How Come You Don't Call Me Anymore?
Ever since I started undergrad my parents and I have had this sort of unwritten rule that we always call each other on Sunday night. My mother doesn't like this rule, because she thinks it transforms the weekly parental conversation into a chore - one final item on my to-do list - rather than the fun-filled bonanza she thinks it should be. She thinks these calls should be spontaneous, impromptu, as if I were sitting in my apartment utterly consumed by the sudden desire to know what my parents are doing RIGHT NOW.
But I don't like it when people call me for extended conversations out of the blue. Maybe in high school I liked the attention, but now I just have shit to do. And if I don't, it's probably because I've set aside this time as Quiet Time. My time. A chance to finish this Hillary Clinton biography, or watch the Dukies. Or shampoo my hair.
Sometimes I decide to be like every girl I've ever had a relationship with and submit my parents to a test they don't know they're taking. This test usually involves me purposefully not calling them to see how long before they call me. They invariably fail. I don't work for the phone company, but my understanding is: the telephones, they workin' 'em both ways.
And here's where the conversation takes an awkward turn. Because when I first made the move to Minneapolis, I remember realizing that if I killed myself, it would probably be a solid three, four weeks before anybody noticed (fun fact: if you are thinking of killing yourself, this thought doesn't help). Think about it. You only see your landlord once a month to pay rent. Professors don't notice if you don't show up to class (except at the end of the semester when they're suddenly searching for a reason to lower your grade). My only lifeline was a weekly telephone conversation, and sometimes my parents are on a continent that doesn't get good reception.
The moral is, if there's someone you haven't talked to in a while, you should probably call them.