Send Washington my phone records. You won’t find anything of interest. Why? Because, as many of you know, I hate talking on the phone. I loathe it. I always have.

Now why is that? I’m a textbook extrovert; I draw much of my energy from others. I’m a performer who gets a thrill (and probably the feeling of acceptance on account of some miles-deep, insecure emotional need for approval) out of all things theater. You’d think I’d be a magpie on the phone…but I’m not.

I’d say fully 85 percent of my phone usage comes from texting. The next ten percent is web/email, which leaves a measly five percent for actual talking. I like it that way.

Now of course, there are exceptions. I don’t hate talking on the phone all the time. Just, you know…95 percent of the time. I can think of two reasons, off the top of my pointy head:

1. The “overlap” issue. Invariably, you get two people on the phone who are trying to be polite, but end up talking over each other, and who then stop talking at the very same moment so the other person can talk. AWKWARD. Then you say, “Oh, sorry, go ahead” — at the same time. I hate that. Face-to-face communication is so much easier, and failing that — text. No interruptions or awkward lags in the conversation.
2. Conversation control. Now this doesn’t happen with my close fiends and family, but rather with people I either don’t know or just know marginally. I like to be in control of my time, but I don’t want to be rude and say, “Welp, sorry, gotta go — bye!” or “You called at sort of a bad time.”

Now I know there are people (because I know them personally) who much prefer talking on the phone, and that’s fine. I’m not particularly thrilled with those who insist that talking on the phone is somehow superior in all ways to communicating in any other manner, but hey, whatever floats the boat. They can just knock themselves out.

But they’ll get my voicemail.

Cripes, how did I get so off-topic? My original point was that I have nothing to hide, so the NSA can do their worst. Heck, let ’em pay my Verizon bill while they’re snooping around at my texts about what time someone is leaving, or when do you want me to get the boys, or could you please pick up some milk on your way home, or how are you feeling today?

So many random thoughts for a rainy Thursday morning. And what have we here? It’s BoomR’s birthday today. Happy happy to you, amigo!

It’s the final countdowwwwwwwwn. That was a good song. Ah, memories of drum machine beats and mall hair…

A week from tomorrow, we begin what could be our final Odyssey, since the Thriller is now done with seminary (yay!) and we likely won’t be able to take such large chunks of time to break away from here on out. (We’ll actually save money for home improvement chores that have laid abandoned for the last four years as well, heh.)

Our weekend and Monday were spent in various stages of work and play. It’s very much like me to put off the initial packing ceremonies until the last 24 hours before leaving, but I need to be more disciplined this year. Since we’ll be in Mississippi, Texas and Oklahoma, followed by Montana, Idaho and Washington, we’ll need to dress for two different seasons — maybe three. I’m devoting an entire suitcase to our sweats, sweatshirts and jeans.

This is where I ask my fellow travelers how they make the best use of space. My main peeve is schlepping the entire universe into the hotel every night. How to consolidate? How to predict? It’s not a huge issue in the world scheme of things, but I do wonder how best to streamline. I’m not good at that at all. I struggle with compartmentalization, as many of you know.

But I have what — five or so days? — to procrastinate on that. Today is filled up with other stuff, not the least of which is trying to get a quick viz in with all three grandsons. Those become more and more important as Go Time approaches.

Non sequitur: After seeing the successes of RtB fiends Suzanne and RD with their bikes, and talking with Seamus about it, I am considering trying biking again. (Bicycles and I generally do not get along, for a couple of reasons.) What should I get? Whatever it is, it will have to be of the 24-inch variety. Little feet have to be able to touch the ground.

All right, that’s enough. It’s 6:18 a.m. — morning’s half gone. Have a good one today, fiends!

FO

…fat friar.

Very funny on your responses yesterday. On days like that, I shall be called Murphink. Haha

So this morning, while Justin is still asleep and Jake is watching Shaun the Sheep on Netflix, I should probably use the time to roll out crusts for the pot pies, and frost the lovely cakes I worked so hard not to destroy.

Have an awesome Sumday, everyone — tomorrow starts another week of zany insanity for us all.

Y’know…

Yesterday, around 10 a.m., I got to work baking two cakes. Before I finished (or in some cases, even started), the following happenings…erm…happened:

1. I couldn’t find my Bake Easy cake pan spray, so I balanced precariously on the bottom shelf of my pantry while feeling around on the top shelf. I finally found the can, then lost my precarious balance.
2. As I stumbled backwards and clawed for something to hang on to, the can of Bake Easy (along with two boxes of pasta) flew out of the pantry and onto the floor. The lid came off and the can tumbled around and landed in some cosmically bizarre, could-only-happen-to-me position — which made the spray nozzle stick in the “open” position. Oil spray, everywhere.
3. I grabbed the hissing, spraying, alive can and ran to the sink with it, where I janked it around and got the aerosol volcano to stop. I turned around to grab a paper towel to wipe it down, and ZING! Slippy-slidey on the oil-covered hardwood floor. Down I went, in the muck and the mess.
4. Took off my moccasins and washed the soles down with Dawn dish soap, then got down on hands and knees and washed the floor. Then I washed myself. All right, finally back at it.
5. As I reached for the egg carton, I grazed my arm against some utensils on the kitchen counter, bumping the cake pan, which in turn knocked over the open cake mix box. More mess to clean up.
6. Got out the bottle of vegetable oil; fumbled it, and it landed on the floor. Thankfully, it didn’t break.
7. Fast-forward to the second cake coming out of the oven. After carefully, carefully, carefully releasing the last perfect layer, the pan slipped out of my hands and landed square on top of the cake. Sheared off a huge chunk. (At this point, I am considering running, screaming out into the street.) I had to make a small batch of frosting and use it as joint compound to reattach the severed piece. Curses.
8. The Js arrived. When I went to transfer the glued-together cake layer to the other counter top to wrap it, Justin says, “I’ll help you, Grammie!” I said, “Sure, but be careful because—” Amputee chunk comes loose. (Haha. No damage done. He’s a great helper!)

The cakes eventually went into the freezer, all wrapped up and ready for icing tomorrow morning. Last night, I mixed up the filling for the chicken pot pies without a major accident. Thumbs up. We’ll see how well the rolling out of the crusts goes tomorrow…

J’ever have one of those mornings?? Just call me Murph.