JOBS WHERE I WOULD GET FIRED THE FIRST DAY

(With many, many thanks to the people who excel at them.)

1.     Waitress (Server )  The first time someone threw a napkin on the floor, I would pop them with my tray and give them the “If we want to have a nice place to live, we clean up our messes“ speech. Then I would take away their phone and dessert privileges.

2.     Truck driver. I would stop at every rest station. It would take me a week to deliver a load to the next town. Also, I can’t reach the pedals.

3.     Bounty hunter for identity thieves and computer hackers. Unnecessary roughness. With a smile.

4.     House painter. Aversion to heights. Houses would have a band of paint that circled the house, reaching 5 feet, two inches above the ground. Also, I'm likely to paint ornamental shrubbery, potty-bound house pets, and random passersby.

5.     Caterer. Eating is my jam. I love jam. And all the stuffed mushrooms would disappear along with the icing from the birthday cupcakes.

6.     Welder. Fire. Seriously.

7.     Speech therapist. Not that I have a Southern accent, but can you imagine learning to pronounce words from someone who requires five syllables just to say yes? And six to say no.

8.    Fashion designer. My idea of haute couture is a shirt that will button across the chest and not ride up to show belly overlap. Also bunny slippers with ears that exceed two inches in height.

9.    Pet trainer. To me a 100 pound pit bull is a lap dog that just needs more leg room.

10. Teacher. See number 1. Also, I'm cranky if I skip naptime.

Fascinating Facts

While taking a summer break from blogging, I picked up a few new followers, which tells me something, although I'd rather not think about it. Instead, I'll credit the talent of Lisa Allen for giving folks a tidbit or two to tune in for. Thanks Lisa!

In retribution, I mean thanks, to the new folks, I decided to force you to, er TREAT you to, some tidbits about moi. (As Miss Piggy, no relation, would say.) I decided to call them "Fascinating Facts" because "Facts That Put Us To Sleep" just doesn't have that mysterious quality that draws in new readers. So set your alarm and read on.

Fascinating facts:

1. I share a birthday with Abraham Lincoln. My kids think we’re twins. (Abe and Amy. It fits, right?) I told them our mother could only tell us apart because Abe parts his hat on the opposite side from me. And wears his beard is shorter.

2. I’m not good with crafts. My niece gave me a glue gun for Christmas and I glued the bag closed before I could get the gun out. Now I’m required by law to keep the ammunition in a separate location.

4. I like to drive red cars. It’s a mother of two’s way of telling the world there’s more to me than apple juice and gym socks.

5. I like to wear blue jeans everywhere. It’s the white trash version of The Little Black Dress. Reeboks are my pumps. I have a matching wrap. It’s made by Levi Strauss.

6. If my mother weren’t already gone, she would dig her own grave with a grapefruit spoon if she heard me say white trash.

7. I drink Mountain Dew for the taste. That’s like saying I read Playboy for the articles. It’s really all about the rush.

8. I wish I could play the piano. I’d like to hit the ivories at high speed with Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy and leave steam rising from the keys once before I die.

9. I was inside a church that caught on fire. No one was hurt, but to this day, I can’t roast marshmallows without singing Nearer My God to Thee.

10. My kids think they know everything because they can program the TV, the computer, and the cell phone. But they don’t know that I named the dog the primary beneficiary on my life insurance policy or that he’s in charge of their trust fund.

11. My husband, the Captain of our Love Boat, secretly thinks that I’m bossy, that I like to do everything my own way, and that I’m adverse to change. I think adverse means the opposite of reverse and is one of the gifts and graces mentioned in the Bible.

12. I’ve been married twice. So far.

Can You Hear Me Now?

My friend Raelynn has a phone she swears will do her hair and nails, tell her what shoes to wear with all her outfits, and lie about her age.

I don’t need a little electronic box to tell me what to wear, how to organize my CDs, or when to flip the steaks over. To me, a smart phone is one that knows not to ring when I’m in the shower. And never accepts messages from discarded spouses.

Also, I don’t need a phone with a name of its own. I can’t remember the names of my children. I don’t need to try and conjure up an extra one for a device I can’t figure out how to use.

