Likely my recent telephone woes have been because we still use a landline.  For those of you who don’t know, that’s a phone that can receive and make calls and can have a voicemail function.  It’s connected to your home and is not portable – at least not outside the home – hence “land” line.  And it does nothing else but those three things. 

Old school, I know.  The annoying, scammy, shameful folks who like to prey on us older and dumber (or so they think) folks, love landlines. Right now, I have a top three on my personal list of annoying entities that call my phone several times a day.

Now before I start my rant, let me say, that yes, we have caller ID.  And I could just not answer.  Or I could just hang up (mom would spin in her grave at this display of poor manners). Or I could block the numbers (which sometimes works, but usually they just use another stolen caller ID). But at my house, any number of three of us might be taking a nap. This could be happening morning, afternoon or evening and these calls are incredible.  They are relentless.  And the people are definitely on my poop list.

The first one is from the “Medicare unit.”  The caller ID does’t say that and when pressed on this obvious misrepresentation, the person will admit they are the “medicare unit of some health care agency.”  Seriously?  I waste several minutes of my life explaining to Kevin or Joe, whose primary language is consistently something other than American English, that I don’t appreciate these calls and to remove me, please from their lists.  They call back – often the same day – from another number.

Sigh.

Second on my annoying list are the warranty people…who asked them anyway?  It’s been 8 years …EIGHT YEARS…since we purchased our car. If we wanted another or extended warranty, I’d likely have (a) called them, (b) notified my dealer, or (c) returned any of their 300 mail notifications.  Get a clue people.  How about this?  When we bought our truck 7years ago, we paid for a LIFETIME warranty to be included in the price.  Yet, these warranty ghouls still call us every month or so.

Sigh again.  At least these people only call once a month.

Last week,  I tracked at least 8 calls every day from “medicare unit,” “warranty division,” or my new favorite “the police alliance league.”  This so-called charity is so sketchy that they don’t have a caller id that is official (it always has spam risk or some random cell number), they don’t appear on charity navigator (HUGE issue) and they are likely NOT a 501(3)(c) but merely a “non-profit.”  They tell me that they “use donations to support law makers who support law enforcement.”

Every call, I ask the same thing…which lawmakers are those?  I get either hung up on, the spiel repeated, or some shaming comment like “don’t you support our police?”  Well yes, I do.  Emphatically.  However, I have seen some absolutely abhorrent behavior from our federal and state “lawmakers” who are NOT supporting police.  They are not acknowledging the destructive and hateful behavior on January 6 and are blaming others than those who actually participated in that day of domestic terrorism.  I watched the atrocities live on television as they happened, with my heart in my throat and now I’m watching the “law makers” dance around and act like it was an “altercation” and a “misunderstanding.” So I believe “WHICH LAWMAKERS ARE YOU GIVING MY MONEY TO?” is a valid question.  Since I’m not getting an answer, that particular organization’s professional callers will continue to get my wrath.  You’d think they’d stop calling.  But they don’t.

Final sigh.

Why don’t these people get jobs that actually help others?  Drive down any street and you’ll see “now hiring” signs.  For heaven’s sake, please get these people off my phone line and into a job where someone might actually benefit.  Pour concrete, bake bread, deliver pizza.  Do something besides harass me (and wake me from a lovely nap).

Rant over.

When I was a kid and my mom did something clutzy or silly, she’d remark to herself “What a dumb cluck I am.”  The phrase has stuck with me through the decades and I have oft-remarked when other people do something “dumb clucky.” For example, when a contestant on a game show, in response to “name a city in Ohio,” responded “Detroit.” I called him a dumb cluck.

               Not that he heard me, but I do believe whatever karma you put out in the world, often comes back to you.  So, lately I’ve pulled a lot of ridiculous stunts and have called myself a “dumb cluck” many times.

