Find The Fact!

A new game. Guess which of these statements is true.


1. Landon Donovan, underachiever extraordinaire, singlehandedly sent Team USA packing yesterday!

2. FIFA referees are the world's best!

3. Bruce Arena is the devil!

4. English soccer is creative and exciting to watch!

5. MIXX 105.5 plays MY favorites from the 70's, 80's and 90's!


OK, so "none of the above" is not an option. It's 98 degrees with 300% humidity. My underwear keeps bunching up and my team went home waaaaay too early. Color me cranky. And sarcastic.
















But this helps make it better.


Big ups to Dempsey, who scored our only goal! Hope to see you playing in Europe, but not for those pissy Englishters:). Big ups to Gooch, who may be going to play for those pissy Englishters, for learning quickly what a referee will tolerate. It's not your fault that people fall down when they run into you. Thanks to Italy and Ghana for showing us where we need to post those "No Diving Allowed!" signs.

2010 is just around the corner. But for now, ANYBODY but Germany, Italy, Ghana or England!

The Discovery Goes On

I found my birth certificate. I’ve been looking for it quite a while, ever since my mother handed it over at least one baby ago. I spent two days battling the 400 square foot debris field that was once a laundry room and there it was – in with the old school policy pamphlets, day care agreements and assorted warranties. What was I thinking, putting it in with what were important papers that have evolved in the natural order of stuff into trash. I’m nuts like that sometimes.

Anyway, I now know the hour of my birth. 10:51 PM. Eastern. So, after years of guessing what my rising sign is, I can finally find out definitively. And for some reason, this is vitally important to me. I just can’t keep on being a schoolmarmish Virgo the rest of my days! That’s just soooo not me.

(cue annoying giggle)

So, there it is in black and white – I have a Gemini rising. I knew it. I’ve always been a little schizo. I mean, not as in a tiny and multi-personalitied Sybil, but as in more than one contrasting personality trait. Little or tiny are not words any one would use to describe me, unless perhaps they were describing the limits of my patience or my liquor threshold.

Cherry-picking a few of the more “that’s me!” statements:

Restless in the extreme, you are easily bored because of your short attention span.
You have a great need to be yourself and to explore your latent talents and abilities.
You … will be known for the degree of intensity with which you dislike normal everyday routines and chores.
At times, you prefer to be alone rather than deal with any imperfections in yourself or in those with whom you might relate.
Ideas and philosophies must have some sort of immediately realizable, utilitarian function in order for you to pay attention to them.

Try it yourself! About.com: http://alabe.com/freechart/

The Mother Lode

For Mother's Day, being the kindhearted and caring soul that I am, I'm going to share. I'm going to share some of the knowledge I've gained in 20 years of mothering. I'm going to share the things nobody ever told me, the lessons I've learned the all-too-hard way. Whether you want to know or not.

1. Floam will eventually grow hair if it is played with at the dinner table.

2. Hamsters like dog food. A lot. And you won't know how much until the hamster is no more.

3. The average time it takes a toddler to get a sucker stuck in his hair is 1.5 minutes. Thirteen seconds if you are in a moving vehicle.

4. Teenage boys will know it's time to bring the soccer practice stuff home for washing when they can smell it (in the trunk) from the front seat. The socks will ALWAYS be inside out AND wet and said teenager will disappear before you can make him pull them right side out.

5. If you start feeling complacent and giddy because your kids are playing so quietly and nicely together or alone, find out what they are doing. At once. Something expensive or irreplaceable is about to be broken.

6. There are no sweeter words than an unprompted 'you're the best mom in the world!' from a sticky 6 year old when you give him back his hair-free sucker. And none more cutting than the same when you won't buy a cell phone for him six years later.

7. Some kids bite. Hard. Never turn your back on a biter.

8. Any food can be finger food with the proper amount of wipies.

9. Character traits that are annoying in children are valued in adults. Asking why 40,000 times no doubt led to the invention of the encyclopedia. And the mental institution.

10. It all washes off. Eventually.

Happy Mother's Day!

You Asked For It!

Back by popular demand: Elvis Versus the World. Well, maybe not by popular demand. And demand may be too strong a word. Whatever.





VS.







Elvis, in every album, every song and gosh darn it, almost every note, displays his emotional dictionary, from love and adoration through paranoid jealousy down to revenge and guilt.

Rod Stewart, in every album, every song and almost every note, displays his emotional repetoire: sad horny and happy horny, with nuances of wistful horny sometimes tossed in.

EC has been performing classics from the great American songbook since he was in short pants.