My phone has so many buttons, I feel like I’m initiating a launch code whenever I check my messages. The last time I tried to take a picture, I accidentally turned on the voice controls. I was out shopping, and I’m pretty sure Mall Security picked up my trail before I got as far as Victoria’s Secret.

“Say a command,” the phone snapped smartly.

“Shut up!” I squealed, digging in my pocket to retrieve the thing.

“Say a command,” the device insisted.

“Fold the laundry!” Humor is my defense mechanism. As with most of the other mechanisms in my life, the warranty expired the day I needed it most.

“Dialing 5-3-3”

“No, not five, FOLD, you crazy thing.”

“Calling the Captain.”

“Not Captain. Crazy!”

Other shoppers shot uneasy glances in my direction. “Talk about Captain Crazy,” an elderly woman muttered and whipped an Emergency Bat Turn with her walker right in the food court.

“Look,” I muttered discreetly to the palm of my hand. “Behave. No one will hear you scream.”

“Dialing 9-1-1”

“I said NO ONE. Not 9-1-1.”

“Emergency services” came a refreshingly human voice from my phone.

“HELLO!” I screamed frantically. “My phone has taken over. Please help me!”

Silence.

Small children hid behind the clothes racks in Lane Bryant. Passersby detoured around the hemp tattoo kiosk to avoid me.

I spoke into the phone. “You think I’m psycho, don’t you?”

“Lady,” the Emergency Responder answered. “You had me at hello.”

Cracked

I cannot stress enough the importance of good customer service skills. Recently a man in North Charleston, South Carolina, the state where the name Dick Harpootlian is synonymous with the term “Lock and Load” for the state Democratic Party, called 911 to report he was not given correct change when purchasing crack cocaine. The Democratic Party has nothing to do with the use of crack cocaine other than the persistent idea that Dick Harpootlian's parents must have used the substance just before naming their infant.

A monetary disagreement is an understandably frustrating situation between vendor and vendee. I had an experience similar to this once when I gave the cashier a twenty dollar bill and she gave me change for a ten. In this instance I simply appealed to the store manager, who promptly and courteously recorded my name and phone number and called me to come pick up my cash when the cashier’s drawer rang up with an overage that evening. I was a satisfied customer and have continued my business relationship with that particular pawn, er, dress shop ever since.

If the drug dealer; we’ll call him Mr. Crack, was serious about his business, he would have considered his customer, Mr. Smoke, as a potential future profit margin. By reacting selfishly, he dashed his hopes for repeat business and customer loyalty. In these days of economic hardships, he effectively slammed an out-of-business sign on the fingers of his future. His avenues for expansion are forever closed.

His only hope is to take up politics. I hear Mr. Harpootlian is looking for a running mate.

Going, Going, Guilty

I held up a tee shirt with a navy theme and shook my head. “Horizontal stripes are out.”

“Of course. You don’t want to take any chances.”

“And vertical stripes scream, “Cell Block Nine!”

"You wouldn’t want to be cited for bad taste.”

“Orange would be tacky.”

“There’s nothing worse than a fashion police repeat offender.”

“And a jumpsuit would be out of the question.”

The Captain snorted. “Look. You’re going to jury duty. Not a Totally Inmate Barbie fashion extravaganza.”

I knew my stubborn streak could outlast his sarcasm. No contest. No charge. "Barbie’s done a lot of things in 50 years, but I don’t recall Ken ever having to bail her out of the pokey for a wardrobe felony.”

It’s Jury Duty Eve and I’m trying to select an outfit that says “Trial by Jury” without stepping over the line to “Accessory after the Fact.” The Captain doesn’t understand the importance of dressing for an occasion. Any gal can tell you that the right wardrobe choice puts everyone at ease. It’s easy to see who the people person is in this relationship.

Of course, except for a kindred feeling toward Judge Judy and a lightning round session in divorce court a while back, I don’t have a lot of experience with the judicial system here on the outskirts of Sugar Tit. I’m just hoping I don’t get so carried away with the Hammer of Justice that I drive a nail through my foot.

Although I've been keeping a keen eye on the whole Lindsay Lohan jailbird drama, I have more experience with cell phones than cells. When I have a set of bars, I can call out of network. She calls her network from behind bars. But if I use her time table, my term in jury duty will last about ten minutes.

