Dreams Really Do Come True

It finally happened.  It's taken years of concerted effort on my part, but even so, I never actually thought it would happen.  You hear stories, but still, you think, "Nah.  Urban myth."  But a few weeks ago, my fondest dream came true: I called a telemarketer and bugged the crap out of them !!!

It all began one sunny afternoon when the phone rang and a local number came up on the caller ID.  Now, I am on the Do Not Call List, Do Not Mail List, Do Not Text, Tweet, Facebook, Friend, Snail Mail, Look At, Breathe Near, or even Think About Lists,  so when I saw the local area code, I assumed whoever was calling was doing it for a reason other than to tick me off.

Wrong.  The wily little devils have figured out that when people see an 800 number, they insert their earplugs and ready the police whistle, foghorn, or cannon before picking up the phone.  So, in order to ensure they can still bug the ever living crap out of you, they have recently begun to use local area codes or list themselves as "private caller".  And this is why I support bringing back the Rack, Iron Maiden and  a one-armed executioner with a dull axe, eye patch, and severe arthritis.

Picking up the phone, I heard, "Hi, I'm an annoying telemarketer from Company XYZ, but I am pretending I am from the company you bought the car from by giving you the misleading name of our sham organization, and did you know the warranty on your 10-year old car has expired, but out of the goodness of our hearts, and largeness of your wallet, we would like to offer you an extended warranty that will cover absolutely nothing except maybe if you break the cigarette lighter in which case, we will send you one nicotine patch."

Unfortunately for Artie Annoying on the other end of the line, I was having a Dirty Harry Day, perhaps because this company had also called the week before when I explained to them (very nicely, which means I didn't use any, er, many four-letter words or threaten them with disembowelment) that we no longer owned the car and that I didn't feel like being robbed that day in any case.

"Oh really," I cooed.  "And who exactly do you work for?" Ha! Got you now!!! I dare you to say the name of the car company.  Go ahead and make my day!

"Look. Do you want it or not?" Artie snapped at me.

Stunned that it had taken so very little to push him over the edge, I floundered for a minute before sniping right back, "Hey, nice attitude.  You sell a lot of stuff talking to customers like that?  And, by the way, YOU called ME!"

"I'm so very sorry, ma'am," he jeered snidely, "if I've offended you.  My greatest apologies."

Really unfortunately for Artie, I was also in a vindictive, boil-your-bunny mood that day as well.  "I do not accept your apology, I intend to make you  rue the day you pulled my number from the Do Not Call List, and YOU SUCK AT YOUR JOB!" Slam.

And then I did it.  I called the number back.  Hehehehe.

A chipper young woman answered," Hello, Company XYZ.  We're here to rip you off.  How can I help you?"

"I'd like to speak to your supervisor." Double, double, toil and trouble. Oh, and Bibbidy, Bobbidy, Boo.

"Mrs. Sinclair," another cheerful woman who had obviously consulted the caller ID came on the line.  "How can I help you?"

Um, by NEVER CALLING ME AGAIN!  But let's start with young Artie and how you may bring me his head on a platter....

Please, no applause.

Dumb and Dumber Questions and Comments

I put my foot in my mouth ALL the time.  To be truthful, most of the time it is both feet.

I recently tried to compliment someone on a dress they were wearing and I told them that  I never would have picked out that dress if I had seen it on the hanger.  There is no fixing something like that. "Uh, yeah cause that dress is uglier than a baboon's backside.  But not on you. Oh no.  You totally make it work.  Hey, did anyone ever tell you that you look just like Cindy Crawford in that dress? Yeah, it is from her 'dresses that should never be worn outside of communist Russia, circa 1935 line.'"(sigh)

So I am always glad when someone else jams their foot in their mouth.  I hate being dumb alone. Fortunately, I seem to have a lot of company recently.

After one single dose of chemo, my hair abandoned ship and so I got a wig.  I took it to my salon where they cut and colored it to look just like my own hair.  Or so I thought.  Apparently, my stylist thought I wanted to look like Honey Boo Boo at the Miss America competition (ie: really big hair.  No, I mean REALLY BIG hair.  Like, "Raise the bridge, she's coming through" hair.  Like, "Dear God, did a racoon die on her head?" hair.  Like, "So if you were standing next to the Eiffel Tower, which of you would be taller?" hair.

Not long after, I was meeting a friend for lunch who greeted me by saying, "Wow, so is that a wig? It looks really good from a distance."

Uh.  Thanks?  And up  close it looks like...???

I flat-ironed it that night.  And then washed it, blew it dry, flat-ironed it again, rinsed and repeated.

But one of the best questions I have encountered is on every form I now have to fill out at doctor's offices:  So you have cancer:  Do you suffer from depression or anxiety?

I was just diagnosed with cancer.  OF COURSE I am depressed and anxious.  Cancer is a total buzz kill.  Did you think I would be happy and carefree?  I mean, really?  Do you even need to ask that question???  I think maybe you should just take that as a given in a cancer patient. Hint:  I am NOT the one sitting in the office whistling Zippity Do Dah!