RS has been performing them since Divorce #47. Or was it Baby #62?

Delusions of Celteur: EC pretends to be Irish, RS is a wannabe Scot.

EC and RS both look iconically good in a suit. Worst fashion disaster: for EC, it has to be jeans. He looks like that kid at school, the you're-ugly-and-your-mother-dresses-you-funny kid; for RS, it was the 80's. In fact, I'm convinced he's used all his American songbook profits to buy up the photos, because I have scoured the internet and they just ain't out there anymore. But you know the ones I mean: the spandex, the boas, the pictures that just make you think of the stomach-pumping rumor all over again.

Travels with Dad

Experts say that married people should keep surprising each other to keep things fresh in the relationship. I don't think they had this in mind.

We went to Nashville to see my husband's parents. It's about a 4 hour trip, but the time changes. Normally, on such trips, I pack a few snacks and drinks to keep the Krusty Krew (our four children) from accosting strangers at rest stops. This trip was sudden, unplanned and therefore, unsnacked. But it wasn't really a problem. No one complained. We took a pit stop at the friendly I-40 rest area. I took the girls into the bathroom, Jim went with the boys. The boys browsed the brochures and I gathered them all up and headed back to the car to find my husband standing there with one pack of peanut butter toasty crackers in his hand.

"What's that for?" I ask.

"I figured the kids would get hungry," he answered.

One pack of crackers. Four children. Do the math. Don't forget to factor in a wily dog and sibling rivalry to the power of ten.

O, triumphant hunter! If we don't get more crackers, we're gonna start eating our own. Survival of the One Most Beloved By The Parental Units, after all. And these are nobody's favorite crackers, but the law of supply and demand is unequivocally confirmed.


I did the only sensible thing.


I ate them.

All.

This Weeks Hot List

From the Anti-Paris

1. A bed to oneself. The Anti-insomnia.


2. Eating out. The Anti-cooking.


3. Hellcat samplers at stroke-inducing volume. The Anti-Pop.


4. MLS – Dynaquakes and MetroReds season openers 4/2. The Anti-Sport.


5. Mardy bums. The Anti-Ken.

Mother Knows Best

I have short, maybe even stubby, eyelashes. I wasn't aware of this defect until the other day when my oldest daughter helpfully noted that 'your eyelashes aren't as long as mine.'

As if it were a contest.

After I explained to her that her comment made me feel rejected and worthless, less than human, and played havoc with my inferiority complex, I got to thinking. And that is the beginning of many an ill-fated adventure and pseudo-scientific Lecture From Mom.

Katie, I explained, the length of my eyelashes relative to yours is the end product of a billion years of evolution. Once upon a time, the survival of the human species depended on the ability of the female to attract the male with the best DNA and survival skills. In prehistoric times, these things went together; today, sadly, they do not. Stay away from the modern survivalist! Long lashes to bat, succulent lips to pout, the flirtatious body language of youth - these are the tools you are given to complete your genetic purpose. I am married with children and no longer burdened by Darwinian necessity. My eyelashes can be stubby, as can my legs. In fact, the stubby eyelashes probably enable better vision, thus better maternal protection. The offspring are more likely to survive to bat their own lashes and add their DNA to the gene pool. Once they're in a stable, married relationship, of course.

I was so proud of this convoluted analogy, I detailed it out for the husband. His response? Everybody our age is getting divorced and jumping back into the gene pool.

Threat or promise? You decide.

Career Opportunities

It's no good being angry with an anonymous person. There's no satisfaction in it. You might as well fight with a lawn mower. And since I can't be pissy with an anonymous asshole, then I'll be pissy with Those Less Fortunate Than I. Transference. I learned that on Law and Order: Criminal Intent last night.

How to Build Your Resume, Part One*

1. Ask to bum a cigarette during your interview.

2. Bring your child (or better yet, children!) with you to the interview and answer definitively "yes!" when asked if you have reliable child care.

3. Answer your cellphone during the interview.

4. Apply for the job while a policeman writes you a citation for speeding (shows multi-tasking capabilities, after all).

5. Do not show up for your first day of work. Call a few days later with a morbid explanation (death in family, grandmother's foot had to be amputated, car wreck or cancer diagnosis) and get rehired. Do not show up again. Expect to be paid anyway.

6. List "took customer's money" as a Position of Trust.


*names withheld to protect the ignorant.

bored, bored, bored, totally ennuiated!

