Posted in Quirks and Other Weirdness

game of phones

I am not a phone person.

This comes as no surprise to any of you who know me.  When my cell rings, it is merely a request for my attention, not a requirement.

phone 2Maybe

… it’s learned behavior from my dad. Our adult conversations have mostly gone like this:

Dad: “Nnnnnyellow?” (His resounding bass voice rolls a series of “NNNN’s” to signify he is about to name the color yellow. It’s cute.)            

Me: “Hey Dad!”

Dad: “Hey!  Here’s your mom”

Now, Dad and I have a great relationship, it’s just that he already spends most of his days on the phone and I, well, I would rather stick those itchy, off-brand cotton swabs into my corneas than chit-chat on the phone and he knows this.


… it’s because I once heard it said that after 5 minutes most phone conversations turn from “what” to “who”, and spiral downhill into gossip. I generally find this to be true, and am adamantly committed to never disparage others, even when the reverse courtesy is not extended.

phone 1Maybe  

… it’s because I’m afraid of calling people at the wrong time. I’m a firm believer in etiquette when it comes to the right and wrong times to use the phone. I adhere to a strict “9 to 9” rule. Any earlier and you risk waking people, any later and you risk waking people. It’s rude, unless it’s an emergency. And by emergency, I mean death.

Then there are our “rural” friends and family who always seem shocked we are still sleeping after sunrise.  They always say something politely passive-agressive like, “It must be so nice to sleep in” when what they’re really thinking is, “WHY ARE YOU STILL LAZING AROUND IN BED?  WHAT WERE YOU DOING LAST NIGHT…WORSHIPING SATAN??”  

Anyway, while we’re on the subject of poorly timed phone calls, my mom has been guilty of this on numerous occasions. When the cowboy & I were newlyweds, Mom ALWAYS called when uh, well, you know. Bad timing. Sometimes REALLY bad timing. We referred to it as her “sexth sense”.

Then when we lived in Alaska, she would forget which way the 3-hour time difference worked.  She’d call at 8 a.m… thinking it was 11 in Anchorage. Unfortunately for us, it was 5. In the morning. FIVE. And we had a 3-story condo with only one phone (pre-Caller ID days). If we wanted to actually ANSWER the phone, we had 11.63 seconds from the first inkling of a ringtone to jerk awake, unswaddle from the blankets, bound down the hall and descend a flight of stairsphone 3 (necessarily taking 2 at a time) just to grab the phone off the wall before the mystery caller hung up. Many times I took a bronze medal in this event, but other times my qualifying time just wasn’t up to par.

Speaking of this 100-meter-phone-dash… one morning the phone rang me out of a dead sleep. Probably one of those “rural” friends. I stumbled down the hall with Frankenstein lead feet thinking, “Have to pick thing up and SAY words! What to say??? What WORD you say when you answer phone? What IS word?!?”

11.63 seconds later, I picked up the receiver and muttered loudly, “HUH?”

Eloquent, as always.

Maybe                                                                                                                                      … THAT’S why I’m not a phone person.

Posted in Hippy-Dippy Stuff, Just Funny

my best day ever … it’s not what you think

The following story is true and is intended for mature audiences only.   This blog contains:  unspoken language, mild peril, sexual innuendos, processed food, and swashbuckling action – not necessarily in that order.  Do not attempt to try any of this at home without the oversight of a professional.  This blog was manufactured in a facility that uses tree nuts and soy.  Oh, and multiple mice were harmed during the making of this production.  That’s all.  Sit back and enjoy.

My name is Stephanie.  I’m wearing wedges.  The blog you are about to read is overdramatized.  The names were changed to protect the innocent, but since there were no innocents, I changed all the names back.

The story started in March when I decided to fully embrace REAL food.  No more processed junk,  no more bleached white flour, no more high-fructose corn syrup, no more artificial sweeteners, NO MORE FAST FOOD, and no wire hangers.  EVER!

Some time later, several friends organized an organic food delivery, which would have to be picked up once a month, 60 miles from where we are.  We were set us up as a ‘satellite group’ with one contact person. If there are issues, they will coordinate with her.  The rest of us simply have to make the 2-hour round trip when our turn rolls around.

June was my turn.  I was to meet the Covenant truck on Monday afternoon at the designated truck stop.

