“Mom: Would you check on your father? He keeps calling me, but when I answer, he doesn’t say anything.”
My eldest child called me while I was on my way to choir practice with the Irvington Arts Collective. I felt my butt buzzing as I walked across Ritter Avenue at Washington Street, and when I answered, Lisa told me that I had been “butt-dialing” both she and her daughter, Imani. “You even called me while I was talking to her,” she laughed. “I could tell that you were waiting for the walk sign; I could hear the clicking sound.”
I have heard people attribute errant calls to a “butt dial” before, but I have been suspicious of the attribution. When my phone is in the “closed and locked” position, I did not think that my glutes could activate the buttons needed to make calls. When using my hands, I must swipe to unlock, key in my passcode, open my contacts and tap on a name. My booty does not have that kind of dexterity; it can’t even crack walnuts. When a friend called me recently, she was responding to a hang-up call that she had received from me. We had a good conversation, and when we disengaged, I remembered having touched her contact number when I was searching for another number. I had immediately canceled the call, but she had gotten the notification anyway. I got a call from another friend, and when I answered, no one spoke. I did the obligatory “Hello? Hello?” then, hung up. (I did not do the theatrical “hello bellow.”) The next time that friend called me, she apologized for the previous call: “It was a butt-dial.”
I don’t know why my booty called Imani and her mother, but (see what I did, there?) when I let my fingers do the walking to my first granddaughter’s number, she often deigns to answer. She is a very busy 15-year-old, though, racing from saxophone performances to track and field, where she flings a javelin, slings a discus, and heaves an 8.8-pound ball in the shot put. The young lady is busy, but I still don’t know how my cheeks managed to gently touch the series of symbols that indicate her contact in my phone’s listing. And despite what some conspiracy theorists may say, I don’t think that my phone is likely to act on my musings of, “I wonder what Imani is doing? I should call her … or maybe Lisa.” I certainly did not say out loud, “Siri: Call Imani.”
I have seen at least one demonstration of spectacular booty-ship. When I was visiting with my sister in Maryland, her first daughter was there. As we old hats mused on the dance phenomenon of “twerking” my niece offered to demonstrate. Kelli is a 25-year veteran of the U.S. Army and she bent over her mother’s sink and glanced over her shoulder to see if I was watching. “Look,” she said, and began a syncopated dance, moving only her massive glutes, one at a time. I had to look away from the bouncing booty that, when in its infancy, I had wiped and diapered.
Flip phone operators are missing out on opportunities to fire off surprise calls to unsuspecting recipients. I can’t imagine that flaccid toot-tuners could flip open a phone and misdial a number to an unsuspecting contact. Not even my niece could pull off such a coordinated operation. (I’ll leave that image right here.)
No butts were dialing during the crafting of this column, nor were they twerking. They were most certainly not cracking walnuts.
cjon3acd@att.net