Book club and stupidity

Two things.

1. The discussion starter on Vernon God Little by DBC Pierre is up on the Hermit Book Club blog.

If you've read the book, please stop by and join the discussion in the comments. Please. I'm begging you on my knees (no I'm not, but you'll never know the truth, since you can't see that I'm actually drinking coffee in my bathrobe and teetering on the much too small barstool [ass NOT too big. Stool too small. Ha ha.] by the kitchen counter, although it's 2pm, which makes me think jet lag might be here to stay).

But muahahahahahaha and such other deceptive and deviant noice.

I loved this book and will now attempt to use my prolific-blogger-with-actual-readers powers that naturally involve hyperdrive navel-gazing, but more importantly delusions of power and influence, to sway you all to become hermits and discuss books with me all day long (never mind the fact that I didn't participate in the last couple of discussions, because I was...err... busy... doing hermit activities?), and especially this one, since it happens to be the best contemporary book I've read in a while.

Please. I'm begging you on my knees.

Do you feel anything? Is it working?

Oh. Right. Those powers really only work on me.

That's me on the phone.

2. I'm a moron on the telephone.

I don't like talking to people I don't know on the phone. Or really anyone. I don't even like writing emails. I'm just a mass communication kind of a gal, I guess. So whenever appointments or such are needed I get the hubby to take care of the required one-on-one communication for me. After all, it is reassuring for him to feel needed, is it not?

Right?

I'm asking you, because there are some scary developments afoot.

Cue theme from Halloween.

I have begun to think that El Grande Vikingo is no longer on board with me answering "Showered" to his "So what did you do today?" and it almost seems as if it makes him uncomfortable to call my hair salon. Or my gynecologist.

How can this be? Has my viking fallen out of love with me? Has he finally decided to do what his parents have been secretly until recently very openly wishing for the past 10 years - find a fierce vikinga and have many, many fierce and grandma/pa-loving vikingitos and never leave Denmark again, except for short-term family-friendly pillaging missions, or to discover North America and garner some of the fame the vikings missed the first time around.

Attention-hogging Columbus. But, in the end, he was more PC for the position. I mean, you could never have anyone, who ever had anything to do with rape (unfortunately this seems to have been a less-than-natural companion to sea-faring in viking times), in that kind of a position. Zumast be joking is the only thing I could say, were such a person ever to come to power.  

But my bearded beast of a man (who is further removed from any acts of violence or oppression than a sweet cuddly puppy) could never leave me to my own devices. Not even to go find a fierce vikinga. Because this would happen:

Wednesday, 9am:

I wait for the sound that tells me the telephone is ringing in the other end, but again all I hear are the two consecutive beeps that seem to indicate that the network is busy. I don't quite know what they mean, but something is keeping me from getting through. I try yet another number.

Suddenly,  without there having been two beeps or any, a female voice answers.

In what sounds like Afrikaans. I can't discern one word. I can feel my heart starting to beat faster.

I look down at my paper. Which number was it again that I had dialed? I realize I cannot keep quiet that much longer. The woman on the other end lets out a little cough.

"Err. Hullo. Uhm. I'm looking for a doctor," I begin less than confidently, "uhm, an ear, nose and uhm... an ear, nose doctor. Please?" I continue. I'm scanning my paper with 10 names and double the numbers.

"Ja?" the woman says.

"Is this Doctor Doh Plessis..sis office?" I enquire before I realize that it certainly cannot be. "I mean, Fan Dar Clerk's," I continue in a panic, only to deduce from the surprised sound on the other end of the line that it is not.    

"Oh no, wait. Doctor Fender? Isn't it?" I almost yell, before realizing that knowing who you called will never be considered an achievement. Only a funny anecdote for the receptionist lunch crowd.

"I can help you next week," The woman tells me.

"Great!" I reply and make an appointment for Monday. All is well in the universe. I smile a little to myself. "I can do this," I tell myself, and my no longer racing heart. I'm asked for my name.

I spell it out twice and confirm that it, indeed, is only my last name.

"Oh no, no, that's enough," I'm told by the woman when I ask whether they need my first name too, "but your contact number?" she continues.

My contact number?

I look at my notes. Nope. Didn't write it down. I look at my iPhone, and briefly wonder whether I can conjure up the screen with the number just by looking at it. In fear of accidentally hanging up I dare not touch the screen or anything else on the phone.

"Hellooo," I hear her sing-song voice.

"Uhm, my contact number. I don't... Uhm. I don't actually....uhhhh" I prattle. While I keep bringing the phone down before my eyes in hopes of some secret AI-technology that would allow for the iPhone to read my mind, and divulge my number.

Luckily I stop my course of explanations before I tell her I don't have a phone, because obviously she will be able to deduce that I am, in fact, using some kind of a phone to call her.

I  decide  to opt out by asking her whether it would be okay to call her back "Once I find my phone number."

"Okay," she tells me and I swear I can hear her burst out laughing just before the line goes dead.

I'm so very much looking forward to meeting this woman on Monday, and I bet there isn't any kind of awkwardness, or any notes beside my name in the calendar indicating that they might need to call security when I arrive. Or the men in white.

My Hubby can never die.