What an Asshole!

For the most part, I can navigate life tricking others into thinking I'm perfectly sane and mostly normal.  Unless, of course, the phone somehow becomes involved.  (Or we become close friends, or you read this, or any other number of things, but for the sake of this post, most casual acquaintances never catch on to how much is wrong with me.)  I have serious anxiety when it comes to the phone.  I went without one entirely (home or cell) until Pie was born and George forced one on me.  It's been almost four years and I still haven't adjusted.  I lost my phone a week before Thanksgiving and wasn't eligible for a new one until a week after Christmas.  That would bother most people.  It was the best month and a half of my life!

By "phone anxiety" I don't mean I get a little nervous or worked up, I mean it's not uncommon for the phone to stir up full on panic.  I generally don't make outgoing calls, even if the person wants me to call them.  I have a few friends I'll call on occasion, but it's a pretty sad sight.  It takes me about an hour to go through with it, starting to dial, hanging up, talking to myself.  I don't know why I'm like that--I mean, if they didn't want me to call, I wouldn't have the number, right?  Even calling businesses, where someone is being paid specifically to take my call, is a hideously nerve wracking experience.  George handles that when he can, as it's been known to reduce me to a trembling mess.  The only people I can call without heaps of stress over it are my husband and my parents.  Anyone else?  Forget it.

I also ignore calls unless I know who it is.  If an unknown number pops up, I google it before answering.  If google doesn't point me in the right direction, I just hit ignore and hope they leave a message if it's important.  Fielding all of George's calls this week has been a special brand of torture for me, but being the awesome wife I am, I've handled it like a champ.  I seriously want some sort of prize or a parade or something.

Anyway, I'm getting to the asshole bit.  I'm exhausted, and run down.  I haven't had a minute that wasn't dedicated to someone else's condolences or questions or tears, and between that and a few other things, life has been taking its toll on me.  I finally asked George if it would be completely insensitive for me to go out for a couple hours.  He laughed at me for thinking that was insensitive.  George is not an asshole!

I just went to the IHOP because it's close and they give you the whole pot of coffee and leave you alone.  I'm pretty sure they hate me because I only get coffee and not food, but I'm an excellent tipper, and I don't require a lot of work, so I could be wrong.

In any case, I'm sitting there enjoying my coffee and working on a terrible piece of writing, when my phone rings.  It's been doing that a lot this week, so I don't think much of it, and I answer without looking.

"Is Kendra there?"

This sets off alarm bells.  Most of the calls we've been getting have been for George.  Most of the callers don't even know my name, much less ask for me.  Half of them didn't even know he had a wife.  On top of that, it's a dude.  The only men who ever call me are my husband, father, or brother.  I know all of their voices, and their names come up on my phone.  Whoever this is, it's not one of them.  It doesn't look like a telemarketer number, besides, they usually ask for Mrs. --- or sometimes the more generic Homeowner.  I've never had one ask for me by my first name.  I panic.

"I'm sorry, you must have the wrong number!  Can I take a message?"  I'm not usually that dumb, I'm just panicking, and even before that, my mind was somewhere else entirely.  I don't catch what I just said, but the caller does.

"Oookay," he slips in before I can hang up.  "I have the wrong number, but you want to take a message?"

"Huh?"  It's still not registering.  Maybe I am that dumb.

"You said I have the wrong number, but you want to take a message..."  The sarcasm drips from his voice as he repeats himself.  "Can you explain how that works?"

Now it's making sense, and I'm a little pissed off.  You called me.  I didn't want to talk to you.  If I did want to talk to you, you totally destroyed any of that by being a douche.  "I don't know.  Guess I can't."  I'm starting to get my wits about me, but I'm still upset about this.

"Why would you offer?"

Who the fuck is this guy?  Literally?  "Look, chum.  I'm having a bad week.  If you have to know, I wasn't really paying attention when I answered.  I don't know who you are.  I don't know who you're looking for.  Why don't you do us both a favor, hang up, double check your number, and leave me the hell alone."  Disconnect!

Once I stopped shaking, I paid my bill and went home to google the number.  (Since I'm still without a laptop, I couldn't do it there.)  Unknown cell.  Super!  He didn't call back, nor did he call George's phone as I'd have expected from someone calling to offer him sympathy.  I'm really curious now, but not enough to call back.

In retrospect, I was probably unnecessarily bitchy, but then, I'm already tightly wound, everyone I normally talk to knows about my phone issues, and this guy really was being an asshole.  Something tells me to be glad I missed out on talking to him.

Finally, someone with fewer phone skills than me!

"What's your name?"

"Kendra."

"What?"

"Ken-dra..."

"Oh!  Like on TV?"

What?  What the hell was this guy talking about.  My fingers frantically Googled, and--Oh!--there is indeed some name stealing bitch and apparently she's on TV.

"Um, sure.  But I'm fat and have brown hair."

"You didn't have to tell me that."

"Probably not, but I enjoy shattering the hopes of others.  Besides, why on Earth would you think that's an appropriate question to ask?"

"I don't know.  So are you interested in the magazines or not?"

"I'll be honest here--I have no intention of buying anything from you.  Sorry.  We can still chat, if you'd like."

"Oh."

Click.  I'm terrible on the phone.