Stop Calling! Stop Calling! I Don't Want to Talk Anymore!

The phone call has jarred me from a place of peace and has given me the Need Caffeine Antsies. I painfully extricate my somehow still fatigued person from the sheets and schlepp to the kitchen to get the coffee brewing. I hold my enormous mug under the basket to capture the first few gloriously strong ounces that will leave my eyeballs spinning. It's my only real vice. I don't salt my food. I don't smoke. And drinking is not a vice. It is a survival tool. Please don't argue with me.

After the first few scalding sips my thoughts turn to the run at the state park. Still holding my vase of coffee, I walk to the back door of the house to see if the weather is cooperative enough to venture out in. I kick off my slipper and stick my toe-mometer out the crack of the door. Freezing. No way is the state park getting a visit from me.

I decide to take to the treadmill to offload a little of the Mom-induced stress. I bring my cell, my house phone and a quart of water. I'm going to be a while. Mom has really put a whammy on me.

I rev up the iPod, jam in the earbuds and crank up the belt on the treadmill. I am off to a great start and a very satisfying sweat.

Over the din of the Bangles, I sense a nagging, non-musical buzz. My home phone.

Let it go to voicemail. It is probably Mom confirming that she reached Joe - she can leave the sizes on the machine. I don't have anything to write them down with now anyway.

Another buzz. My cell. My new cell. It is an unfamiliar jingle. Mom again. I let it go. I am huffing like a 3 pack a day smoker.

My cell again. Joe. Good grief. I let that go too. I am flying and really don't see the value in stopping. If he needs to leave the sizes on the voice mail he can. If he has a question about my kids' sizes, he can leave that too.

My house phone jingle jangle jingles. Joe again. Umm hello, if I can't answer one phone what makes you think I am in a position to answer the other?

My cell. Mother again.

My cell again. Joe.

WTF?

My house phone blares another time and I am incensed. It is Joe. I hop off the tread without turning off the motor and, to be truthful, YELL into the receiver, "WHAT, JOE! WHAT IS THE EMERGENCY? I AM ON THE TREADMILL!!!!!! WHAT IS WITH ALL THE CALLS!"

Completely oblivious to the yelling and the tone and the obvious rage, he says, "Heyhowyadoin?"
I continue to yell. "I'M ON THE TREADMILL, JOE. I'LL HAVE TO GET THE SIZES FROM YOU ANOTHER WAY!"

"OK, call me back," he says cheerfully.

Xanax for breakfast, Joe?

Six barely scraping the surface miles of tension-relieving running, I wobble off the treadmill and guzzle what remains of my quart of water.

Six out of seven calls went unanswered. I am hopeful that someone left sizes in one of their messages. I hold my phone an inch or so from my sweaty, sea-hag inspired hair and listen - hang up upon hang up. And then finally, a message containing some guesses about sizes from my mother.

I know what Joe's MO was. He did not want to leave a message. He wants to talk to me. Engage me in conversation. A conversation that leads to "Hey, what's up for Christmas?"

I would sooner gouge my own eyes out with a melon baller than entertain that conversation. I scrawl down my mother's suggestions, and hop into the shower to begin to prepare for a day of shopping.