Macaroni Love

Sometimes things get stuck in your cranium. Well, mine anyway. The things vary --it might be a passage of music or snippet of lyrics, odd phrase, snatch of fragrance from a passing co-worker that lodges in my sinuses, a memory of a flavor or food texture -- pleasant or otherwise.

It can strike with sudden ferociousness, like when I'm at my desk pushing around papers with lots of headache-inducing banking regulatory language and suddenly it pops into my head that I need mashed potatoes, which will be stuck in my mind for as long as it takes to either procure and devour mashed potatoes or forget that I wanted them. Sometimes, it's more subtle -- overhearing someone talk about ice cream on Monday, seeing an ice cream ad Tuesday, then slipping into a full-blown ice cream craving on Wednesday, even though dairy is not always my friend and stuffs up my sinuses.

Many a morning I have  awoken with a song stuck in my head -- the past few weeks it's been Barenaked Ladies crooning the theme music from Big Bang Theory. Lately, I drift off to sleep to and endless loop "Heart and Soul" from the new iPad Mini commercial.

Sometimes, a food craving can be triggered by actually eating it. The most recent addiction was instigated during a Satruday lunch at the Old Chicago pizza bar. I've known OF the lunchtime pizza bar for years, but ordered it only once, a couple years ago. About ten minutes into raking leaves, my mind was wandering and I started thinking about lunch. After checking in with a friend and considering Korean food (our usual) we made plans to shake things up and meet at Old Chicago for the lunch pizza bar.

I'm not sure if the pizza bar has the same things all the time, but that particular day there were pepperoni, vegetarian, and ham and pineapple pizzas set out, plus garlic bread sticks and marinara. And macaroni and cheese. I was there for the pizza, but the macaroni intrigued me -- pale, long, loose curls of macaroni in a creamy sauce. I took a small scoop. It was good. It tasted like more. I went back. The mac and cheese bowl had been replaced with another pizza. Sad face.

Immediately upon leaving Old Chicago, I was already thinking about having the macaroni and cheese again. On Sunday, I was still thinking about it. Based on my obsessive food history, I figured the best way to handle it was to tackle it head on. I hit the recipe box and visited the pasta reserves in the pantry, where there is almost always an array of pasta shapes and sizes suitable for capturing sauces, swimming in soups and baking in casseroles.

The recipe I used is good, but nowhere as tasty as the other one I have that calls for five types of cheese, nor as creamy as the stuff at Old Chicago. I didn't have five types of cheeses (only two) and was too lazy to look up a creamy recipe. Because I live alone, that 8-inch square baking dish of my dense mac and cheese has fed me for five days now. Lunch tomorrow should (thankfully) finish it off and I suspect it will be a while before I'll be loving macaroni and cheese again. I hope.

Packing Right

Packing for a trip is one of the most challenging tasks of which I know, with "challenging" being positive-speak for "colossal pain in the arse." I love to visit other places, but the idea of gathering clothes and being separated from my closet for any length of time is frightening. I rarely plan clothes in advance and feel disloyal choosing “favorite” outfits. Any time I've tried to plan clothes ahead, I wake up in the wrong mood or the wrong weight, and it's back to square one anyway.

Once upon a time, I was really, really good at packing. A blissful stretch of time in Massachusetts in the 1980s and 90s involved frequent weekend trips to Maine, Cape Cod and New York, and grand vacations on cruise ships and to Caribbean Islands. Back then, life was a Travel Channel adventure and "What if..." was the guiding mantra. What if we went into Manhattan?  What if we went to the theatre or a nice restaurant? What if there was a great new dance club? What if ... I could pack blindfolded and knew exactly what to cram into a bag or two or three to provide critical and varied wardrobe options to cover all potential scenarios.

Overpacking to cover any and all foreseeable social situations resulted in a sense of obligation to change outfits for each activity -- as many as three or four times a day.  It was part of the fun of stepping outside regular life and being someplace else. A single day in "real life" rarely included shopping and a picnic and a trip to the beach and a nightclub and ice cream stand and a restaurant, but those were the norm on a weekend or vacation trip.

