Sorry, Really Wrong Number

I rarely pick up our household phone line if I don't recognize the caller. On the other hand, I also give it out to clients as an emergency way to contact me, so when the caller id read "New Jersey cell phone," I figured I'd better respond even though I couldn't recall a single New Jersey resident I'm working with at the moment.

So I said the usual "Hello," which triggered the strangest recording in telephone history. "Oh, we're very sorry for dialing the wrong number. If you would like to be taken off our list, call (800) blah-blah-blah-blah."

?????????????????

A recording knows it has the wrong number by the fact I said hello? Or that I answered in the first place? Wow. The Do Not Call list is a useless piece of legislation these days, isn't it?

Toddlers: Best Audience for a Smart Alec

This Sunday was my turn to work the nursery during services. It's always a whiff of burning sulfer, designed better than any sermon to keep you on the straight and narrow toward heaven, if you know what I mean.

My special challenge this week was Isaac, who is not yet two and going through his separation anxiety stage. Which is a fancy psychobabble meaning, "cries for his mommy until you do, too."

Now this is not the first crying toddler I've rocked, held and comforted by a long shot. So I know the drill. You try to talk to him, distract him with toys and Cheerios, and if that doesn't work, you simply spend your hour and a half carrying a sobbing child on your hip. A few pats on the back now and then and it's all good.

Except I couldn't just stop there. I gave in to the temptation to carry on an adult, smart-alec conversation with him that went something like this: "If you want to cry the entire time Isaac, that's what's going to happen here and I can't stop you. But I will insist that we walk over here to the Kleenex and wipe your snotty nose on a regular basis before I get that on my sleeve. It skeeves me out and I don't like to pay dry cleaning bills."

At this he took a shuddering breath, and said, 'O-tay" while nodding his head in agreement. Geez, since when did the diapered set start taking me so seriously?

My NYC Terrorist Plot Connection

I can't believe how small the world is.

Yah, yah, I've spent 24 years as a journalist, so you'd think I'd get used to having lots of contacts. But typically, that translates to occasionally calling the same business consultant twice to help me with different stories. (My number one source: a tossup between Tax Mama Eve Rosenberg and Donald Moine, both of whom I've called at least 7 times now).

It doesn't usually mean you start reading about an arrest that stopped a terrorist attack in NYC and stumble across this:

At Beauty Supply Warehouse in suburban Denver, Paul Phillips said a co-worker told investigators he had sold chemicals to Zazi. Company president Karan Hoss said the firm turned over security video of a man matching Zazi's description to the FBI. A check of sales found that someone bought a dozen 32-ounce bottles of a hydrogen peroxide product in July. More was purchased in late August, Hoss said.

Get outta here! I profiled Karan for Beauty Store Business. I redialed him for inventory advice in the same magazine. I'm connected to him on Linked In, one of the only 70 people in his network.

Now if that doesn't make you feel important before noon, I don't know what will.

Nor is this my only connection to terrorist-stopping heros. Remember Kwame James, the guy who subdued Richard "Shoe Bomb" Reid and prevented him from blowing up American Flight 63? He was a basketball player my brother coached. And I have yet to connect the dots, but someone on a scrapbooking chat board with me was also behind the NYC arrest this week.

Now if I could parlay all this into a chance to meet Mel Gibson, I'll consider it a life well lived.

Not By the Hair on Her Chinny, Chin Chin

Friends know me as the one who is always trying something new ... and it is usually has a business/monetary slant.

So this fall, I've started working for CSC, which many Hoosiers know as "those people in the red jackets and yellow shirts at the Colts game." Let's see, a job where I tell them when I want to work, and entails being friendly to people, checking their tickets and giving directions while I get to see a professional football game. What's not to like about that?

Apparently, my co-workers. In the first few events I covered, I met folks like Melvin, who has to be the happiest guy on the planet, and Andy, a construction worker by day who has helped guard the locker room area on game weekends for 5 years now. Last week, I spent the afternoon checking tickets in the suites alongside a couple married 50 years — which anyone could have guessed by the way she told him how to wear the pager system and the patient way he ignored her.

A good friend, on the other hand, kept running into strangers who bummed money off of her in the break room. I figured that was just bad luck of the draw for her.

But then there was Linda. She started out as a very considerate co-worker who even bought me a hot dog on her own initiative during her lunch break, and hesitated to accept my dollar in repayment, even though an earlier conversation had revealed money is tight for her right now.

It was a delicious hot dog, but I'll forever wonder what hers was laced with because after that meal break, Linda asked me out of the blue how long my fingernails were. Thank God I reverted to an old habit and chewed them down to the quick the night before, because if I'd had my usual claws, the next few minutes could have been even more uncomfortable.

