Call me maybe

My phone has been blowing up this week, if you can say that about a landline. My old, ahem, friend, Bill Clinton, called me the other day. After FOUR years. The last time we spoke (and by spoke, I mean, my recorded answering machine message played, then he spoke to me from the heart), he called to ask me to vote for Barack Obama. But I think we all know why he was calling.

So If he thinks he can just call me when he needs me, FOUR YEARS LATER, like I’m a mistress-in-waiting, well . . . he may be right because he’s looking fit and foxy these days. This time, he wants me to vote for incumbent John Tierney who’s in a tight race for Massachusetts’s 6th congressional district. OK, fine.

Just when I’m on the verge of forgiving him, you’ll never guess who calls: Matt Damon. Matt and I go way back to Mystic Pizza, back before the Bourne enterprise and Good Will Hunting, so it was good to hear from him. We grew up in neighboring towns, but he may not remember that. He’s calling (he says) because he wants me to vote for Elizabeth Warren for state senator, but I know he wants to get together.

He gives me a number to call if I have any questions or need a ride to the polls. I do have questions (private questions) and I need a ride to the polls, so I ring Matt, except IT’S NOT HIS NUMBER! He left me the wrong number! Ugh. I hate when that happens.

Matt, call me. Maybe?

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