearly uninterested tone.
- points him in the direction of his intended Teresa
- makes it bleeding obvious that this Teresa is of a “certain type” — a type that is probably just left alone.
I hit “send” and actually felt smug. I let him down gently, I very kindly told him he had the wrong number, and dammit, I was funny about it!
“David” wrote back — “You seem cool, can you send a picture? And no, we are not dating.”
Look David. You just crossed the line into dick-dom. I had high hopes for you and the other Teresa. I envisioned you two meeting online, and the photos as a precursor to a meeting at a martini bar. Then I hoped that you two would really like each other. Maybe even enough for that damn woman to change her email address and STOP USING MINE! And maybe, with an email like yours (CFO44? really?) you could help her with her overdue book fines and get her out of that miserable job with “Bert” from Miami. Trust me, he’s full of himself for someone who can’t appreciate a full explanation of “el Nino”.