"Real life" featured endless hours trapped in the same spot at work, interrupted only by trips to the restroom and maybe outside the building for lunch, followed by a car ride home or to the grocery store. The only times outfits were changed during a "normal" day was if catastrophe struck -- like a coffee spill or the unfortunate explosion of a critical seam in the back of one’s skirt or pants.

A wardrobe evolution to predominantly black made packing even easier. Mostly black equals instant coordination and clothes for a week-long visit to Paris in November 1999 fit into one suitcase that technically qualified as a carry-on – and even included an extra coat. It was the epitome of coordination and efficiency which has never yet been replicated.

Since moving to Tennessee, my travel schedule has declined from regular, interesting and frequent to once or twice a year, at best. Sorely out of practice, there are semiannual panicked tailspins at the horrific idea of packing for a holiday visit home.

One of the difficulties (of course I mean "challenges") is the abundance of activities that may be proposed while 1,000 miles away from the comfort of the closet. Past travel has included sledding, ice skating, hiking, swimming, night clubs, fine restaurants, casinos and midnight swims in the ocean immediately after leaving a nightclub -- most of it spontaneous. Toes were frozen, snowsuits borrowed, clothing items destroyed by chlorine or salt water. Sometimes, activities were declined due to the absence of proper footwear or a swimsuit.

A recently cultivated nuance to packing involves forgetting some ordinary, yet critical, everyday item.  I’ll arrive with a suitcase stuffed with 50 pounds of clothing and shoes and still need an emergency trip to WalMart or Target for pajamas, sweatpants, a toothbrush, contact lens supplies or underwear.

For Christmas 2011, it felt like I had a pretty good idea of what to pack. The Christmas itinerary was planned and weather forecasts called for not too cold and not snowy. Basic standard needs were something to wear for Christmas and to church, something in case I went out with friends, pajamas, and sweats or jeans for relaxing time spent at the table annihilating family members in Scrabble (my favorite game on the planet). Seemed simple enough.

The Parisian wardrobe packing model was followed with everything charcoal gray or black mix-and-match with punches of color in the purple Christmas jacket, a teal jersey and a bright green cashmere sweater. If a garment didn't work in at least two outfit combinations or coordinate with the pearly pink cane supporting me and my compound fractured leg, it stayed home.

In a crazy, whimsical moment of fantasy, a "Let's pretend I go out on a date or have a job interview" cream-colored lace shirt was tossed into the mix, to be worn with a cardigan or the purple jacket and either the black skirt or jeans or pinstripe pants (multiple combinations!). It was crazy, because there had been exactly three dates in the previous 18 months and it is questionable that one was an actual date. There were also no interviews scheduled, but I am a little bit of a Boy Scout (Be Prepared!). 

While no dates or job interviews materialized during the week, a much grander invitation was extended -- to be a guest on a TV talk show. That launched a wave of total panic over the paralyzing wonderment of what to wear on a show taping in two days. Of all the varied activities that ever flitted through the imagined realm of possibility, "being on TV" was NEVER once considered when packing for a trip. Now that it’s happened, I guess it can go on the list.

Election Reflection

Some people I know (or have known) can recollect with amazing clarity every ballot cast in their voting histories. I am not one of those people. Granted, some of them are decades younger than I am, with briefer, fresher voting legacies than my own, and that might help. Others are much older and their ability to remember such things makes me feel like an amnesia patient.

Legal voting age (and at the time, drinking age) greeted me right before starting freshman year of college, but it was a couple years for the next presidential election. My first and perhaps only “political activism” (the term is used loosely here) took place in college when my wardrobe was rich in flannel shirts and Wrangler jeans. Basically, I dressed a lot like the guys I had crushes on, and that is the type of outfit worn to at least one anti-nuclear themed keg party held in the woods. Our beer drinking was punctuated by the occasional fist-pumping chants of “Hell no, we won’t glow!” to remind us why we were there as we shivered in the dark. That is the type of stuff I remember. If you can tell me what I was wearing, I can probably tell you what we were doing.