               Today for example, I really pulled a good one.  I have an antique medicine chest that I purchased many years ago.  I used it to hold a number of items over the years, but in the past two years or so, it has just sat in our junk room, empty.  So I took it out to the garage, intending to paint it and donate it to the local gift shop that supports our non-profit Hospice.  I thought it would make a pretty autumn display holder for the front window.

               I carefully set the chest on top of a three-drawer plastic stand.  It was stable enough and would make it easy to paint.  Then, I forgot all about it for a week.

               This morning I went into our local butcher and bought several items for the weekend.  I returned home and got out of the car, swinging my big purse and the large bags of wrapped meats out of the door. One of these two items swiped the side of the medicine chest, toppling both it and the three-drawer chest holding it. They crashed to the concrete floor and the glass door of the chest broke into a hundred pieces.

               Dumb cluck move.

               Then I made lunch. I had a new recipe for pigs-in-a-blanket that was low-carb.  I had purchased low carb tortilla shells and rolled them around cheese and hot dogs.  They were to bake in the oven, so I pulled out some parchment paper and laid it on the baking sheet, then carefully placed the piggies on the tray and popped them in the oven.

               Lunch time arrived and I took them out of the oven. They looked great!  The cheese was melted and the tortillas were browned and crispy.  They were also stuck to the press-and-seal I had used instead of parchment paper.  We had to eat the hot dogs and cheese unwrapped from the tortillas – unless we wanted a plastic film in our tummies.

               Dumb cluck indeed.

               As I write this, I noticed that I had not put away the big inflatable beach ball yesterday. It was out on our patio instead of the little “corral” area.  I noticed this because it blew across our yard.  So out the back door I went, chasing this ball into the front yard, out into the street and into the intersection in front of our house. 

               Thankfully, it’s not tremendously busy at this time of day, but I had to have looked ridiculous chasing the quickly moving beach ball around.  By the way, big beach balls don’t have any hooks or tags by which you can pick them up easily.  So several times, it slipped from my grasp and rolled away. Oh, for a video with which to win ten thousand dollars.

               I had to settle for the title of dumb cluck queen of the day.

Before I tell my latest story, I have to preface it with some information.  My husband has been engaging in a rather rigorous exercise regime for about four years.  The result is that he’s in the best shape of his life, his biceps are one of the wonders of my world, and he’s quite strong.  Just how strong, I didn’t fully realize until last week.

               Last week, we went out for a day trip to look for, and possibly purchase, an antique sofa or settee.  We found, instead, two antique chairs and a large area rug.  The rug just took my breath away, as it is about 15 x 20, wool, Persian, and in all the right colors for our newly-painted upstairs landing room.  This area will be, someday, a reading nook and quiet space for me.

               We brought the goods home and, since the weather forecast called for rain that evening, decided to bring our new items into the house.  My husband pulled the truck up next to our front steps, which are fairly wide and long.  There are about seven of them leading into the front door and hall.  We easily carted the chairs into the house and placed them in the living room.

               The plan was to carry the large, cumbersome roll of rug up into the front hall and put it down.  My hubby said he’d get a friend to help him take it to the second floor.

               So, we maneuvered the rug off the back of the truck and Matt took the roll – about midway up the roll – under his right arm and tucked it onto his hip. I gamely grabbed the back end and we trudged up the front steps and into the doorway.

               As my feet hit the next to the last step, it occurred to me that the rug was not nearly as heavy as I had thought.  We were going at a pretty good clip, so I called out, sweetly, “Honey, let’s just keep going.”

               [Now, when Matt tells this story, he recalls it somewhat differently.  He says that I adopted the vocal tone, pitch and volume of a Marine drill sergeant and bellowed out, “Just keep going!”]

               Whichever account is accurate, through the hall and to the staircase, we went, rug in tow.

               At the top of this staircase – which is eleven steps – there is a small landing, after which there are four more stairs to the left.  On this small landing is a precious artifact (given to me years ago by my amazing husband) called a “Santos.” This wooden figure stands about three feet tall and is perfectly tucked into the corner of the landing at which the stairs turn.

