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those ladies on the cover sporting GIRLS OF THE BIG TEN T-shirts and no pants.
    There were copious pages to get through before I hit the gauzy layout of a lady in a white fishnet shirt and nothing else. Gone was Ziggy’s pear of a wife. The farther along I got, the more I was faced with angles of body parts I had no business or interest in seeing. My friend’s mother had given her a special gold compact with which to inspect her private parts at her leisure. I saw little reason to go rooting around in that area.
    I flipped through more of the magazine through squinted eyes, until I arrived at the Tootsie Roll center of the Tootsie Pop. The centerfold. I found this to be a much more polite section, thanks to a flappy thing covering up some of the nakedness andinstead of body parts I was presented with something utterly enchanting: an interview. Here, I was led into a world of deep thoughts and esoteric information. Now this was up my alley. I learned that Brandi enjoyed badminton and spy novels and kittens and kissing. But she hated rude people. I made a mental note to put a “Turn-ons & Turnoffs” section in my own diary.
    At the bottom of the Q&A, there was an elaborate signature. I admired the way Brandi looped her B and drew a bubbly heart above the i . I hoped to one day have a great signature like Brandi’s and to be able to say I was turned on by badminton. But I was done with the nudity portion of the day. I needed a palate cleanser.
    4:17 p.m.
    The beige push-button phone hung on the kitchen wall with a long spirally cord, allowing you free rein to walk the perimeter of the house. The living room and kitchen were far enough apart that I didn’t have to worry about Grandpa Solly listening in. I dialed randomly.
    â€œHello?” said the voice on the other end of the line.
    â€œIs Joanie there?”
    â€œI’m sorry, who?”
    She sounded nice enough, but old, and like she was chewing something smushy, maybe egg salad.
    â€œJoanie,” I said again.
    â€œI’m sorry, I think you have the wrong number.”
    â€œ You have the wrong number,” I said.
    Silence.
    â€œPardon me, dear?”
    â€œIs Joanie there?”
    â€œRight, then. Goodbye, dear.”
    Granted, it wasn’t my best work but, in fairness, I was just warming up. So I called back.
    â€œHello?” she said, her voice more clipped this time.
    â€œIs Joanie there?”
    â€œDear, I just told you there is no one here by that name and that you have the wrong number. Now please stop calling or I will alert the operator.”
    This was no threat for me. I continued.
    â€œMy mother is an operator.” (Which might have been true. If you recall, I had no idea what profession she had slipped into.)
    â€œRight, dear. Why don’t you do your homework?”
    â€œWhy don’t you ?”
    â€œThat’s fine. I’m going to hang up now.”
    And she did. So I called a third time.
    â€œIs your refrigerator running?” I said.
    Click .
    I moved on.
    â€œHello?” This time it was a man, also old, and aggravated from the get-go.
    â€œI am stuck in a box,” I said in a teeny voice.
    â€œWhat?” He was hostile, like I’d interrupted his afternoon appointment with Bonanza . “Miriam? Is that you?”
    â€œYes, it’s me and I’m stuck in a box.”
    â€œHeh?” he was shouting. “What?”
    This guy was useless and, if we’re being honest, pretty irritating. I cut him free.
    Wrapping the coiled cord around my wrist like a bracelet, I made one final call.
    â€œOperator,” announced a young, pleasant-guy voice.
    â€œHi,” I said.
    â€œHello.”
    I then affected my best Miss Piggy voice, briefly mad at myself for not having thought of opening with this impression. “My phone is not working properly. Might you be a love and try the number just to see if it rings?”
    I knew he was smiling in his operator