I have no idea how we thought a cluster of a dozen college kids drinking in the woods in the dark would change anything related to the debate over nuclear power, but I’m sure it made sense at the time.

As for the candidates in my first national election? Well, I’d be one fresh corpse if my next breath depended upon recalling which name I marked in that first major election (or many of those to follow).

My grandmother, who could relate with amazing detail stories from her youth during the Roaring 20s and the Great Depression, could list every candidate she ever voted for and the reasons why. On the approach to Election Day, she would proudly declare that she was officially registered as an Independent voter and never voted a straight party ticket. She believed it was bad for one political group to hold all the power, and balanced her choices amongst affiliations, focusing on individuals in whom she felt she could place her trust.

I share my grandmother’s philosophy about parties and candidates, but, unlike she could, I can’t reel off my choices in most past elections. This is not especially alarming to me, as many days I can’t recall what I ate for breakfast. Perhaps if I was involved and passionate about politics (or had a voting outfit designated for the occasion) it all might have a more permanent impression.

The political impression I do hold is that it’s a personal responsibility as a U.S. citizen to vote. I’m hugely offended by people who piss and moan about elected officials and/or candidates campaigning for office, and who haven’t voted in the past and have no intention to vote at present. One friend, in advance of the contentious 2000 Presidential Election, complained about candidates and issues the entire election season, then confessed that at the age of 30, had never registered and voted. Ever. Seriously? That’s the same year I deliberately scheduled an international trip and wedding plans for after Election Day to ensure nothing hindered my ability to vote.

While not the most politically involved citizen (I don’t campaign for candidates or post political displays of affection in my yard or on my vehicle), I take voting seriously. Before heading to the voting machine, I almost always review a sample ballot for my own comfort level – a lesson learned after at least one head-splitting election featuring complicated referendum questions that read like the deliberately confusing word problems on a standardized test. As tough as some choices may seem, I can’t even imagine living in a place where people can’t help shape their society with a vote.

My bottom line (for what it's worth) – please vote. It doesn’t matter to me for whom you cast your ballot, just be part of the process. And if you choose to not vote, please keep your mouth shut for the next four years.

Candy Coated Shame

This year, in a miraculous convergence of available time and a grocery store sale, I planned ahead for Halloween. My record on Trick-or-Treat is spotty, at best. For a few years in adulthood the magical night was displaced by required attendance at a second job or a graduate school class, but lately, I just don’t care. Maybe it’s because I never had kids of my own. Maybe I’m just truly a witch.

In any event, this year, grocery store flyers were carefully reviewed with attention to the candy. Publix offered 40 ounce assortments of Butterfinger, Baby Ruth, Nestle and Crunch bars at buy one get one free. For $9.99 (25% of my grocery bill), five pounds of name brand chocolate candy were secured a week before Halloween.

It was a relief to be liberated of a potential last minute dash to the store the night before, or during my lunch hour, or worse, on the way home from work on Halloween. I was free to lunch and lounge after work up until the first costumed rugrat rapped on the door and whipped the dogs into a frenzy.

Fully aware that my one true, legitimate superpower is making chocolate disappear, I resolved to not open the candy until Halloween. Unfortunately, when it comes to chocolate and me, it’s a full blown OCD – Obsessive Candy Disorder. Once aware of its proximity, I’m compelled to eat it until it’s gone. It matters not if it’s a vending size treat, a king-size bar, a half-pound bag or more. On Easter Sunday when I was 8 or 9 years old I consumed an entire one pound solid white chocolate cross in the narrow slivers of time between the Easter Bunny egg hunting /candy finding rituals, church, and Easter dinner. I just couldn’t stop.