Right now I’m torn between a white sundress to emphasize the importance a clean record and a gray pantsuit to point out the no man's land between right and wrong.

Cap cleared his throat. “If you wear white, you’ll probably spill ketchup all over yourself at lunch and illustrate the appearance of a murder victim.”

He’ll never understand the nuances of Truth and Justice.

“I might not spill anything this time. In this country we emphasize the concept of ‘Innocent Until Proven Guilty.' I'm completely unbiased."

What if the Defendant were somebody like your ex-husband, on trial for not paying child support?”

I grabbed a black robe and pulled it on.

“In that case, stand back. I want to be the one that pops open the trap door on the gallows.”

If freedom is going to ring, I want to crack his Liberty Bell myself.

Fixer Upper

“Buying a house is like choosing which dog in the pack you want to bite you. You can choose between a big one that takes one big hunk of meat at wallet level or a little one that grabs hold of anything that dangles and hangs on. Either way, you’re broke.”

“So you’re not in favor of the idea.” I sighed. Low interest should apply to the mortgage, not the man.

“Well, we’re dangerously close to having extra money this month. I was afraid we might do something rash, like buying a bond or putting it in savings.”

I’m trying to persuade Bill to buy a house. A cozy little home of our own where we can raise kittens and cucumbers and drill holes in the wall any time we like. Actually it’s not buying a house that he’s against. It’s the description of the particular house I’ve discovered on my latest foray. “Handyman’s Dream” it said in the guide book. When I called, the realtor sounded giddy.

“I’d rather cover my seats with Viennese lace.” Bill didn’t really say that, but his actual comment, although rich in imagery, had the same odds.

“Think of the money we’ll save,” I said, ducking down and to the left as I turned on the faucet. An icy blast of water shot out of the sprayer attachment and nailed Precious, the cat, with pinpoint accuracy. I saw Precious make a mental note to poop on my pillowcase later in the evening. He’s held a grudge ever since the surgery, anyway.

“You mean in plumber’s bills?” he asked, phoning the landlord.

“In rent.” We could be making payments on a house we owned so we could retire.” I reached under the sink and turned on the hot water. A gush of steam erupted from the faucet like Old Faithful. Bill pushed the landlord’s speed dial button on his cell phone.

“We’ll need to save money so we can pay for our own repairs.”

“We’ll do everything ourselves.”

“You mean like when you hung that doily over the hole in the living room wall?”

“That was short term. You’re a great repairman.”

“I fix computers. There’s a big difference between replacing a sound card and snaking a toilet. Computer maintenance doesn’t require the use of a wrench big enough to wrap your upper plate around your tonsils.”

“No, but you have to deal with people who think a user’s manual is a book that teaches you how to take drugs. With this project, you’d be totally in charge. It would be exhilarating.”

“It would be exhausting.”

“You can go to the hardware store any time you like.” If there’s one thing men crave more than quiet at fourth down and goal to go, it’s sifting through tenpenny nails without a reason. That, and strolling through automotive departments to sniff the tires, but you have to draw the line somewhere.

"Good. I'll go look for riding lawn mower."

"Okay, dear," I twinkled, making a mental note to add a pantry and half bath to the new house.

When it comes to real estate, it's important to remember a few important terms. Negotiation is the most important one of all.

Now if I can just work something out with Precious to save my linens.

Hello! Hang Up.

Many thanks to everyone who inquired about the state of my crankiness during the unfortunate demise of my air conditioner. The Man in the White Van informed me that the heat pump was frozen "like a June bug in winter", which made as much sense to me as a color chart for Springs and Summers does to your average jock, but eventually he made everything okay. I am now at peace with the thermostat.

The problem with telephones today is that too many people use them. Oh, they don’t answer them. What wilts my lettuce is that they use them to call me during the congealed salad portion of my evening meal.

Everybody from telemarketers touting time shares to Time-Life Books offering Hillary’s Big Book of Beauty Tips rushes to their phone at 7:00 every evening to call my house while I’m buttering biscuits. That’s why our phone at home is an equal opportunity rejecter. Everyone that calls my house is greeted with its perky message: “Go away! Don’t call here! Have a nice day!”

