Monday, April 21, 2014

Hey Shannon, you're on speaker...

Anyone who knows me, and my family should know before any others, that if I call you or you call me it is really best to let me know that I am on speakerphone BEFORE YOU EVER LET ME START TALKING.

YOU, human, have no idea what kind of day I’m having and chances are it is the first thing that you will hear about in our phone call. If I am having a bad day, my introduction will be laced with profanity. If I am having a good day, my introduction will be the laced the same. It is a constant. It will always be this way so you are best to let me know I am on speaker before I ever utter a word.

Husband, you learned the hard way that speakerphone without notification was a bad idea when I called you at work.

Son, you learned it was a bad idea in class.

Daughter, you became aware when I asked you odd questions about your laundry while you were at camp and your roommate was nearby.

Why do I do this? Because I hate talking on the phone and if you make me do it, I will hate you too.

I don’t know why I hate talking on the phone so much. When I was a teenager I loved the phone kind of like I loved the mall. Come to think of it, I hate the mall now too. Maybe I hate talking on the phone because I know that 10 minutes in I’m going to stop caring what you say. Eventually we will go to the bathroom together and I will tell you that it happened. Probably won’t need to because you will hear everything from the tinkle to the grunt to the ripping of toilet paper. I will hide nothing. I will hold the phone outward so you can hear the full depth of the flush when it is time for the fruits of my labor to be gone from me.

I have gone a week and not gotten an answer to a question simply because I didn’t want to make the phone call needed to answer it. I used to be a receptionist at an engineering firm which was a horrible idea because with the mixture of sarcasm, disgust of being told what to do, disdain for authority, dislike of being asked questions I couldn’t answer and hatred of talking on a phone which never stopped ringing seeping from my pores it created a vile aroma that no one wanted to be close to.

Which means it worked.

Talking on the phone, I hate. Me on a speaker, you'll hate.

So, if you ever have the need to call me or for me to call you, it’s best for your continued employment if you warn me about the speakerphone.

If you hate your job, then by all means call the CEO and the Board of Directors in, all while accompanied by impressionable children, forward your resume to your home email, call my number, lean back in your chair and hit the button.




A few months ago I had to go in for an MRI on my left shoulder. I really didn’t think too much about it, I mean, I’ve had MRI’s before and survived so I was okay with it. That being said, know that when my head MRI was taking place I seriously considered, while buried alive and having a freeway built over me, disassembling the entire machine and seeing myself out.

After that horror I thought the shoulder MRI would be a breeze.

It was a thought that turned out to be utter bullshit.

I walk into the MRI room, same room I had been in before, and found myself wondering what kind of grease to force ratio would to be used to get my big claustrophobic self into that little opening.

I laid on the too narrow table and the nice technician got me set up by strapping me down and putting some rigid contraption on my shoulder. Remember how I’m claustrophobic?

I’m all set up, the table starts moving and…


I reached out of the machine with my right hand and grabbed the outside of the machine to stop everything because there was no way that this thing was happening. The technician asked me if I was sure I wanted to stop.

Lady, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.

She proceeded to tell me that 98% of people can’t finish the shoulder MRI. You can make that 99.

I thanked her for being patient with my refusal to be squeezed into the equivalent of a giant magnetic vagina, grabbed my stuff and left without an ounce of shame.

Luckily I was rescheduled for the bigger MRI machine (didn’t know there was one) and a dose of Valium. It’s amazing how a little pill can take you from “There’s no way I’m getting in that thing” to “I think I’ll just have my mail delivered here."

The next time I have an MRI appointment and get the chance to reprise my role as Augustus-Stuck-In-The-Pipe from “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”, I’ll make sure that I am ridiculously unsober for the event.