The disappearing chocolate trick has been refined on multiple candy-coated Valentine’s Days when presented with a lovely box featuring a pound (or more) of assorted milk and dark chocolate delicacies which stood little chance of surviving past 6 pm that day and that long only because an eight hour workday usually occupied the stretch between a candy breakfast and the final attack on a chocolate dinner. The span between chocolate feedings was dominated by fantasies of the candy at home. It’s kind of a sickness, really.

As I boldly cut open the first bag of candy about three minutes after unpacking the groceries a full week before Halloween, fully cognizant of my checkered candy past and the looming temptation, I jammed my hand into the bag, closed my fist around a handful of bite-sized treats, and headed to the couch. I rationalized, “It’s just a few. There’s another bag in the cabinet.” This activity was repeated countless times while watching TV. Most of the pieces coming out of the bag were Butterfinger, the least favorite in the bag, but this was not a deterrent.

On Sunday, while enjoying a candy lunch (which had been preceded by candy with coffee and again after coffee), there was hope that the next piece consumed would cause physically illness and a cure for the desire for anything chocolate for a while, and with luck, forever. That’s what happened after the Easter incident of the white chocolate cross when the massive overdose permanently eliminated any attraction to what had briefly been my favorite candy. At 3:00, the dogs and I went to the convenience center to drop off the trash, and around 7:00, while clearing the coffee table of a pile of wrappers, I noticed that the only thing in the clean, new trash can liner bag was candy wrappers. Quite a LOT of candy wrappers. With scientific curiosity I scooped them out to assess the results of four hours of snacking. There were twenty-five candy wrappers in the trash can, which was a little bit appalling. To remove further temptation, the last 6 or 7 pieces were immediately eaten to eliminate the source of my weakness from sight.

Halloween day, in spite of the state of preparedness, I considered not participating in the evening’s candy ritual using the rationale that there aren’t many kids in the neighborhood, and I’m a little bit bothered by the idea that neighbors who don’t even speak to me or return a friendly “hey neighbor” wave would suddenly send their offspring over to bang on my door and ask for candy.

Then there are the dogs. They go nuts every time someone walks on the road past the house, and kick it up to a full blown doggy-hysteria when someone knocks on the door. They jump, bark, pant, and when the door is opened, squeeze between my legs and whatever narrow opening from the door exists to run outside. It would be a chore of ridiculous magnitude keeping them under control for as long as the candy or the visitors lasted, and I don’t think it’s fair to the permanent, four-legged household residents to lock them up in another room in case some kids show up Trick-or-Treating. Prepared or not, I had essentially convinced myself to ignore the whole thing.

During the regular after-work walk with the dogs and even though it was past 6:00, there was nobody out for Trick-or-Treat. As dinner cooked, frequent checks outside for kids in costumes revealed no activity on the street. After weighing the potential chaos with the dogs, the absence of anybody out yet, and my own pure laziness, the final decision was made to abandon Halloween. The scene was set for another showdown with 2.5 pounds of Nestle Assortment.

It's research. Really.

The candy bag was ceremoniously spilled onto the kitchen counter. In the name of scientific research and to test my theory that the contents were weighted in favor of Butterfinger bars, the candy was arranged into neat rows by type, revealing three times as many Butterfinger bars as Nestle or Crunch bars, and 50% more than Baby Ruth bars. Theory confirmed.

The candy sorting was reminiscent of one of my favorite nerd-tastic pastimes during college and again in the late 1980s and early '90s. M&Ms were routinely sorted by color, counted and tallied before consumption. Averages were calculated. The focus at home was half pound bags while work featured vending machine bags from the nearby lunchroom. Once, my boss appeared in my cubicle as I was arranging M&Ms in rows by color from least to greatest number. Not one to be slowed down by anything as trivial as manners (or restroom hand washing, according to some reports), he helped himself to my candy. In a panic I blurted, “What color was that?” He looked at me like I was nuts and maybe I was, but the guy was screwing with scientific research. Not to mention he was kind of rude.