Bored enough to clean out my desk drawers. It's like an archeological dig. All the detritus - ok, not all - from 18 years of slaving the fuck away in corporate hell. Some interesting (well, I said I was bored didn't I?) findings:

1. I am a closet pyromaniac. I have three packs of matches and I haven't smoked in at least 9 years. Shows a repressed desire to surround myself with candles or perhaps I was a Girl Scout in another life.

2. I have an inordinate affection for Sharpies. I found 7. Red, blue, black. Fat tips, fine points, double-ended ones. And an equal number of highlighters! Please don't ask about the Flairs. I am seeking help.

3. Ketchup is good, but tartar sauce is better.

4. I am incapable of throwing away the plasticware packets from fast food places. You never know when you might need a spork.

5. I've got so much shit to do that I need not just one, but two, count 'em two, 20-year calendars? That is depressing.

6. If you really, really love your lip gloss, it will come back to you.

My Favorite Irishman

Paddy O'Brien. They're always after me Lucky Charms.









Ok, so that's not the right picture, but I did my best. Happy St. Patrick's Day! Green beer for all!

It's tough to be an MLS fan

Once upon a time, in America...







San Jose had a beloved soccer team(formerly known as The Clash - best name ever) whose owners decided to move the team.

To Houston.







A new location, a new name. The 'Quakes became Houston 1836 - a cool name, and the year that Houston was founded. Coincidentally, or not, this was the exact same year Texas decided not to be a part of Mexico. Which some people found offensive.








So the Clash/Quakes/Houston 1836 became the Houston Dynamo, which is an autogol in the Lamest Name Ever Playoffs. And the Metros, who used to be the NYNJ Metro Stars but evolved (sensibly) to the MetroStars, find themselves likewise rebranded as New York Red Bull.



And what should we do, America? That's right.

Blame Donovan.

Just kidding. Be nice to him. He's got to power Team USA out of our group come June. (Can I get you something, Landon? A sandwich? Your slippers? A comely wench?) The Houston name change is, well, I can't think of a better word than stupid. They gain nothing from it. The Metrostars name change I'm ok with - they gain a recognizable brand, money and that elusive soccer specific stadium. And money. Did I mention money? And money trumps political correctness every time.

I can die a happy, happy woman...

John Prine, March 3, Tennessee Theatre.

Ok, Ok, so it's an old photo. From the 2005 Asheville show, to be precise. But the ones I took with my telephone, uh, um....well, they suck. And I think this one is so bad, it's cool. He is some kind of demon fire god. In the most polite way possible.

I got our tickets through an online presale via the John Prine Shrine, thanks to my Good But Anonymous Buddy who pays attention to these things. The deal with their presale is you are guaranteed seats in the first 6 rows, but you can't pick up your tickets until one hour before the show. Because I am never early (and really, isn't being early just as rude as being late?), the opening act was already onstage when we arrived. I showed the girl at Will Call my Sam's Club card because I could not find my license and read PT104. Oh, fuck. We're on row P, which is not in the prescribed first six rows. I regained my composure and looked again. It says Orchestra. Oh, fuck! We're in the Orchestra Pit!! I wait very impatiently for a beer and run to the nearest usher with my ticket, heart beating wildly, I'm beginning to sweat. She looks at the ticket and doesn't have a clue where. Oh, fuck. Maybe we're upstairs. Another usher grabs the ticket, peers at it intently and positively puffs up. He marches us with pomp and circumstance to the stage and points to the very front row. We are center. Dead center. John Prine will be standing 10 feet directly in front of me.

I wait to be escorted back to the plebian horde. There are four empty seats beside me and one by one they fill up (with brothers! hey to you all if you see this!). Each time a brother comes to take a seat, I expect to get thrown out. I have never been front row anywhere for anything and this is possibly the most amazing musical moment of my life. There is no massively huge or tall person in front of me. I will not have to play Bob & Duck all night. I will have an unobstructed view of John Prine. 10 feet away. Twelve o'clock.

I hope he's not a spitter.

The opening act was a lady named Minton Sparks, and I want to apologize to her for walking in on her second to last song. Only they're not songs exactly, being spoken but accompanied by guitar. It was kind of hillbilly poetry slam meets performance art. Interesting but peculiar. A long, long, eternal damnation kind of wait ensues as she exits stage right. The lights come up, the roadies come out and start placing bottles of water everywhere, bringing more and more guitars and mandolins and a stand up bass (which is also orchestrally known as a double bass according to #1 son, who was also present but sitting with the riff raff in row F). Should've done a drink/bathroom run, but I was afraid to leave. Really!

