DPChallenge

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The “Do Not Call” Registry Shutdown

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So, this government shutdown? Yeah. There are many ways this sucks, but let’s get to another “little” one that I have found this week.

Have you noticed you have been getting more and more calls from telemarketers lately?

Well I have.

I have a whole post going up in a couple of weeks dealing with one of these calls (don’t worry, it’s funny).

I just received my fifth one of the day, today. I had all ready heard about a time share, solar power, carpet cleaning and refinancing. So, I thought to myself, What the heck is going on?

Am I not on the “do not call list” anymore?

This was prompted when yet another telemarketer called me to talk to me about solar power.

This is how the conversation went:

“Hello.”

“Hi, Mrs. So and So, this is Dan from Generic-Something-With-Sun-In-Its-Name Solar Power. How are you doing today?”

“Good.” I breathed. Why is this happening to me today? I secretly thought.

“Ma’am, I want to talk to you about something-something program guaranteed to save you money.”

I replied, “I’m sorry. I’m not interested. Could you please take me off of your calling list.”

“Sure. Can I ask why?”

“I am just not interested. Please take my name off of your calling list.”

“But, ma’am, this solar program could save you money.”

I said, “This is the third time I am asking you to remove my name from your calling list. I do not have anything more to say.”

He snarked, “Why? Am I bothering you?”

To which I cringed. But I am nothing if not honest. So, I replied, “Well, actually, yes you are.”

He took a deep breath and before he hung up loudly on me, he yelled, “FINE. IF SAVING MONEY BOTHERS YOU…”

This is when I decided to check the “Do not call registry.”

Because although these types of calls are torture fun, it would be rather nice to not dread answering the phone.

I went to the do-not-call website. And yes, you can guess where this is going… IT’S SHUTDOWN!

Now the government shutdown is invading my bedroom. I am feeling its effects through the irritated strangers breathing in my ear.

My phone has been taken hostage. When is this going to end?

I am beginning to acquire a twitch with each ring of the phone…

Maybe I do need that timeshare.

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This was written in response to the Daily Post’s Weekly Writing Challenge: Living History.

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Operation Spider Rescue

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“I just about had a heart attack!”

My husband came running into the room panting. He began rummaging around our dresser. Papers were being tossed about. He was frantic.

“What happened?” I was not worried. This pretty much happens every time my husband goes outside. He is quite the adventurer.

I could guess it would have something to do with spiders. It has been our obsession for the last three weeks. We have had an unfortunate infestation of brown widows in our backyard. They have made every crevice under every piece of our furniture their luxurious breeding ground.

My husband had gone outside to try to remove more webs. The exterminator was coming to spray for the third time (this month) everything down with a delightful mix of poison which seems to do nothing except make the ground wet for five minutes.

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“There is the biggest green spider on the fence! I thought it was a praying mantis. So, I went to pick it up. But right when I almost touched it, I realized it was a spider!”

He paused here to catch his breath. Then he exclaimed excitedly, “I’ve got to get a picture of it!”

He grabbed the camera from his bedside (don’t ask) and dashed outside. Not one to miss seeing a creature in my yard (or a funny story in case it jumped on him), I followed.

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It was a magnificent spider. One of its legs was missing. I could only hope this was a war wound from a victorious battle it had had with a brown widow.

After my husband finished taking pictures, I looked at him.

“The exterminator is coming!” I proclaimed in my best voice of panic. To which I seem silly. I guess I am a hypocrite killing one species and wanting to protect another. But this green spider couldn’t land my family in the hospital.

We looked at the beautiful spider and pondered our next move.

“Well, you’re just gonna have to move it.” I said.

My husband did not seem pleased. But he realized it was what he had to do. That is his role in this household, designated spider mover. He has had plenty of practice with the daddy long legs we keep all over the house. My role is to scream, wring my hands, and give unhelpful advice.

I am available for hire.

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My husband finished taking his pictures and delicately moved the spider (which we later looked up and realized was a Green Lynx Spider) to the trees behind our house.

“With his hands?” You ask.

Oh no. That would be taking this little grand sad adventure too far. On a stick. The spider was moved on a stick.

A very long stick.

We spent the entire day waiting for the exterminator to arrive so we could ask him not to spray the trees and watch to make sure this was actually carried out. Yes, we wasted spent the entire day protecting this one spider.

Again, available for hire.

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My husband just loves nature.

As for me, I am sitting here watching the wet ground where the exterminator has just sprayed. It is drying.

I swear I can hear a web being made.

My husband is very excited.

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* I shared this on The Daily Post’s Weekly Writing Challenge: Dialogue.

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Little Gabby

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The sun was relentless as it peered down on little Gabby. She clutched the hot metal of the small merry-go-round. It burned into her tiny hands. The metal was not yet hot enough to be painful. It was the good kind of burn. That pleasant sensation that starts at the exposed part of the body and moves through you. The way the sun feels on your face at the beach. She knew she would have bumps from the metal imprinted on her palms as soon as she released her grip. She looked forward to the way her hands would feel when she clutched the handlebars of her bike on the way home. The tingling of the skin reforming and trying to recreate itself onto a new object.