A full 24 hours after the latest ritualistic Halloween candy sorting, the consumption pace was markedly slower than that of the first bag. Four nights later, there were still candy rows on the counter. Perhaps the open display of sugar shame on the counter is helping. Maybe the saturation point has been achieved. I can hope.

This Girl's Nature

While growing up in a New England city, nature wasn't really my thing. I generally didn't like to be outdoors -- breezes would tangle my hair and blow it into my face and mouth and bugs were gross and seemed to be everywhere. It seemed like every time I made an effort (or was forced) to be outside, something unpleasant happened that made me retreat to my bedroom and the comfort of a book. Like the time when I was maybe six, picking up the green flowery things that fell into the driveway from the trees and making little bouquets, and ants crawled up my bare arms. Once, when I was eight or nine years old, my mom sent me outside to bring my bike in from the yard before it rained, and a bird pooped directly onto my head. The summer when I was around 10 and walking barefoot in the back yard, there was the horrific incident of stepping in dog poo which subsequently squished between my toes, causing me to swear off going barefoot everywhere except the beach and quite possibly launching my longstanding love affair with footwear.

Sometimes, the outdoor unpleasantness happened to someone else and was gratefully embraced as a cautionary tale and excuse for me to stay inside. This was the case when my brother and the other neighborhood boys were building a fort in the woods, and he stepped on a nail that went through the sole of his sneaker and into his foot. His trip to the ER and the resultant tetanus shot were enough inspiration for me to avoid the dangers of the outdoors in general and anything construction related in particular. Shoe-clad concrete paved trips to the air-conditioned comfort of the public library were perfect for me. Others could endure the messiness outside while I was inside reading about it. The fifteen minute walk to the library and time spent outside while shopping downtown was as much of the great outdoors as I could handle.

Family tent camping trips were the ultimate outdoor torture. To my inwardly-focused, pre-teen mind, our family vacations spent in a fabric dwelling for a week at a time were specifically designed by my parents for the sole purpose of torturing me. They might have claimed we didn't take vacations in proper buildings such as hotels like normal families because we couldn't afford it, but I thought that was just a flimsy cover story for their sadistic plots. Thankfully, my aversion to the outdoors did not include the beach, which I loved. The coast of southern Maine was the payoff for enduring the horrors of family camping and the central shower and bathroom building. The beach was an entirely different world. Of course, while there, I mostly laid on our woolen US Army blanket and read a book, so even that version of "outdoors" bore a marked similarity to the comfort of laying on my bed at home, reading a book.

A family trip to New York City during April school vacation when I was in high school (and during which we actually stayed in a hotel!) helped launch my version of my 'dream home' -- a glass coated high-rise apartment in an energetic city where everything I didn't yet know I needed was attainable with a quick walk or ride by taxi or subway. When I bothered to think about the future (which was not often as I was usually too busy suffering through the tortures of the current day) it was the opposite of the "American Dream" single family detached house with white picket fence, 2.5 children, a dog, a cat and a four door family vehicle. Maturity, reality, and self-imposed limitations led to a scaled down Plan B version featuring an exposed brick and beam apartment in Boston or its often overlooked stepsister, Worcester, Massachusetts.

Somewhere along the everchanging path of life, even the small-city localized version of my concrete jungle high-rise fantasy was further scaled, altered and eventually reworked, redirected, and expanded to include an appreciation for the outdoors. Instead of screaming like the stereotypical character in a horror movie upon seeing a spider weaving a web, I now pause and enjoy the work, marvel at the intricacy, and if a camera is available, attempt to capture it in pixels.

Some of the credit for the transition goes to X-Man. He had said he dreamed of being a mountain man, which, at the time, I thought was a more poetic expression. Later, it turned out he really did want to live away from civilization in a remote mountain cave. We spent time walking in the woods, where he taught me how to identify the tracks and droppings of various animals (deer poop is tiny!). We looked at trees and smelled nature. We drove to parks after a snowfall to walk in the quiet woods. We drove around Fort Campbell looking for deer and turkey.