Finally, the lights go down and there it is. The moment I've been waiting for - face to face with JP, and he's throwing down a raucous version of Your Flag Decal Won't Get You Into Heaven Anymore. If you thought maybe he'd become sedate and conservative in his golden(ish) years, you thought wrong. In April, it was a 'cowboy from Texas' who started his own war with I-raq. In a post-Katrina America, it was 'that asshole from Texas,' and that, I am happy to note, brought a wave of cheers across the beautiful Tennessee Theatre. Mr. Prine played all the 'hits' - not that he has any, but the Ones People Expect: Sam Stone, Grandpa Was A Carpenter, Paradise, Hello In There, Dear Abby. It was often a mammoth singalong. He played The Most Perfect Song EVER, dedicating it to his Ma. The beginning of it makes me think of rain drops running down a windowpane, all cold and lonely and warm and tender, all at once, the absolute sound of bittersweet, and I hear it and I swear I have tears in my eyes. John Prine is singing Souvenirs 10 feet in front of me. It. Was. Amazing. He has fat stubby hands like Elvis, so it gives me hope: one day, maybe, I can get my stupid fingers to make that sound. He played Crazy As A Loon, and dedicated it to One Bullet Barney, a/k/a Don Knotts. He did some Jed Clampett dancing during Bear Creek Blues. I didn't think he could spit after the cancer/radiation thing but he did drop a few wads here and there. Ain't Hurtin' Nobody hit a big fat groove and just went on and on and people should've got up and danced, but nobody did. I heard some concertgoers were taken aback by folks shouting out requests - I don't think it was a problem for Mr. Prine. And I don't think you go to a John Prine concert to sit in respectful silence. He's not that kind of demon fire god.

The band was incredible. Mostly playing mandolin but sometimes on guitar was Pat McLaughlin, who brought a Conehead sensibility (and by that I don't mean that he's strange looking, but that he seems like he's from another planet, a very FUN planet) and some Johnny Rotten punkish/impish fun to the proceedings. Mostly on electric guitar, but sometimes on mandolin and harmonica was Jason Wilbur, who should smile more - and I hate saying that because I was always told that as a child. On that stand up bass was Dave Jacques, who has no web presence, but lots and lots of soul. I know Jason and Pat added some vocals, as well, but I'm not sure about Dave. John Prine was blocking my view.

Damn, it was good to be there.

And don't call me Dempster!

He shoots! He scores! He growls in triumph!!

Twellman gets the assist.

It bounced off his face.

8 o'clock tonight, Tennessee Theatre.







Color me stoked.

I bought the Ron White tickets as kind of a consolation prize, after waiting months and months (or was it weeks and weeks?) for good shows. Kings of Leon was my last show, way way back in October and I kept patiently waiting - well, as patiently as I know how - for something wonderful to pop up.

Nothing.

Months and months (or weeks and weeks for you literalists) of nothing.

So, when I saw the advertisement for Ron White, I jumped on it. So did the rest of East Tennessee. It sold out before I could even figure out how to buy tickets. Fortunately, a 9:30 show was added. After checking my calendar - who wants to go to a 9:30 show and face work the next day? - I grabbed two primo tickets (only to discover at the show that they were dead center in Yuppieville). I figured it would be a late Valentine present. We could be Adults Without Children. So, that's $100 for tickets, $100 for a hotel, $100 for a couple of meals. Doesn't break the budget because there's nothing the fuck else to do the rest of the winter.

And there it was. One week to the day after I committed to Ron White. John Prine. In Knoxville. At the Tennessee Theatre. Six days after Ron.

Of course I had to have them. I'd sell blood and plasma if necessary. My children don't need to eat every day. Those aren't high-waders, honey, they're capris. And next year they'll be shorts! We're not homeless, we're moving. Everything's a matter of perspective, isn't it? And, in T minus 6 hours, John Prine's going to be in mine.

Driving with Katie

or,

Where’s the Clairol #117 and pass me my nerve pills!


At first, it went well. She listened. She did what she was told, braking here, putting her signal on now, staying on her side of the road. And as she learned and the praises were heaped upon her, her confidence grew. And grew. And grew. Until she was the self-styled Princess of Power (steering).

