Jennifer Kruidbos and textual harassment

  Montreal's megatalented Jennifer Kruidbos, 24, is a tornado of activity. She writes, manages bands, works at a magazine and organizes charities. Her latest story is a rather mindbending tale of the possible dangers of text messaging.
   Jenny K, pictured here helping out in Africa last year, participates and organizes philanthropic endeavours the excellent Watercan, which brings fresh water facilities to H20-challenged zones. She has organized and hosted successful fundraisers for this worthy cause, please support it.
   Her mother Sally Kruidbos, aka Sally Williams, is a Brit from a good family who became friendly with the guys from Led Zeppelin during their glory years because her then-boyfriend was the personal assistant to John Bonham. Sally worked at the hospital doing research during the day and frolicked with the rock stars after work. Robert Plant crashed at Sally's flat once because there had been problems with Zep's hotel, and due to stress Bonham got homesick (a regular occurrence, he was a family man) and demanded to go back to Birmingham right away. Plant didn't want to go, so the only solution was to go knocking on Sally's door at midnight to ask if he could sleep on her couch. They talked about farmers in Wales late into night, ''When they were away from the limelight they were normal but when they were together they became complete idiots."
   Sally married Leo Kruidbos, a top psychologist for Portage a clinic for drug addicts. Leo came from a broken home with an abusive father who left when Leo was 14. He then went from foster home to foster home, and fell into drugs heavily including one that starts with h. After checking himself into and completing the 12 month Portage program Leo became a staffer and rose to the top of staff and was praised by the government who also erased all records of his criminal misdeeds. One day a patient named Claude Dubois heard Leo strumming a song called Sally's Song, that Leo had written in tribute to his wife. Dubois liked it so much that he translated it and had a big hit with it, called Femme de Societe, and often invited Leo Kay, as he called himself, on stage to sing it with him in front of huge crowds. Sadly Leo passed away just prior to the turn of the millennium but he got a gold record for Sally's Song.
   Without any further delay, here's her story about the dangers of text messaging.
   Textual Harassment
Texting sweet nothings or fantasies to your lover can be fun, but beware the misdirected message. A few weeks ago, my boyfriend called me in Montreal, from Halifax, asking if there was anything I wanted to tell him. I mentally scanned the prior few days for any misbehaviour that would have earned his uncharacteristic interrogation. With a clear conscience, I informed him that he had nothing to worry about.


"Then why have I spent the last couple hours being questioned by an RCMP detective about you?" he asked -and proceeded to tell about the pissed-off detective who, that afternoon, had called his cell phone and grilled him about me. The questions were strange ones, "Has Jennifer been hanging out with a new crowd?" and "Does Jennifer have access to a voice recorder?"





I listened speechlessly to his bizarre story, interrupting only for the occasional "Wha…?!", while I ran through a sequence of conflicted emotions –panic, confusion, uneasiness and then, found comfort in a final thought: he's fucking with me. But he was not. As he requested, I checked my messages, and there was one from Detective Currie: "I would like a call from Jennifer regarding obscene phone calls originating from this cell phone number. If I don't receive a phone call in the next 24 hours we will initiate investigative action that will result in charges being laid. Thank you. Bye ."
   Frowning, then grinning, then giggling, turning red and tearing, I realized what the RCMP may be upset about. My cell phone has a service in which text messages, when sent to land lines, are read aloud by an automated voice. I recalled that the night before, on little sleep, a nasty hangover, hands shaking and body aching, I had texted some dramatic messages to what I thought was my boyfriend's new cell phone. A total of five messages lamented my frustration at the lack of photographs he had taken of me at his company Christmas party. My desire for self portraits stemmed from an augmented sense of attractiveness. I felt dead sexy. A friend of mine had leant me a little black dress. This wasn't any dress. It fit like a glove, showed off my legs and was detailed with 1940s style flapper girl fringes that swayed when I walked. This wonder dress, paired with 4 inch pink Betsy Johnson heels, made me feel like a super star. After a bucket-sized beer, I got up on stage and sang karaoke to "Me and My Bobby McGee" complete with hip shakes and clenched-fist pull downs. I wanted the golden moment captured with nothing less than 6 pristine megapixals.
   Everyone, from the lazy bum playing Garage Band to the kindergarten teacher singing " No More Monkeys Jumping on the Bed," fantasizes about being a rock star for a day. I harbour this fantasy more than the average person. When I realized that there were no pictures of the performance, I made sure to express my slight irritation… passionately. My heated messages must have found their way to the RCMP. But how?
   Finally, embarrassed and nervous, I called the detective. He told me how the night before, a first year girl, at Acadia University, had called 911, hysterically claiming that someone was harassing her. In between sobs, the girl recounted that 5 minutes earlier, as she was dozing off, her phone rang. Groggy, she had answered, expecting her parents. Instead, a creepy automated man's voice spoke rapidly at her about sexy photographs. Alarmed, she had hung up the phone, only so it could ring again fifteen seconds later. She answered, this time wide awake, convincing herself she had dreamed the first call, but the scary voice spat words at her again. Beginning to panic she hung up, but the robotic voice called back. Trembling, she answered, heard a few disturbing sentences and slammed the receiver down. The voice called back two more times before she, frantically, called the police.
   I apologized profusely once Detective Currie had finished speaking. Then I asked him shyly, "Um by any chance did you read these messages?"
   "Yes," he responded. "We have all listened to them. Would you like to hear them?" I thought I heard slight snickering in the background.
  "Well no…" but a scary robotic voice cut me off.
  "I-AM-VERY-DISSAPOINTED" the voice started. I cringed. "THERE-ARE-NO-PICTURES-OF-ME-I-FELT-VERY-SEXY-THERE-ARE-MANY-PICTURES-OF-YOU-BUT-NONE-OF ME-ONE-DAY-I-WILL-BE-4-0-AND-WRINKLED-AND-WILL-WANT-SEXY-PICTURES-TO-REMEMBER-MY-YOUNG –SELF..."
   Another four messages played and I clearly heard people whooping with laughter in between each one. When the messages stopped playing (to the entire Nova Scotia RCMP!), I asked Detective Currie if I could explain the context so he didn't think I was some sort of pornography fiend.
  "No Jennifer. We figured out what happened by talking to your friend. Watch where you send your text messages," he said, stifling laughter.
  I don't know what makes me feel more like a douche bag: that I had inadvertently terrorized a young girl with a pervy Stephen Hawking voice, or that the East Coast RCMP thinks I am a high maintenance crazy broad with aging issues.
  My boyfriend has since pointed out that this is what I get for freaking out about "stupid girly shit that doesn't matter". This experience has taught me one thing: that RCMP detectives would make great party guests because they probably have a bank of entertaining stories. To close, a question for you shrewd RAGE readers: I still possess this girl's phone number and would like to call and request her version of the story because it is most definitely hilarious. Is it worth risking another run-in with the law in the name of humour? Send your responses to jenniferk@ ragemontreal.com and make sure to be careful when engaging in textual discourse.