sorry, i didn't mean to call you and leave a 15-minute message about that sh*tty movie with morgan freeman and angelina jolie

I am queen of the accidental dial. No, not the drunk dial -- I suck at that. I'm talking about the 100 percent, stone-cold sober, Sunday afternoon, waiting-to-see-The Dark Knight (which effing rules, by the way) dial.

What happens is you shove your phone haphazardly in your bag, forgetting to lock the keypad and, at some point, hit some sort of magic dialing key that leads to you leaving inadvertently long voicemail messages.

Now, most of the time, the voicemails will simply consist of the muffled sounds of your plastic street knife bumping against your plastic street dice in your bag for 15 minutes, but on rare occasions, you'll leave a clear, crisp message on such riveting topics as the new MGM Grand at Foxwoods and/or a complete recap of what sounds like the sh*ttiest movie of all time, Wanted, starring Morgan Freeman and Angelina Jolie. (Seriously, a magic weaving loom produces your hit list? Come on! If you're going to have an ancient machine produce a hit list, at least make sure it's something cool like Heron's "inexhaustible goblet," which strangely enough does not have a Wikipedia page.)

Pre-modern toilets aside, however, it's the aftermath of the accidental dial that can be worrisome. In a best case scenario, you will never know. Someone will start listening to the voicemail, hear the stormy, muffled sounds of the inside of your bag and simply assume you didn't mean to call. In a worst case scenario, you will accidentally rekindle something that should be more dead to you than Wikipedia is to me right now. (Seriously, how in hell does the inexhaustible goblet not have its own goddamn Wikipedia page?!). However, in an amusing case scenario, you will likely learn of your unintentional, oft-retarded phone faux pas as I did this morning, via electronic mail:

"So I come into work today, and I have a voicemail from you. In this voicemail, it starts off talking about Foxwoods/the new MGM Grand. Then this guy starts going off on Morgan Freeman and an elite group of magical assassins. I assume this is some movie, and not The Bucket List."

Luckily, that E-mail didn't come from a government public affairs person or my boss (although, on second thought, that would have been kind of awesome), but instead from one Socrates Johnson of the renowned India Poop Blog. Now, I hope Mr. Johnson reads this because, indeed, the discussion was not about The Bucket List, although perhaps it should've been. (That plot looks much, much better. Although can it get worse than a rogue magic loom? I'm telling you, a rogue inexhaustible goblet would've catapulted that film to the next level.) I'd also like to take the time out to say you're welcome, Mr. Johnson. (The subject of Mr. Johnson's E-mail was, after all, "Best Accidental Dial Ever.")

But, you know, while some of you may fault me for apparently not putting my phone's keypad on lockdown, I fault my technology, and Washington, DC, in particular, for issuing me said technology. The device at fault: my douchey old BlackBerry, of course.

Seriously, I'm tempted to erase every number out of my BlackBerry's memory. This isn't the first time this phone has accidentally dialed. Nope, this stupid phone has accidentally dialed coworkers, strangers and, best of all, dudes whose numbers I should've erased months ago. Awkward! Fun!

In fact, this evil slice of technology has come close to ruining my life on several occasions. Besides the accidental dialings, its failed GPS has gotten me lost in the Soviet-seeming architecture of L'Enfant Plaza; its unfailing connection to my work E-mail has f*cked up a leisurely night or two; and its overall aesthetic just generally makes me look like a giant douche.

Yet despite its plethora of faults, I continue to have this piece of sh*t on my person pretty much at all times. It's not because I'm trying to be a douchebag (does one really need to try in DC?), but it's because my other phone -- my real phone with the sweet retractable antenna (not joking) -- has this lovely habit of shutting itself off and not turning back on at some very inopportune moments. In the words of 50 Cent: Ayo, I'm tired of using technology/ Why don't you sit down on top of me? Wait, uh, scratch that last line.

But speaking of sitting! You know where you can sit? (Man, this is an excellent segue...) In one of the plush seats of the Cleveland Park's Uptown movie theater! Those seats are comfy! In fact, I think I'm going to only see movies at the Uptown from now on. If you haven't been there, you should give it a whirl. It's one of those old-school bi-level theaters with a humongous screen, a nice soundsystem and excellent temperature control. The only aspect of the theater that put a damper on the experience was the other clientele, and one in particular, who sat directly in front of us. Suffice it to say, every time he got up to let someone by, we were confronted with some serious old man ham (read: butt crack) in our faces. Picture that!

(Good morning!)