Dial M for Mortified

First, let me say that I HATE talking on the phone to people I don't know. I'll go out of my way to avoid placing an order or making an inquiry or scheduling an appointment if it means cold-calling a stranger. 

On the rare occasion that this unpleasant task can't be circumvented via the magic of the internet, I tend to overcompensate for my unease by being extra polite and enthusiastic to whoever is on the other end of the telephone line. Usually, this approach helps the conversation go quite smoothly.

But sometimes, it ends in complete embarrassment.

Last week, I had to make an appointment for a yearly physical. I dialed a local clinic I've never visited before, and the scheduler was very nice as she ran through her list of questions.

HER: "Is there a particular physician you'd like to see?"

ME: (extra polite) "No, I don't have a preference, thank you."

HER: "Would you like a man or a woman?"

ME: (extra enthusiasm) "A woman would be great."

HER: "Oh, do you want a Pap then, too?"

ME: (extra extra enthusiasm) "Yes, I'd love that!"

[it suddenly occurs to me how creepy that response was]

ME: (very quickly) "I mean . . . I wouldn't LOVE it . . . I just . . . I know it's . . . something I need to do."

Through her laughter, she managed to reassure me that she understood completely. And for that, I remain enthusiastically grateful.

Conscientious Uncoupling

I've always been impressed with the way my sister handles breakups. Over the years, she's dated more than her fair share of dudes who started out promising but turned out to be real jerks. 

Yet each time a relationship ended, she managed to conduct herself with a staggering degree of civility. You know, like a grown-ass adult. There were tears, of course -- but no shouting, no jewelry throwing, no nasty phone calls, no keying of cars or shit-talk at work, and certainly no heap of personal belongings tossed into the front yard.

I asked her once how she could avoid the temptation to be angry and vindictive, and she said her method was actually easier because she never had to look back and regret any of her actions. Which is admirable and makes a lot of sense, really.

I don't think I'm cut from quite the same cloth. Because the one time she let me get involved in picking up the pieces, I picked up everything her ex had left at her apartment and sold it on eBay. We used the money to buy our mom the biggest Mother's Day bouquet we've ever given her, compliments of Dickhead Jones.

But that's how I roll.

Getting to Know You

I've discovered how you know for sure that you've never stuck with your workout routine long enough to see real results before. Here's how:

You're changing into your pajamas, and you glance in the full-length mirror, and your very first panicked thought is, "Oh my god, there's something wrong with my leg! What the hell is that on my leg?!"

And then it dawns on you.  That -- my dear dumb darling -- is a muscle.

I wonder if there are more of them under there? The search continues.

Nailed It!

My dad is pretty damn handy around the house. Once, when he was building a set of deck stairs, I asked him how he acquired his various skills in carpentry and painting and general maintenance. He simply attributed it to being a homeowner for 40 years.

So I guess all the endless tinkering required to keep things running smoothly went largely unnoticed while I was growing up. But that all changed when my sister bought a house, and he set about amazing us with constant repairs and improvements.

However, when a mysterious leak sprung in her bathroom, he suggested she call a professional. The plumber cut away a chunk of her wall and found a problem, though not as complicated or expensive as she'd feared. It seems a tiny hole had been punched into a pipe . . . a direct result of my dad hanging a new mirror above the sink a few days before.

My sister called my mom to give her the update, which was equal parts relief at the easy fix and amazement at an uncharacteristically careless error.

Now, my mom has been happily married to this handyman for over four decades, but I can imagine her occasional frustration with his sometimes maddening attention to detail.

Her response:  "Can I be the one to tell your father?"

Centipede My Pants

I've always gotten along pretty well with my sister. We never really fought over anything serious, and we generally enjoyed playing together most of the time. 

But she's three years younger than me, so there was some room for practical jokes.

Or so I'm told. I don't recall messing with her very often, but evidently I convincingly sold her some untruths. She remembers three big lies: 1) That if she honked the car horn, the cops would come. 2) That if she pressed the red button on the VCR, it would blow up. 3) That if she got water on the bathroom tiles, they would crash down.

All in all, pretty benign . . . unless you were intent on avoiding a panic attack when getting clean or recording your favorite TV show. But nothing lastingly damaging or very clever.

We both still talk about the one time I managed to pull a truly great prank on her. When we were in high school, we got a small allowance for cleaning the house every week. Of course we would wait until the very last minute before our parents got home to dust and vacuum and tidy up, so it usually involved rushing around in a frenzy with Windex and Pledge.