It seems Linda had a hair on her chin line that was driving her crazy -- would I please pull it for her? I pleaded that my nails were too short. I told her I couldn't see it. And still she insisted. "Just feel it, right here. You don't have to see or anything. It's very rough, I'm sure you can get it."

Get outta here. Since when do I look like a pair of tweezers from CVS?

She pouted for a minute or two, then went back to a normal conversation. My mind was spinning with ways to excuse myself and find another post when a fellow CSC employee strolled by, spied the men's room door behind Linda's head, and asked if he could duck in. "Sure," she told him, "but you have to pull this hair out of my chin first."

He, too, tried to get out of it, but all I can guess is that the urge to piss finally won. This man reached out, felt up her face and yanked the hair out of its follicle just before he crashed through the bathroom door.

I think he'd have preferred that she hit him up for money.

Photography: anselm (Flickr)

Take Your Dog to the Beach Day is a Wash

My dog adores water.

Dribbler is Mr. Wild Child at the groomer's, until she sticks him in a tub. He loves to play ball with people in the swimming pool, and getting splashed in the face is his favorite part. Once when he was upset at the vet's, I suggested they stick him in a tub and he calmed right down.


<---What part of no don't you understand?



So for the last five years, we've talked about taking our Labrador up to Lake Michigan for the day, where he could romp in the waves to his heart's content. (We punish him if we catch him in the swimming pool, as dog hairs and filters/chlorine are natural enemies.) Today was the day we stopped talking about it, set our alarm clocks for 8 alarms on a Saturday (ugh) and loaded the dog in the back of the SUV.

We took more than four hours to get up there, thanks to whoever decided this morning was a great time to shut down I-65 and route all traffic into winding country roads. We paid $7 to park on an empty beach, got out of the car wearing jackets in the 65-degree breeze and led our water-logged lab to the edge of that rolling water. Wasn't it glorious? Wasn't he excited?

No. That dog ran in the opposite direction. He clung to our legs. The one time he got splashed, Dribbler went into a shaking meltdown. We tried a 30-minute dose of this torture before finally calling it quits. We meandered back home, taking frequent doggie bathroom breaks along the way.

So we couldn't figure out why he was so excited to get home. It's not as if we asked him to hold it or anything. He ran through the house to the back door and shot out with all the intense urgency of a dog on a mission. He flew past the flag he always stops and looks at without his usual salute. He ignored his ball, and the favorite piece of grass where he likes to squat.

He ran straight down the steps of the pool and into that forbidden zone, bold as you please with us standing right there watching.

Get outta here. Our big, highly anticipated day ended with us punishing a wet dog who had the nerve to look pleased with his little stunt. If I find out he's behind the interstate detour, he's going to get it all over again.

Trials of a Night Owl

It's amusing how many people call themselves night owls, but actually turn in at 11 p.m. or — gasp! — midnight.

When I say night owl, I mean I think about going to bed at 2 a.m., just as soon as I get done with my treadmill routine and the All My Children episode I Tivoed that day. Or after I fuss around with my latest scrapbook page or write an article due in the morning.

Which makes my average bed time between 3:30 and 4:00. In the morning.

A 3 a.m. production ----->


Now I realize this isn't in step with the rest of the world, even if we do have more restaurants like La Bomba staying open all night because bean burrito attacks are so important to address any time of the day. Sure, Kroger and some pharmacies also have their lights on and an employee or two on duty. But only a handful of us actually take advantages of these opportunities, compared to the 4 p.m. crowd. So if I need to be up and functioning for my job at 9 a.m., I suck it up and do it (and either go back to bed immediately or grab an afternoon nap).

But I do not consider answering telemarketer calls part of my job, and these bozos have been ringing my phone off the hook lately trying to sell me credit card protection. Nor was I happy with the 8:15 jingle this morning to let me know it's time to schedule my annual pap smear ... next March. I plan to return that call at HER 4 a.m. tomorrow morning.

Perhaps from my cell phone while buying a flea collar at CVS.

Well, That Didn't Exactly Work Out

So I've learned since trying to drum up votes for this Antarctica trip that this is the dumbest contest in the world.

Not the prize — the contest.

The web designers have made this thing so darn confusing, I wound up not having my own four votes count for myself. You see, after registering, this little button comes up and says "vote," and you click on it, thinking "There's my good deed for the day." It's a red herring. In reality, you have to wait until you get your verification email, click through on that link and then START ALL OVER AGAIN. As in from the beginning, searching for the blogger by name, then clicking on their link, waiting for the page to load. Only after all that rigamarole does the vote count.

So my sincere thanks to the 500 of you who did vote for me. Too bad Quark Expeditions will never reap the benefits of our awesome team, huh?