My own text-message scandal

In case you haven't been following the news in metro Detroit -- you slackers from Kansas and New Zealand, you -- the mayor of Detroit, Kwame Kilpatrick, is caught in a Clinton-esque scandal involving sex, lies and text messages. It's big news around here, and once again, everyone seems to have an opinion on what the definition of is is, and all that. Anyway, I'm not here to give you my opinion on Kwame Kilpatrick. No, I'm here to tell you that the Kilparick administration has nothing on me.

About two months ago, I started getting random text messages from a number I didn't recognize. They were obviously meant for someone else -- but judging from the content of the messages, it appeared as though the intended recipient was a close acquaintance of the sender. I figured they'd quickly realize it was a wrong number and it would iron itself out, so I never responded. Why spend the extra 10 cents? Plus, the messages usually came late at night when I was less than coherent.

The messages started coming more frequently, and their content got less and less appropriate. I didn't worry at first -- the sender was calling the intended recipient by name in the messages, so I figured it was just a case of mistaken identity, and I wasn't being stalked. Last week, I finally called the phone company. They said they'd gladly change my phone number. Um, yeah...the same number I've had for seven years? No thanks.

The messages kept coming, and they kept getting more and more graphic. I realize now I should have either texted the sender back "WRONG NUMBER, STOP TEXTING" at the very beginning of the whole thing...or maybe, in retrospect, CALLED THE COPS. But no, I chose to ignore the messages until they got to be too much to handle. And then I finally told my husband.

Brad and I were at a Mexican restaurant last week when my phone made its familiar beeping sound. I opened it up, and sure enough, it was my friendly neighborhood sex fiend.

"Who's that?" said Brad when he saw the shocked expression on my face.

"Oh, just this guy who keeps texting the wrong number," I said nonchalantly, passing the phone to him.

Just picture the scene for a second. Some person has been texting ME about how he (or she) wants to *&^%$^&%$ my *^^&%^&$# and then *&%$*^^&% for two straight months, I haven't said a word about it to Brad, and I just happen to mention it to him after he catches the dude in the act.

"Oh, they're not meant for me," I said breezily. "He thinks he's sending them to someone named Christy. Look, I'll show you." I began scrolling through my messages to find the early ones where the text messenger had called the recipient by name. Suddenly, it hit me. My phone's memory had run out in Vegas and I deleted my entire message history. No record of any names...just dozens of messages from a guy who wanted to &&*%%$ my *&%^^$%#.

Let me put it this way, people. If you're ever stuck in a situation like this, just be grateful that you have a very, very trusting husband. I do. And thank God for that.

Anyway, after I got a few more message this weekend, Brad put his foot down and told me to either write back or call the cops. Last night, I finally broke down and wrote the dude back: "WRONG NUMBER." We had an awkward back-and-forth conversation that was way longer than it needed to be and probably cost me a dollar. But the text messages stopped, and I haven't gotten one since.

And you know what? In a weird way, I kinda miss them. Their spontaneity and randomness was kinda fun. Even thrilling. That
Christy is one lucky girl.