Now, I also worked at a drugstore at the time, and I'd happened across a new product in the toy section: super realistic-looking rubber insects. So I bought an enormous fake centipede.

The next week, as we started our chores, I snuck into the basement bathroom and carefully placed the rubber bug in the shower. As we hurried to finish on time, I shouted a reminder that it was her turn to clean that room.

After she entered the bathroom, I heard general spritzing and clattering. I heard the shower curtain being pulled back. There was a short pause, and then a bloodcurdling scream.

When she came racing into the living room, I acted very concerned about what had spooked her.

"What?!" I said. "Hang on, I'll check it out."

I disappeared into the bathroom and gave an appropriate exclamation of horror. I suppose I could have stopped there, or emerged simply holding the bug, or chased her around the house with it. But I did not stop there.

I reappeared with the centipede hanging out of my mouth. For added effect, I growled ferociously and shook it back and forth.

As long as I live, I'll never forget the look of horror on her face, or how wide her eyes were. She nearly soiled herself out of shock, and I nearly did the same laughing.

It's amazing what you can do with a dollar and a little ingenuity. She might say a little evil, but I'm going with ingenuity.

Longitude and Attitude

When I'm not writing this blog, I work a regular 9 to 5 as an editor. It's a real Clark Kent/Superman situation, minus any of the secrecy, derring-do, or general excitement.

The reports I edit evaluate people's skills for particular jobs. Sometimes, when the scores are very low, it's much more difficult for the writer to put a positive spin on the results. 

In one of my favorite examples, the paragraph described the person's inflexibility in depth. Then it ended with this statement:

Adapts to only the most obvious cultural differences, such as time zones.

Time zones!

This person is so set in their ways that, when placed in a new culture, they aren't going to try to learn the language. They're not going to embrace local customs. They're not even going to wear a piece of traditional clothing. The best they can manage is changing their sleeping patterns to accommodate their physical location on the surface of the earth.

I'd say that's the bare minimum amount of adaptability that anyone could expect of any human being. Jet lag aside, we all do eventually synchronize with the rising and setting of the sun.

No special skills required.

Worst. Movie. Ever.

I think I watch too many movies.

This pains me to say, but I had a moment the other day when the lines between reality and the cinematic universe became almost too blurred for my comfort.

Try not to get worked up about this image, but I was in the shower. I have an extra-wide shower head, which I love because it arcs a little higher than most, and as a tall chick I don't have to bend backward like a contortionist to rinse the shampoo out of my hair. 

But it also has a smaller shower wand that rests in the middle, with a very twisty hose. And when I accidentally bump this hose (which is just about every day), the wand dislodges and clatters noisily into the bathtub, scaring the shit out of me and likely my neighbors. 

About a week ago, I once again clipped this hose with an elbow as I was turning around. But this time, without even looking, I reached a hand behind me and caught the wand in mid-air. Like, just reflexively snatched it perfectly as it fell.

And, because I watch too many movies, there was a split second where I froze and thought:

"Am . . . am I a super hero?"

Granted, the ability to catch plummeting shower wands would be the lamest super power ever bestowed on your average protagonist. Plus, I couldn't recall any recent contact with radioactive spiders or gamma rays.

I fully realize that it was either a total fluke or some weird clumsy muscle memory, and I couldn't do it again if I tried. But in the moment, it truly felt like some amazing new skill was being revealed to me. Suddenly. Randomly. In my late 30s. While naked. 

That's never the case.

Oh, Deer

Sometimes, there's a moment -- right between when you ask a question and when you realize the answer -- where you understand that the question itself was completely idiotic.

It's usually the result of simply thinking out loud. Perhaps just hearing it outside your own head is what triggers the logic to kick in.

For instance, I once audibly wondered where the 1972 Summer Olympics were held  . . . while watching the movie "Munich."

It's a DUH! moment, but one that's difficult to take back when you're surrounded by people.

I recently thought about a trip I took to western SD years ago. My friends and I were cruising along the highway enjoying the scenery, and at one point we remarked on a small group of deer by the road.

After driving another ten minutes through the rolling hills, we saw more deer. And one of my friends pondered from the back seat, "Do you think they're the same ones?"

I remember the rest of us doing a very slow turn toward her.

"Uhhhhh . . . not unless they've been running alongside us at 65 miles an hour."

She'd already realized her mistake, but the image of those supersonic whitetails gave us the giggles the whole way home.