I Love Irony. But Cooooome Ooooon!

You call the local pizzeria. Your phone number shows on their Caller ID, and they ask if you want "The Usual." (Large veggie, hold the onions, double eggplant.) Affirmative, it arrives at your front door in 20 minutes.

Ditto, the Great Wall of China. Tofu with broccoli. And free veggie eggrolls.

You call the Automated Customer Service Number on the back of your credit card to get your balance. Which you will pay off in full, because you just had a GREAT yard sale. It recognizes your number, asks for the corresponding Zip Code, and gives you the info you seek.

The pharmacy recognizes your number, and asks you which of your prescriptions you would like to refill (and they offer to call your doc for expired 'scrips, to boot.)

The county tax info line knows exactly who you are based on your phone number. They REALLY want your money, and plug you into their "Pay Your Tax Bill On-Line" page immediately.

Then, you call the Local Phone Company. To report "buzzing" on your line. You are connected to a robot, who asks you to input your phone number. The phone number you have with the FREAKING PHONE COMPANY. And, then, the robot informs you, you MIGHT (will) have to input the number again down the line, "In order to provide outstanding Customer Service."

You re-enter your number, after selecting the option of "noise on the line."

The "noise on the line" department is closed, but they will respond the next business day.

You are asked to input the number where you can be reached. Hello, by the Phone Company. Who knows full well where you can be reached. Forget that they also provide your cell service, and your Internet.

Maybe these folks could learn something by ordering takeout.

The Message in the Music

It was shaping up, according to the clawed and chewed DayRunner, to be a busy day for Nancy and the Kitties. I planned to take my mother-in-law for Post Mother's Day Pizza at "that new place where you get two slices and a drink all for one price. And the lady from church said the slices are big and very filling." Before I headed off in the direction of pizza, however; I had to wrap, pack and post silver tornado-shaped earrings to a newly-minted Meteorologist in California. And after pizza, I planned to finish a "belly chain," which I understand to be some kind of necklace you wear around your waist, and it might or might not attach somehow to a pierced navel. So a little research (other than asking the younger of my mostly older friends whether they had heard of these things, which quickly morphed into a discussion of tattoos, which really didn't help me at all) was in order. I also ABSOLUTELY HAD to go to the ATM, which had one of those armored trucks parked in front of it the last three times I buzzed it. (I finally decided the driver parked there because there is a canopy over the ATM and he had enough shade for a good nap. Or else someone shot him dead, took all the money and no one had noticed because we were all driving by making up stories about the driver taking a nap.) And then, off to teach a dance class, which really wasn't that crucial because if I didn't show up the ladies would just swap recipes and talk trash about those of us who weren't there, and maybe pour the water from their now-unnecessary water bottles on the flowers we planted in front of our building and then go home for dinner.

The Kitties had planned to claw and chew the DayRunner a little more, and then make zillions of little corrugated cardboard crumbs out of their Costly Cosmic Catnip Corrugated Cardboard Couch Scratcher, and then hiss and spit about who got to sit on top of the Catnip Corrugated Couch; and to bring downstairs all the Glitter Rats that I had heaved upstairs for the 4 millionth time, because the dogs are confined to the downstairs and they eat Glitter Rats and then make Glitter Poop.

So there was really no time for a flat tire.

Therefore, I had a flat tire.

Ha! I am a Flat Tire Magnet. After flat tires caused by the common nail, the uncommon nail, heat bubbles, errant forks, a screwdriver, acts of God, and vicious slashing by a copy editor who took exception to my disagreement with his use of the words "that" vs "which", I have learned that I need Road Hazard Protection. "My Guys" fix my tires often, and often for free. I do not fear the Flat Tire. But I still had all this stuff to do. So I borrowed my mother's car.

It is a spankin' new, bells-and-whistles minivan; perfect because I could use it to carry home a table and my trampoline which I had forgotten that I took to dance class. (Yes, trampoline. It is a rather involved story, best left to the imagination.) And the minivan has Satellite Radio. Which is code for "Only-Works-If-No-Trees-Are-Blocking-Transmission." The signal comes and goes, but the people who pay for it are so excited about the 126 channels, they are willing to live with sound that reminds me of the back of a Chevy at a Drive-In Theater in 1968.

I have no idea how to change the Satellite Radio to the "I'm Post Fifty But I Think I'm Still A Bit Edgy and Cool" channel, so I leave it on my mother's "Movin' EZ" channel, which I might call "Barely Movin' ZZZZZZZZ" channel. At first I listen in shock, with the windows up; because I know every word and I'm singing. And someone might HEAR ME SINGING. And I don't know why I am singing "Me and You and a Dog Named Boo"? "It's Another Tequila Sunrise"????? "Someone Left the Cake Out In the Rain?" Come on. Who would bake a cake and leave it outside unless they had Alzheimer's? Then again, I left rice in the rice cooker overnight one time. "There's Got to be a Morning After" from the Poseidon Adventure. The Freaking Poseidon Adventure!!!!!!

"Feelings." "Afternoon Delight."

There is a message in this music, and our PARENTS are listening. They could be driving our children around, listening to this...this...there are no words for the horror. And SINGING ALONG.

Somebody needs to speak with our parents about the Message In The Music.

And learn from my experience. Don't borrow your mother's minivan unless you can handle her "Movin' EZ."