Since this was my maiden voyage, I left early to avoid any complications.   I arrived 45 minutes before the driver was scheduled to be there, drove around the truck stop, but seeing no sign that he and his Covenant semi had also arrived early, I parked and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The driver was now a half hour late.  At 4:00 I texted our contact person to be CERTAIN I was in the right location (a moderate-sized truck stop), and to verify I am looking for a semi with ‘Covenant’ on the side.  She does not return my text.   I drove through the truck stop again, just to be sure I was not missing something.

At 45-minutes past time, I CALLED our contact person.  She did not answer my call.  This is NOT normal.  I drove around the truck stop another time, again just to be sure. My stomach was starting to growl, but the only food off this exit is a McDonald’s and, as I said earlier, fast food is NOT on my Real Food Agenda.

truck stop hookerAt an hour late, I called the girl who had picked up last month, and she verified the semi does, indeed, say Covenant on the side, and added the fact there will likely be 2 people in the truck.   A few minutes later she called back with phone numbers. So I called the organic grocery company, who gave me the number to the trucking warehouse, who gave me the truck driver’s number, who chased the cat, who killed the rat, who ate the cheese…  who didn’t answer his phone.

Another quarter-of-an-hour later, the driver called back to say he’d had a breakdown (I assume he meant mechanical and not emotional).  He had left a message with our contact person earlier in the day, but she hadn’t responded.  He apologized, but said he wouldn’t arrive for another 2 hours.

I was supposed to have dinner with my daughter.  I phoned her to say “that ain’t happenin,” as I won’t be back to the house before at least 8:30.

Now all the girls in our grocery group are texting and calling and wanting to know what time they can expect their healthy goodies, and I’m scrambling to return their texts, all the while I’m stuck at this truck stop exit for another two hours waiting on my organic avocados and steel-cut oats and sweet potato crackers, which I should happily be snacking on at this point instead of listening to my tummy rumble.


Since I have time to kill, I look around for something – ANYTHING – to do besides languish in the van another 120 minutes, sweating and grumbling.  It’s 104 degrees in the shade – and there IS no shade – the only things that ARE here are the truck stop, an interstate, a McDonald’s and a large tacky touristy gift shop.   I don’t need diesel, I’m not eating fast food, so “Eenie, meenie, miney… tacky gift shop!”

photo4I spent an hour taking pictures of gaudy gadgets and sending them to my daughter:”Things I am buying for your house.”   I was especially fond of the 4-ft-tall-Mystic-Fairy-statue.  This amused her somewhat and kept me entertained for a bit.

After strolling past the ceramics and do-dads and knick-knacks and bric-a-brak and CRAP that nobody should ever spend money on, I perused the candy aisle.  Mmmmm…. gummy worms and orange marshmallows.  Obviously, I’m starving now, as it’s 6 p.m. and I haven’t eaten since my 11:30 bowl of field greens.

So, while I waited on my organic fruits and veggies and gluten-free bread to arrive… I compromised all my principles and drove through McDonald’s for some pink slime  and a cup of sodium phosphate.   Shut up.  It was delicious.

At least I was less grouchy now, and since it was nearly truck-arrival-time, I returned to the truck stop just in time to see a Covenant Transport truck – with two men in the cab – pull into the line of semis in the back.  I drove in front of them and waved (as they would be expecting me).  They didn’t acknowledge me with anything other than quizzical looks.  I had a hesitant feeling, as they didn’t look like truck drivers so much as vagrants in a police line-up, so I pulled back around to the front to wait some more.

After a couple of minutes, my brain started to reason with me.  “Steph, you’ve been here HOURS longer than you were supposed to.  You have missed dinner with Kacey.  You are tired and hot and bored and there is a Covenant Truck parked back there, likely with your boxes in it!  Go back there and ask!”

Bravely I got out of my car and walked over to the cab of the Covenant Transport truck.  There was now only one man in there.  He was wearing a gold necklace and a sweaty black tank top (I’m assuming to coordinate with his sweaty black hair) and holding a brown glass bottle.  He lowered the window and looked down at me.  I called up something like, “I’m here for my Azure pick up?”  But because there are dozens of trucks lined up here, and it was very loud, and because I got so hot sitting in the van that I took off the camisole under my shirt that WAS keeping the girls tucked in, I’m pretty sure what he heard was, “I’m here to ensure a pick up”.

Naturally, he invited me up for a beer.

And that’s the story of how I was mistaken for a truck stop hooker.

The end.