               As my foot hit the second step, I lost my grip on the rug.  This is when I realized that (a) I hadn’t been “carrying” any of the weight at all and in fact, may have been adding to it, and (b) Matt was carrying this enormous roll of rug under one arm and moving up the stairs.

               I again, sweetly and a bit nervously, called out, “Honey, watch out for the Santos.” He made the turn successfully with me dancing up the stairs behind him, looking around him to check the Santos. [His recollection of this part of the adventure differs from mine as well.  According to him, I screeched rather like an enraged falcon, “Watch out for the Santos!” as he was trying to navigate the turn.]

               He arrived at the top of the stairs without incident and the rug is absolutely stunning.  I was so thrilled and notice that I am giving him full credit for getting it up there! 

               As I thought about it, it occurred to me that “just keep going” is a good mantra for life in general. Whether you’re facing a difficult task, a tough decision, or just some tedious chore, it’s always good to just plow through.  Now, whether you tell yourself to keep going in dulcet tones, or like an owl in heat – that’s up to you.

               Most families have stories about things that have happened that are funny, or sad, or strange and ended up with a happy ending anyway.  In my family, my parents’ indecision is pretty legendary. Maybe indecision isn’t the right word.  A better description of it is actually their inability to compromise.  Both of them were pretty stubborn. I have proof.

               My evidence starts with my name.  Back in those days (dinosaurs had been extinct for only a decade or two), the mother couldn’t leave the hospital until the baby had a name.  I don’t know if that’s still true, but what I do know is that the mother and baby are discharged from a hospital within hours, so the baby better have a name pretty quickly.

               I was born on July 31 and my parents were still arguing about my name on August 18.  That’s when the hospital told them enough was enough.  A name had to be chosen and chosen that day.  Nineteen days in the hospital was sufficient.

               My mom wanted to name me (shudder) Star Lynn.  Say that quickly and I’d be named after a dirty bird.  My dad favored a mom-junior, which meant I’d be named Adelene Josephine.  (Please.) When she would hear none of that, he countered with “Helen Ellen.” Given that my surname was “Llewellyn,” I would have been saddled with a rhyming moniker which initials spelled, in my dad’s vernacular, “H – E – double toothpicks.”  How fun.

               The nurse faithfully brought me to them each day, saying “here’s your little Susie Q.” So after nineteen days of this and an administrative ultimatum, my father went to the business office and filled out my birth certificate, naming me “Sue.” But everyone in my family called me “Susie.”

               Years passed, and the power struggle between my parents didn’t dissipate.  When I was in high school, my parents informed me that they would pay for my college education but I would have to major in the subject they selected.  Fortunately for me, they couldn’t agree.  My mom thought that, since I could type really fast, I should major in secretarial science.  My dad thought that since I had an aptitude for math, I should study engineering.  I told them both that I was suited for neither.  I could also wash dishes, but I hadn’t planned on majoring in dishwashing.

               They were not deterred by my logic.  They continued to argue their positions.  Meanwhile, I got two jobs and put myself through college, getting a degree in speech and language therapy.  By my senior year, they had quit arguing and honestly, I think both of them were surprised that I hadn’t selected the major each of them wanted.

               They didn’t take me to church while I was growing up.  From all accounts, my brothers were baptized and attended a local Methodist church with my mom for ten years. After I was born, my dad – for reasons that I was never told – refused to attend a baptism ceremony for me.  So, I wasn’t baptized and didn’t go to church. 

               Well, except for Christmas and Easter, when Dad suited up and we all attended.  Fortunately, I did frequently attend church with my girlfriend and her family, so I did get some religious exposure.

               It also allowed me to explore many different churches as an adult and I had myself baptized when I was 27 years old.  I’ve been attending church ever since, and realized that their “disagreement” permitted me to make my own informed choice.

               Parental indecision and arguing can cause children some angst, I know.  In my case, I think it ended up giving me options I might not have had.  Except my name.  I guess at this point, I’m just stuck with “Sue.”

               Well, there are worse things.