My first experience in Driver’s Ed, post-high school, was teaching my oldest son, who figured ‘hey, I’ve played enough NASCAR 2000 – I don’t NEED lessons.’ And I had to force him to drive. Our state requires a minimum number of hours behind the wheel, certified by a parent or legal guardian, in order to move from permit to license. It’s ridiculously low, like 50 or something, but I still felt perjurious when I signed the statement. Nevertheless, he passed his driving test. And I’ll give him points for that, because he had to drive in rush hour school traffic and they were gone at least 20 minutes. For my test, back before seat belt laws, I had to drive around the block. Literally. One square residential block. Four right turns. Had they been left, I’d be qualified for Bristol.

Lately, the Princess has lost some of her Will to Drive. It’s too cold in the mornings. She wants to watch a movie en route. She doesn’t feel like it. She did deign to drive home yesterday. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other hand alternately flipping her hair around and pointing at “bad” drivers, we careened through the evening traffic. Wherever she turned her head, there went the steering wheel. We did not maintain our lane. We ran up on other cars and came to a screeching halt. We rousted pedestrians. At last we got home and I dug my fingers out of the armrest. I followed the youngest two into the house and was dumbfounded to realize: I have to do this Two. More. Times.

copy cattin'

http://sosaidi.blogspot.com/


Found that on Recently Updated Blogs today – very nice, kind of reminds me of me (but in a younger, better dressed version) – and, since I can’t think of anything to blog about and there’s a long afternoon stretching out in front of me, I thought I’d steal her idea. I haven’t brought the A game in weeks, but my standards are high and my talent is low. Anyway, thanks to middlegirl!

My weekend – the quick version.

Friday night: ate leftovers, washed a load of clothes, fell asleep in a chair watching some Sci-Fi program.
Saturday: Slept until 9!!!!! Made the grocery list and planned menus for the week. Went Walmarting. Drove to Knoxville with husband. Ate obscenely expensive seafood, saw Ron White. Wondered what a “rim job” was briefly, decided it was better not to know. Stayed up past midnight! Fell asleep with tv on and book in lap in a very cozy hotel.
Sunday: Slept til 10!!! Made tea, watched a stupid Sly Stallone movie (which is of course an oxymoron - what was I thinking?). Had a Coke and a shower. Saw friend in nursing home. Ate a few Krystals, drove home. Did more laundry, washed muddy dog.


My Weekend – the fantasy version

Friday night: Kids and husband went to the Grand Canyon (or somewhere far far away). Ordered pizza (with black AND green olives, mushrooms and pepperoni), which I ate in front of the tv with some Southpaw because Gone With The Wind was on, followed by Parenthood and A League of Their Own.

Saturday: Slept til noon and awoke to find my house meticulously cleaned by magic elves, laundry done right down to the ironing, shelves stocked and a lovely French onion soup for lunch. Kids and husband returned from Grand Canyon and without the ability to argue. Drove to Knoxville, ate seafood in a quiet restaurant with fantastically flattering lighting, saw Ron White. Had champagne on terrace of cozy hotel and watched the demolition of the Summitt Hill Bridge.

Sunday: Slept until eleven. Ate croissants and chocolate covered strawberries while sipping champagne in an enormous bubble bath. Watched back to back episodes of Biography, read an entire book, took a nap and turned back into Mom at the last possible second.



And really, is that too much to ask?

There Oughta Be a Law

Maybe you can’t legislate morality, or common courtesy, or even reasonable concern for the rest of the world, but if I could, these would be capital crimes…

1. Spitting in public. And it becomes especially heinous when it involves that godawful sinus-clearing schnurping noise and therefore subject to special punishment. Someone did this to me in Walmart. In the cereal aisle! Well, to be truthful, he didn’t spit, but he did schnurp right in my ear. Which is an egregious invasion of my personal space. His dog must die with him.
   
2. People who take up more than one parking space deliberately. You in the massive assault vehicle! If you can't park it, keep it at home. In fact, just owning a massive assault vehicle ought to be a felony. Criminal conspicuous consumption. Embezzlement of eco-resources. Driving Under the Influence of Middle Class Suburbanism.
   
3. People who toss their cigarettes out their vehicle windows. I'd like to go all Skink on them, but I don't have the cajones. Watch out. One day I will.
   
4. People who whisper in public. I’m not talking about those with itty bitty voices incapable of projection. I’m talking about the people who will, when in a group, lean in to whisper to a particular ear. Unless you are someone privy to state secrets and you are at the UN, this is rude. And rudeness will get you killed. At least, it would if I were Queen of the World.

You Got a Reason to Cry...

Last night, I wrote the best opening line for a poem. It came to me in a dream, and I woke up savoring the words, feeling the electric rightness of every syllable. It was the beginning of the poem that would succor the hungry, clothe the naked, heal the sick and just generally make the world a better place. I don’t think Jesus could’ve written it better. Like Bode Miller, I was about to Live Up to My Potential! I was inches away from publication, from having my Emily Dickinson moment in the sun.