Tying for first place with that was the guy from the insurance company who called and left a message on the phone telling me that since I was diagnosed with cancer, I can now be offered "perks."

Really??? Perks??? Jackpot!!!  If I had known there were "perks" involved, I would have gotten cancer YEARS ago!!!  So, what exactly are we talking about here?  Sunglasses to protect everyone from the glare off my bald head?  Or maybe a really nifty pill case shaped like a Pez dispenser for my medicine?  How about a Louis Vuitton  drip bag for the I V?   Yeah.  They might want to rethink their wording.

At least it's comforting to know I don't always have the biggest mouth (or feet) in the room!

This Woman Walks Into a Doctor's Office...

I firmly believe that the plans for the earliest mammogram machine were drawn up by the Marquis de Sade.  Maybe with a little help from Jack the Ripper.  Clearly, it was a man who hated women.  A lot. 

So after suffering the indignity of my yearly mammogram where I had to keep reminding the technician that yes, my boobs were attached and would probably remain so no matter how hard she pulled, my doctor informed me that there were two "suspicious" areas and that I would need a biopsy.  Oh goody.  More fun.

Medical trivia fact #1:  For an MRI which involves no physical contact whatsoever, they offer you an amount of Valium that would make even Alec Baldwin tweet like he was head writer on Sesame Street.  For a biopsy which involves sticking a needle the size of the actual Space Needle in Seattle into you with less Novocain than the dentist gives for a cleaning, they offer you...a back rub.  Really?????

"Now, just lie face down and Nurse Ratched will give you a lovely back massage while Dr. Lecter here performs the practically painless procedure which involves jabbing you with one giant needle so that you won't feel the other giant needle."

Medical trivia fact #2:  A massage is NOT a suitable substitute for drugs!  Where did these people go to med school, Feel Better U?  Hello!!!!!!  Four foot long needles piercing my skin actually HURT, and telling me they don't doesn't make it true.  Hey doc.  How about I jab you with a broadsword after giving you an gummy bear for the pain and then we'll compare notes.  Also, you might want to make sure the patient is actually numb before you perform the biopsy!!!!!  Just a thought.

 Adding insult to (serious) injury, the massage basically consisted of Nurse Ratched poking at my back with two fingers like she was playing Whack a Mole on her ipad.  I'm guessing she flunked that class in school.  Badly.  Very badly.  In fact, not only did it not take my mind off the fact that the doctor was performing a procedure that I'm pretty sure was banned by the Geneva Convention, it actually made me consider begging to have 150 back to back mammograms instead.

Medical trivia fact #3:  Telling a patient that "here comes the needle; you'll feel a little pinch, sort of like getting bitten by a mosquito" and then jabbing them with a saber is just plain LYING!  It does not feel like a mosquito unless perhaps you live in Jurassic Park and the mosquito is the size of a T-Rex with a stinger the size of the Empire State Building.

I nonchalantly mentioned this to the doctor (okay, there may have been some four-letter words used and perhaps I did imply that his mother was a female dog), who, instead of offering me sympathy and a Chocolatini (Where is Marcus Welby or a really good bartender when you need one?) proceeded to tell me about the time he was bike riding and a bee went up his shorts and stung him.  I'm guessing I'm the first person he told that story to who asked for the bee's address so I could send it a thank you card. 

The worst part of it all though, was after it was over, I had to go into the next room for a "gentle" mammogram.  Long live the Marquis.

A Year in the Life (in 1000 words or less)

Obviously, the blogging twice a week thing did not work out for me, but I think I may be sliding in just under the wire on blogging  twice a year!

It's not that I haven't had anything to blog about.   Hmmm.  Let's see......I've been ticked off by the cable company, phone company, yard people, dry cleaners, sales people, telemarketing people, Tim, assorted other family members, friends, strangers, pretty much anyone living, a few that are dead and some that are currently living, but that if they keep annoying me will soon be dead.  The usual stuff I blog about since it is cheaper than a good psychiatrist and less time consuming than finding one on YELP!

I've travelled a bit.... Paris and Africa most notably, though I'm sure if I really think about it, I can come up with some bizarre things that have happened to me going no further than down the street.  A trip to the drugstore can quickly go from a stroll through Mr. Roger's Neighborhood to Nightmare on Elm Street in the blink of an eye for me.

I've also been busy having cancer this year.  This is sure to generate a lot of blogs, as most of the things about this disease have and continue to really tick me off.  I have a whole new set of people in my life who keep trying to tell me what to do that I need to blog about or I will have to rip off their arms and beat them to death with them (oddly, cancer has not really made me less violent).  At least since they are doctors, they can sew their own arms back on and keep poking at me like I am some giant science experiment (which I kind of am since I have had totally strange reactions to pretty much every drug they have pumped into me.  Go figure--bad reactions to toxic substances.  Hmmmm.  So there are people who have good reactions to poison?)

Anyway,  I now have plenty of fodder for my blog, and lots of stored-up angst, so the twice a week thing should work out just fine as therapy.