“Two monologues do not make a dialogue.”
Jeff Daly
When we moved into our first house, we were in that blissful stage of pretending we knew what we were doing. We were homeowners now. Responsible people. The kind who own a level and use words like foyer.
The house was beautiful. Sunlight through the windows, paint that hadn’t yet been ruined by life. The kind of place that made you say things like, “This will be our forever home,” even though you’ve only owned it for nine minutes and still can’t find the spatula.
As part of moving in, we got a new phone number. Because apparently that was a thing you did when you’re trying to feel like a grown-up.
What I didn’t realize is that phone numbers are recycled. They just hand them down like family heirlooms, only less sentimental and slightly more cursed.
A few days in, we started getting calls—unknown numbers, private numbers, one from Mexico. Which was odd, because no one had our number yet. We hadn’t even given it to our parents. I thought maybe it was the furniture company confirming delivery, or a friendly welcome call from the city, like, “Congratulations on your new address! Don’t forget trash pickup is on Tuesdays.”
But curiosity got the better of me. I called in to set up our voicemail, and when it picked up, there was already a greeting.
It said, in a smooth professional voice:
“Thank you for calling Intimate Sensations.”
Now, I didn’t know what kind of business that was, but it didn’t sound like somewhere you call with your kids in the room.
So I did the responsible thing. Changed the greeting, changed the password, made it sound proper and boring:
“Hi, you’ve reached the Boudreaus.”
That’s the kind of announcement that says: This is a safe, suburban environment.
There’s probably banana bread cooling somewhere nearby.
The next morning, I was working from home waiting for the furniture delivery when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice, very serious:
“Is this Intimate Sensations?”
I said, “No, ma’am, it’s not.”
Then she said,
“Is this number xxx-xxx-xxxx?”
And I said, “Uh… possibly? We just moved, and I haven’t memorized it yet. I can check, I’ve got it written down—”
And she cut me off.
“I need Intimate Sensations.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a plea.
At that moment, I realized I was not equipped to handle whatever emotional or logistical needs this woman had.
I said, “Ma’am, I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”
She paused. Then, in a sharper tone,
“Is there someone more responsible I can talk to?”
And I thought, There never has been.
Then came the final line, delivered with full conviction:
“Let me speak to your manager.”
And that’s when I hung up.
Not out of rudeness—just a simple lack of infrastructure.
Because the truth is, there’s no org chart for this kind of situation. There’s no one to escalate it to. It’s just me, standing in my empty kitchen, holding a cordless phone that used to belong to Intimate Sensations.
She never called back.
But over the next few months, the calls kept trickling in. Late-night hang-ups. Breathless pauses. The kind of devotion that can’t be bought—at least, not at retail prices.
And every time it happens, I think the same thing:
Whatever Intimate Sensations was selling… they were really good at it.