And I rolled over and went back to sleep.


Poems are hard to write. Every word has to perform. And it has to sound good performing. Straight pipes, not fart mufflers. And I write them so badly that I haven’t tried any ‘serious’ poems since this abortion:


Incantation for Lost Souls

At night I sleep cocooned and healing.
Each morning I tear the wound open, conjuring memories.
Tasting the exquisite sweetness of it
Piercing dream flesh with invented emotion
Until fresh blood seeps beneath the bandage.
A self-inflicted injury—I created this, made this
For you.

Darkness brings the cure. A potent oblivion caresses the scab.
In the black warmth of nothingness, something grows that wants this hurt.


Which, I think, was about my craving for drama. There are some nice phrases in it, I think. ‘Potent oblivion’ is good. Too much sibilance overall. Too Poetry I. Actually, I think I did better in Poetry I. So, that’s sad. I’ve lived 23 more years, graduated, got married, had 4 kids and got a real job and I still have nothing to say!

And it was given to me in a dream.

And I went back to sleep.


Damn. Damn. Damn.

The Hangover This Morning Had A Personality*

Last night, CBS brought us the 48th (??) Annual Grammy Awards, my yearly exercise in drinking games (think of God and Mama), almost witty yet strangely irrelevant commentary, and prognostication. With my Rolling Stone Guide to the Grammys in one hand and a nice cold Southpaw in the other, I observed the ant farm. This year was a little bit of a disappointment – even Mariah dressed decently! But I have a few leftover observations:


Madonna! Honey, you’re at an age where support hose will soon be more than some kind of freaky fashion statement. Don’t try to make capris out of them. And give Farrah Fawcett back her hairstyle.

Coldplay. Chris Martin didn’t drool this year, but he skipped through the audience, around the stage, and did some interpretative dancing while wearing assorted bandaids and Gwyneth’s maternity jeans. Study those Stones tapes harder Chris! Mick combs his hair and his pants fit.

Kelly Clarkson, thank you! Until you came on to sing that annoying song, everyone was dressed reasonably. But you, you punk rebel you! You took a page from the Scarlett O’Hara Book of Dress Design. Getting your grandma’s housecoat and shredding it to ribbons! Inspired! And when you won, not one mention of that blight on the American entertainment landscape. Edgy!


Paul McCartney. Yawn. I think we use the same hair color. His performance was frustrating for me. I can’t think of anything bad to say about it, but I think he’s an abysmal human being. Don’t buy his record.

And speaking of hair color, should Gwen still be hitting the peroxide? She looks fabulous anyway. And way more pregnant than I thought she was. I’m glad she wasn’t wearing the Harajuku shoes.

Note to Keef: not only is Johnny Depp stealing your look, Steven Tyler is too. Get your beads and baubles down to the Patent Office, stat!

U2. Why don’t Larry and Adam ever speak? Will this album EVER go away?

Michael Buble. Michael Buble. Michael Buble. That’s just fun to say, isn’t it?




John Legend is, to borrow my nemesis’ favorite adjective, HOT. .

*thanks, Elvis.

I Got A Phone Call. A Phone Call From Hell.

I think I’m a disappointment to obscene callers.

Not that I want to be an appointment for them and not that I have tons of experience receiving or sending them, but my spidey sense tells me that somehow I’ve not cooperated properly with a disturbed mentality when I hang up the phone and go back to drooling in to my pillow. Cooperated probably isn’t the right word. It’s a failure to cooperate, but less emotional – like a business forfeiture. I don’t play along. I don’t get scared. I really don’t get that angry, because as obscene callers go, mine have been on the polite side of the Great Scales of Craziness. One, maybe two hang-ups and they give up. I had a regular caller my first year of college. Once or twice a week in the wee hours (why do they never call in the daytime anyway?), he’d call up and say the things he wanted to do with my dainties. After the third week or so, I said something along the lines of ‘dude, you need help that I can’t give, but try this number – they’re specialists in diseased minds.’ And that ended that. A recent one called me by name and said he’d found my name on the bathroom wall at Walmart. Yes, I have officially been hit on by the Markdown Smiley Face! I can’t wait to add that to my list of accomplishments. Age 22, graduated with honors from the University of Tennessee. Age 42, became Lower Priced Sex Goddess to bargain hunters everywhere!

I just have one thing to say to my discount admirer: caller id.