She sighed heavily as she waited impatiently for her brother, Peter, to come out of the market. On Mondays and Fridays, her mother would ask her children to stop at the market on their way home from school. They were told to bring her home a bottle of milk. Peter used to do it alone. Now Gabby accompanies him.

The door opened. Gabby looked up expectantly, but it was not Peter. Mr. Deanus waved at her. In his wrinkled hands he carried an apple. He stopped every day at the market to pick up a different piece of fruit. A few years ago, Gabby remembered, he used to buy two. Now, he bought only one. For some reason, this made Gabby sad. She turned her attention to an ant that had begun crawling up her arm.

“Hey!”

Gabby looked up. Peter was striding out of the store. He looked angry. Peter always looked angry lately. He resented these stops at the market. She knew he wished to get home and see Lily next door. Peter had just turned eleven. She hoped she did not scowl as much when she turned his age.

“Gabrielle, do you really need to ride that thing again?” Peter asked crossly.

Peter was the only person in her family who always called her by her full name. Her mother told her it was because Peter would stumble over the word when he was younger. “Gabieeelle,” he would call her. He would skip over the “r,” and lengthen the “e.” That was a long time ago.

Gabby turned her head up defiantly. Two years ago, Peter would have insisted on claiming his tiger. She climbed onto the merry-go-round. She would alternate the animals on each day that she came, so they would all receive a turn. This time, she chose the giraffe. She stroked its long neck. The ant was still on her arm. It tickled. “Do you want to ride with me?” She whispered to it.

Gabby turned to Peter and ignored his earlier question. Instead she called, “I’m ready!”

To the ant, she softly sang, “Hang on.”

Peter reluctantly put the quarter into the machine. The carousel began to turn. Gabby grasped the giraffe’s neck and threw her own head back. Now everything appeared upside down. She loved to view the world this way. The parking structure next door now had cars floating in the air. Peter’s frown turned into a smile. Round and round she went. Her long braid almost touched the yellow floor of the ride. Peter became blurry with each pivot the animals made. She imagined that she would spin so fast, she would fly into the sky. The thought thrilled her. She gripped the giraffe’s neck tighter.

Too soon it was over.

She lifted her head back up and delighted in the dizziness that overtook her. After the world came together again, Gabby carefully stepped on each colorful star as she bounded off the ride. She patted the white bunny on her way. “Next time,” she hummed into his large, hard ears.

Peter was waiting with her bike ready. “Just a sec,” she told Peter. He got on his bike. He pretended he was leaving. She knew he wouldn’t. At dinner each night, he still ruffles her hair. He fills her glass with the milk they had gotten together. And he always smiles when she bangs her belly like a drum and bellows like a gorilla at their dog.

He would wait for her.

She crouched down under the chipped yellow paint of the merry-go-round. She laid her new friend on the ground in the shade. “You have a good day now, okay?”

She pressed her head closer to the pavement to hear if he answered. In her mind, she thought she heard a small happy laugh come from the ant. Gabby climbed to her feet. She dusted her jeans off.

“Let’s go,” she called to Peter.

This time he smiled. “It’s about time!”

They climbed onto their bikes and began the short ride home. Behind them the carousel creaked in the heat. In three short days, she would visit it again.

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* This story was written in response to the Daily Post’s Weekly Writing Challenge. The photo is courtesy of Michelle Weber. Thank you for reading!

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The Girl Who Almost Burned Down Her School

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Ninth grade was a tough year. Is it ever not? I believe I was the only freshman in the history of teenage girls, to have my father walk me to my class on the first day of school. It was a tradition. I was not going to break it. I think my father was more embarrassed than I was.

Other memories from that year: A boy, who I still remember the name of, being harassed for popping a pimple onto the mirror in the boys’ locker room. Our “real” school was still being built. We were all in trailers. There was no senior class. Let me take that back. There was no “class.” We could hear the construction crew working through our courses. It was a fantastic educational environment. Highly recommended. The boys’ and girls’ locker rooms were simple trailers with a lone mirror in each. It was the size of a small medicine cabinet. It was distorted and wavy. A huge splurge for the school.

I imagine poor Chris (that is what I shall call him) popping his pimple onto that lonely mirror. Someone seeing. An eruption. The finger pointing. Tough break. It followed him through the remainder of high school.

I had three body suits that year. Do you remember those? They were shirts that snapped at the crotch like baby clothes. Yep. And women wore these contraptions. Willingly. The opposite of a chastity belt. A fantastic trend. Girls will know what I mean here. Boys will be confused and wonder if I meant they really were the modern day chastity belt. Nope. I meant what I said. You figure it out.

I would alternate wearing them. I am a sadist.