Now, from my little brick ranch at the edge of the woods, not too far from the cave, nature is all around me and I don't even have to try to find it. One of the streets where the dogs and I walk reminds me of those early camping days, but with fondness now, as my previous distaste for it has abated. Most days, flocks of turkeys gather in various yards in the neighborhood and roost in the woods behind my house. Doe and their offspring meander down the driveway en route to nearby yards and a red fox makes its own rounds of visitation. An owl surveys the neighborhood from a branch in an ancient tree, sometimes even in daylight hours.

Pileated Woodpeckers!

In a single Sunday morning, from the comfort of a couch deliberately placed to face the living room picture window, I saw an eight-point buck stroll across the front of the house. He made three passes back and forth through the yard, almost like he was parading for me or looking for something -- possibly the doe that are usually in the area. Meanwhile, inside the house, I was racing from window to window, camera in hand, trying to get a photo of his masculine majesty as the dogs ran back and forth, barking like we were under attack. Two hours later, the massive old tree up near the edge of the road was visited by two of the largest Pileated Woodpeckers I've ever seen, and the first two I've ever seen in my own yard. They circled the tree pecking, as I ran through the house trying to find the bigger zoom lens for the Nikon.

This late-blooming nature girl will miss the deer, turkeys, fox, woodpeckers and owl when the house sells and it's time to move. Hopefully, I can at least get some decent photos of my woodsy cohabitants first.

Dating Revelation

It occurred to me recently that I have been in a dating relationship! This revelation is based on the Merriam-Webster definition of “date” (entry 4a at merriam-webster.com): 

"an appointment to meet at a specified time; especially : a social engagement between two persons that often has a romantic character"

I was feeling a bit embarrassed I actually had to look up the definition of "date" but the social landscape has changed so much in recent years that it is all very confusing. I have been asked by men to "hook up," which I first thought (naively) to mean, "Hey, let’s meet for coffee and conversation" and it turned out the gentleman (and I use the term loosely) meant something more like "Hey, even though we don’t know each others' last names, how about a quick romp in the sack?" It took me a bit of time to catch on that when a male wants to "hang out" it is totally different than hanging out with my girlfriends. With the gal pals, it means we gather somewhere to talk, maybe involving food and/or drink. The male version seems to mean the male does everything possible to get the female naked as quickly as possible, including flat-out saying, "So, you wanna get naked?"

I guess the new terrain is why it took me so long to realize my own relationship. Granted, it's somewhat on-again off-again, depending upon the season, but overall, it’s been a pretty regular  Saturday night thing for the past four years or so. The night, which I always look forward to with great anticipation, might include dinner or drinks, but most often it's just enjoyable, dedicated time together. Sometimes it’s a very late night thing and occasionally there are amazing weekend marathons that send me totally over the moon. 

I can’t wait to tell my mother and my sister about my relationship. I think they have been concerned about the fact that I hadn’t even mentioned a guy in my life for almost three years. Now that I’ve realized the truth,  and based on the criteria of "specified time" and the enduring nature of my relationship, I can’t wait to tell them I’m dating a doctor.  And it’s not just A doctor, it’s THE Doctor. The fact that it has gone on for a period of years means basically, I’m in a long-term dating relationship with Doctor Who and it's one of the most stable relationships of my adult life.

Hello, Lydia?

I can go days, and sometimes as long as a full week, without receiving a phone call. This is not a complaint, merely a statement of fact. Another little fact -- I don’t really like talking on a cell phone. I can’t always hear the caller, or they can’t hear me, and much too often my own voice echoes back to me on a delay. I’m also super paranoid about talking on a cell phone, because it seems people (i.e. my coworkers) always talk ten times louder into a cell than into a landline phone. I like texting and email. Those are nice and quiet and I don’t have to worry about not being able to hear the other person, or that I’m broadcasting my personal business all over the small office where I work.

