One Ringy Dingy

This morning I woke up singing my favorite Manhattan Transfer song.  It goes something like this:  "Operator? Information.  Give me Jesus on the line."  Don't worry, I haven't become an SJG for JC.  I'm singing this song in honor of my late mom, who would've turned 85 today.  How I wish I could place a collect call and get her on the line.  I'm sure such a call could get pricey, but she never did mind when I reversed the charges.  In fact, she encouraged it. When I was 15, I went on a teen tour around the USA.  For six weeks, I traveled the country on a Greyhound Bus with a bunch of horny boys and a few nice girls.  As I recall, the ratio was 32 boys to 12 girls.  Let's just say I had fun and leave it at that.  Naturally, my mom missed me, horribly and wanted me to check in now and then.  So we had a little phone game we'd play.  I'd call and invoke the name of my childhood imaginary friend, Mrs. Salarni.  Why the very young SJG used to channel a grownup with a name that sounded like Salami, I couldn't tell you.  Nor could any of my therapists.  I picked Salarni out of thin air.  I have no idea why.  Anyway, here's how these collect calls would go.  One ringy dingy. Two ringy dingies.  My mother: "Hello?"  Operator:  "You have a collect call from Mrs. Salarni."  My mother: "I do?" Operator:  "Will you accept the charges?"  My mother: "Hmm.  Who's calling again? I'm not sure I know a Mrs. Salarni.  Maybe if she could just say something it would help."  By now, I'd be cracking up on the other end.  Operator:  "Mrs. Salarni?"  Me:  "Yes?"  Operator: "Your mother wants to hear your voice, but doesn't want to accept the charges."  "Oh, no.  My own mother won't accept the charges?"  At this point, the operator would disconnect the call.  So, Mom, wherever you are, happy birthday.  Mrs. Salarni sends her love.