Which brings me to my last memory: the girl who almost burned down the school.

Otherwise known, as me.

We lived thirty miles from school. My mother would drop me off in the front before making her way to work. Of course, being the true teenager that I was, I was neither grateful nor appreciative of this. In the classic teenage brain, this was her duty. What else was she going to do?

I remember I was wearing my favorite body suit. It was the color of pepto bismol and had a plaid pattern. It was the perfect outfit for mayhem.

My mother pulls up to the school in her white Ford Taurus. And just as I am about to get out of the car, smoke begins to pour from underneath the hood.

The car stalls.

B-o-o-r-r-r-ing.

My mother jumps out. Flames are starting to peek out from their hiding place in the engine.

“Get out!” My mother screamed at me. “Help me push this.”

In hindsight, I have no idea why she thought we needed to push it.

But it made no matter. I was not getting out of that flaming car. I mean, how embarrassing. So I sat there, in my bodysuit, with smoke billowing its way towards the windows.

It was a grand entrance.

“GET OUT!”

My mother was determined. She was pushing that car.

I slowly crawled out of the car. Big exaggerated efforts. This was such an inconvenience.

“PUSH THE CAR!”

I grab my side of the car. My mom grabs her side. And we push the car.

Ten feet.

Into a telephone pole.

Which immediately catches on fire.

Which is twenty feet away from a classroom trailer.

Which happens to be my first class.

So, we stand there and watch our masterpiece. Our beautiful creation. Our flaming symbol of panic. It was the poster child for what not to do if your car erupts into flames.

We were so proud.

My mother, being the pyromaniac that she was, urged me to go to class, as she stood and bathed in the embarrassing inferno.

I slunk into the classroom.

Nobody noticed. I was the only one sitting in a chair. The rest of the class, including the teacher, was positioned in front of the sad trailer window. The room was froth with excitement.

“Oh my gosh! That car is on fire.”

“Look at that pinto burning.” This one stung. I still remember it. My cheeks were red. And not just from the heat of almost committing a felony.

“It’s going to burn down the school!” This was met with cheers.

“Whose car is that?”

I kept wriggling in my seat. And not just from the bodysuit. I was one of three ninth graders in a geometry class full of tenth graders. This was way before this was a common practice in California. I had always been really proud to have my courses with the upperclassmen. But now, it was backfiring (ha, a pun) on me.

I looked at the chalkboard. I don’t know about you, but I was ready for some learning. Let’s get educated! I ignored the crowd in my peripheral vision.

Any day now. Come on, teacher! I sat up straighter. Let’s do some proofs!

The teacher finally noticed the freak. The one student staring blankly ahead. Sitting straight in her seat. Nose in the air. Chin proudly up. Pencil at the ready (better hide this from my mother. Good kindling). Her pepto bismol shirt covered in grey soot.

“Are you okay?”

Huh? Me. Am I okay? Um, I’m just trying to get an education here. Why would this be abnormal?

I blinked. My voice was shaky. I meant to say those words, but instead, “That’s my car,” creaked out of my mouth, unwillingly, like a teenager getting out of a car.

“THAT’S YOUR CAR?!”

The teacher shouted. I immediately wished a lifetime of bodysuits upon her.

The class turned around. One giant eye in a giant head on a pack of teenagers.

I tried to act nonchalant. Yea, so. What of it? I simply nodded.

“Well, what are you doing in this classroom?” Asked the first teacher ever.

I simply stared at her. It’s the teenage super power.

“Get out of here. Go help your mom.”

I stood up. Shoulders slumped. Excited whispering behind me.

“Who is that girl?” Ouch.

“Do you think the fire is going to spread to the school?”

“Why did they push it into the telephone pole?”

I left the classroom. The giant eye burning into my back, granted the power from the flames out the window.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur. I remember standing there and watching the firemen put the fire out. My mother picking out a new car. A maroon Camry. So reliable it would last through my sister’s college years.

The next day, we went back to the scene of the crime. The telephone pole was black. This time my mother did not need to tell me to get out of the car. I jumped out.

I made my way to the classroom. I could see our creation out of the window.

I heard a whisper.

“Hey, that’s the girl who almost burned down the school.”

I gave them a look. My superpower turned full force. Quiet.

Another whisper.

“That was so cool.”

I sat there stunned. An inappropriate smile creeped its way onto my face.

Upperclassmen started talking to me after that. I wasn’t popular. But I wasn’t not. I had gained a certain notoriety. I was a badass.

“The girl who almost burned down the school.”

Hey, I’ll take it. It could be worse.

Poor Chris.

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* This story was written in response to the Weekly Writing Challenge on the Daily Post. It is sadly a true story. Told from the point of view of my not-nearly-as-nice-as-I-am-now teenage self.

And mom, I’m sorry. I love you!

* Want to continue the fun? See some of my similar stories:
“Happy Birthday, Honey”

Hulk Hands

Babysitting Woes

My Crazy Obsession