I enlisted with the National Do Not Call folks long ago, but somehow politicians, creditors, and ex-spouses tend to be the sort of folks who think rules apply to other people, and race to speed dial my number every night during my personal fried chicken time.

I believe these are the same folks spreading the propaganda about family unity coming from eating dinner together. They want us to think that quality time means the whole family is sitting close enough together to share a fork, when all they really want is for us to pile up into one big target so they can hit us with a prime time phone blitz and sell us sympathy tickets to the three goats circus.

Of course there are exceptions to the rule. Occasionally, a relative will call during Family Time. When I hear a familiar voice leaving a message, I will turn down the sound on Wheel of Fortune, pick up the receiver and bellow, “Go away! There are important creditors trying to get through!” and slam down the receiver in a stern manner. You have to be willing to set boundaries.

I’ve decided that the only way to combat this ringaling rampage is to install one of those fancy no-human-involved answering machines like they have at government offices and welcome centers. If you call my home, please be prepared to respond to the following menu:

Hello, you have reached the Mullis residence. If the dog answers, please press 1. If the cat answers, ask to speak to the dog and then press 1. If any creature with enough legs to qualify for the insect or arachnid families answers, please ask for the cat. Have a work order ready and please be prompt with payment. At least one of the felines on duty has a pricey catnip habit to finance.

Don’t give personal information to the cat; he can’t keep a secret and only wants to talk about himself anyway, but the dog is great at screening calls. He is very protective of his family, or as he refers to us: the people who dish up the dog chow. He growls at salesmen, barks at government employees, and doesn’t let anyone through unless they use the password, “cookie.”

What can I say? Everybody has a price. And you thought pay phones were extinct.

Please leave a cookie at the sound of the beep, but it'll be a while before I call you back. I can't understand what Slobberchops is saying when his mouth is full.

For Whom the Phone Rings

A cell phone is an incredible invention, designed with amazing technology by intellectual minds, so that our children, who normally count screaming “Front seat shotgun” as they race to the car as interpersonal conversation, can talk to us in the bathroom even when we're not at home.

With high hopes for a goal of widespread family communication in the new year, I finally submitted to the cell craze and bestowed the most basic instruments upon the family, admonishing the kids that these phones should be used only in cases of dire emergency such as a vehicular crisis more severe than a broken radio knob, physical injury resulting in the use of the family health insurance, or an unbelievable shoe sale at the mall.

Minutes later I received a text message from my oldest son who was located directly across the kitchen table, typing furiously on his new phone’s keypad. During several attempts to read the message, I managed to call myself twice, change the screensaver, and turn on the speakerphone function.

“Mom, just press this button,” the Alexander Graham Bell of the electronic age reached across and tapped the keypad. With a resounding beep, the message leaped to the screen.
“Pass the potatoes.”

New rule. No more text messages between people who are close enough to cut each other’s meat.

On my next trip to the mall, I visited the convenient restrooms thoughtfully located in the luau-themed food court. Hanging my purse on the pineapple, I assumed the classic public restroom hover-squat recognizable to health-conscious women everywhere. Suddenly, the unmistakable sounds of Beethoven’s most famous four notes exploded against the ceramic walls. DA DA DA DUN! I wanted a ring tone I could hear. I picked one that climbers sheltering from sudden storms on Everest could hear. I looked up. My purse hung tantalizingly above my head like an overripe coconut on a palm tree.

If I could kick the bottom of the bag, I could knock it from the hook to the floor and retrieve it with the toe of my imitation leather flower-bedecked thong sandal. I reached out tentatively with one shoe and immediately appreciated the disastrous results of stretching further.

DA DA DA DUN!

An attempt to use the spare roll of toilet paper as a projectile also failed.

DA DA DA DUN! Beethoven played on, more insistent with every note.

In desperation, I lunged for my purse, grabbed it off the hook and fell back in place just as the automatic flusher sensed evacuation and commenced operations. I pulled the phone from the depths of its nest and flipped it open with a flourish. The caller was my firstborn son, obviously in some turmoil that only his mother could resolve.

“Hello?”

“Mom, do we have any clean spoons?”

It figures. To me, crisis avoidance is saving my skirt from the self-flusher. To him, it’s getting a snack before CSI comes on.