Just Shelley Weblogging

Good Morning Babees!

Recovered from the Wayback Machine

Short trip. As I was working my way north, heading to my most favorite place in the world, I realized something: I don’t have registration for the car. I don’t have license plates, either.

Now, California may accept the dealer’s name in the license plate holder and a teeny tiny piece of paper with the VIN in the front window, but I’m pretty sure that most other states, Oregon included, won’t. At least, I think they won’t. So, I postponed the rest of my trip until I can check, on Tuesday, the legalities of driving my car in other states. If any of you have an answer on this – please email me or drop a comment. The wind blows to the North, and my journey is incomplete.

I have two bizarre and interesting things to tell you about, neither of which has anything to do with my trip. (I also came very close to a serious accident returning home across the Golden Gate Bridge, but we’ll bag talking about that one, concentrate on the fun stuff.)

First, I had the loveliest wrong number. It went something like this:

Him: Shelley! (Turns out, he said Stacey, but I heard Shelley)

Me: Yes?

Him: This is David

Me: (Now, I do know a David, but this one’s in Missouri and can’t figure out why he’d be calling) Hello David

Him: How are you, love (unsure of these exact words)

Me: (The David I know is not English. And doesn’t have such a lovely, lovely voice) Exactly who is this?

Him: This is David! The ten inch stud from London! (Now, I do remember these words, exactly)

Me: (bursting into giggles, I kid you not, giggling like a mad woman)
I’m sorry. giggle But I think you have the wrong number. giggle

Him: Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! I can’t believe I did that! Oh my gosh!

Me: That’s okay (really reluctant to hang up, as this man has the sexiest voice I’ve heard—and I’m a sucker for Australian and English accents)

Him: I’m so sorry. Isn’t this (he repeats a number he’s called)

Me: What was that number again? (Shameless hussy)

Him: (repeats number)

Me: No, I’m sorry. You did dial the wrong number (and I was sorry, too. Damn sorry.)

Him: Oh gosh. I really am sorry. I thought you said your name was Stacey?

Me: No, it’s Shelley (I’m still giggling – can’t believe I’m giggling. Years of sophisticated professionalism drop away in a New York minute.)

Him: Shelley. Yeah, that’s right (is it just me or is he a bit reluctant to hang up, too?)

Him: I can’t believe I said what I did! I’m so sorry!

Me: Not a problem. pause Well good-bye now.

Him: pause Good-bye

Here I am, half in love with a voice and a wrong number. I really have to get out more!

Speaking of which, this leads us to my next bizarre thing – an email, contents of which I’ve copied here:Shelley Powers:

A Provincial Doctor we once had on our team was absolutely right when he once said that women like you, who pukes on others without having the facts, are sexually dissatisfied. Go and get laid, and you’ll feel much better!


Now, I’ve had web sites for years, and have posted some controversial material at said sites. I’m also a writer, and write things that have made people angry at times. However, I couldn’t figure out exactly where this one was coming from. So I did what every other weblogger would do in this case – I went to Google and looked up Jan Sundberg Bingo! First listing had this page. Then I remembered Mr. Sundberg.

Jan sent me hate mail previously for a series of articles I did titled Tale of Two Monster, about the Giant Squid and Nessie, the Loch Ness Monster. I was not exactly flattering in my coverage of him in said articles. However, what I can’t figure out why he sent me a second hate email last night. I’ve heard from the others mentioned in the articles, but long ago – the articles were written in 1998.

Why is that some men resort to the old “you need to get laid” story any time they meet a woman who disagrees with them? If you have a moment, send Jan an email, tell him “Hi! Back atcha, luv” from me. giggle <edit />

Anyhoo, I have Blogicon items to organize. And I’m still taking off — again — as soon as I find out if I’m going to be hassled driving in other states.


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