While quite accustomed to my cell’s tone or vibration signifying an incoming text, when a call comes in, sometimes the sound is so foreign to me that I just stare at the phone. It might take a second or two before I snap out of my stupor and begin to process the information contained in my mental decision-making flow chart:

Am I expecting a call back from someone?
Yes = answer the call

If not expecting a call, is a caller ID displaying and am I at work?

If caller ID = Yes = someone who will not cause my normally low blood pressure to go stratospheric, then I’ll answer the call, unless I’m at work and environmental circumstances are unfavorable.

If caller ID = Yes = someone who has previously elevated my blood pressure or caused me to raise my voice in an unprofessional manner,  then the call goes to voice mail to be dealt with later.

If caller ID = No, then the call goes to voice mail to be dealt with later.

It’s a simple system. It’s why caller ID and voice mail were invented, right?

I get (and make) few enough calls that I subscribe to the lowest volume calling plan offered by my carrier, and still use barely 50% of my 450 monthly minutes. (Text messaging is a totally different story, however.) My history of low call volume means that I may forget to check the phone for missed calls and messages and when I finally realize there there are any, it's usually met with surprise.

During one particularly memorable recent three day stretch, my phone acquired a busy new social life. It was abuzz with calls -- all from unknown numbers. It started on a Sunday morning. The first call was from a Kentucky number, and I missed it because I was in another room and the phone was still on vibrate since the previous Friday at work. The message retrieved later from voicemail was something like "This is muffle muffle from muffle landscape calling for Lydia blabbity blah free estimate." Three hours later, a caller from a middle Tennessee number left a similar message, again for Lydia. After the second call I was curious, but not curious enough to call back.

On Monday, the original callers tried again and I answered. I explained that “there is no Lydia at this number” and the callers apologized and we were done. I felt kind of bad, but it’s not my fault they have the wrong number.

On Tuesday, another call came in from such an unfamiliar exchange I went online afterwards to look it up. It was from a Denver area exchange, which probably just means someone relocated and with the whole number portability thing, didn't change their cell number. It was another call for Lydia, from someone else responding to a query about landscaping services. I explained that “there is no Lydia at this number” but that I had received several calls for her in the past few days. Even though it wasn’t his fault, the caller apologized and we were done.

Lydia seems kind of popular and I feel kind of jealous. At 20 days into my billing cycle, there were 16 calls for 47 call minutes used (out of 450 plan minutes). Of the 16 total calls, six were incoming calls for Lydia. Damn. Pretty sad. Worse, my yard really could use some professional help, so I’ll admit, I considered jumping on Lydia's business with the callers. Then I realized if a landscaper came out to give me a "free estimate" I was likely to end up signing up for some costly service and there are no more corners to cut in my budget and definitely no room for an extravagance like landscaping. Tragically, this is exactly why my yard looks like it does.

The first wrong number was chalked up as a misdial. By the second call for the same person for the same pupose, it felt like a pattern, and I wondered if there had been a home and garden show nearby recently. By the time the call came in from the third number, I had formed a theory. It is doubtful Lydia meant to give a wrong number to so many people. I theorize she did the same thing I did when I went away to college, had a new phone number, and applied for several jobs. I wrote down my new phone number wrong -- and gave it to my Mom and then entered it on three or four job applications. When I hadn’t heard from Mom for a few days, I called her, and that’s when I learned of my mistake. As a contact on the applications, she had received a call from at least one potential employer who couldn’t reach me at what I had thought was my phone number. Unfortunately, neither could Mom, but luckily, I was able to reach the store manager who had called, clear up the phone number business and get the job, thus ensuring I had spending money (and a discounted wardrobe!) for the semester.

Lydia may not be so fortunate. She is probably staring at that yard that she wants landscaped, cursing the local service people who don’t return calls -- which is actually a pet peeve of mine, having been ignored by several trades in my five years of home ownership. I have lamented that any businessperson in town who actually returns calls could easily become a millionaire. Of course, it will help a lot if we would give them the correct digits.