More insight

I have let this blog become something that causes me anxiety.  I have decided that it is something I "should" do and that I "should" write specific thing.  It is no longer enjoyable when I put limits and expectations into the content.
So, in order for maintenance of my mental health, I am gong to write in a more spontaneous, here's- what-I'm-thinking-today kind of way. Here goes.

I have the old phone that I used in my first apartment.  It is a princess style push-button, colored that hideous 1970's burnt orange.  It weighs as much as a small Subaru.  I'm pretty sure that it was rented from the phone company, which is what they did in the olden days.  You eventually owned the phone, apparently.  Either that, or I just never returned it!  I threw that phone against the wall once after breaking up with one of my boyfriends.  I used it in at least three apartments, maybe even after grad school.  I don't know how it ended up still being a thing in my life or how it migrated to my office to become a play therapy toy. All I know is, it's still with me.  The kids love it.

My sister has something similar that she uses as a prop with teenage theater students.  Her phone is even older than mine.  It is a standard black rotary model.  Although my touch tone push buttons are fodder for ridicule, her rotary dial poses an epic challenge.  Her students are unsure of how to make the dial turn, doing things like just punching the hole over the number or tying to open the phone like a combination lock.

My sister and I may seem to be in highly disparate professions.  (Psychotherapist vs actor and acting instructor/coach), but we are always surprised at how many similarities there are in how we go about reaching our goals.  (That particular situation will likely end up in future blogs.)  But today, I want to share my favorite phone story.

This is a sad,  nostalgic story, in that current and future generations will never have the opportunity to experience the joy and satisfaction of slamming the receiver into the the cradle after an angry conversation with your mother.  Caller ID has rendered the ability to crank call your arch enemy, asking him things like  if he has Prince Albert in a can (better go let him out) or if his refrigerator is running (better go catch it), or my personal fave, "This is the Jefferson City sewage company, and we've had just about enough outta you!"

And this story, concerning old fashioned phones, would never have occurred in the modern days of cell phones and text messages.

My sister had a job as a tour guide at the Missouri state Capitol building.  Most days she provided guided tours, pointing out the rotunda whisper gallery acoustics and the beautiful Thomas Hart Benton paintings.  Or she was assigned to the Governor's mansion where she could point out interesting architectural details.  But on this particular day, she was assigned to Loman's landing.   It was an infrequently visited tourist sight with two building's.  I guess it was pretty boring
I also guess that's why she called me.  She had too much time to think about stuff.

Our house had two phones.  One on the kitchen wall, and one on my Dad's desk, in his office upstairs. If you picked up the receiver of one phone, you could listen in to the conversation occurring on the other.  My brother went through a period where he liked to try to listen in to our private talks.  If you didn't hear him picking up the other phone, you would be able to hear him breathing.  If you quietly said,"Paul, get off the other line.",he would yell down, I'm not on the other line". There was almost never anything interesting for him to hear, anyway

This was the days before portable phones.  The receiver was tethered to the "call box" with a curly cord that got shorter as it tangled.  Every once in a while, you had to let the receiver dangle on the cord so it could unwind itself.  But even at it longest, you only had about five feet to move before you were rudely stopped like a dog on a leash.

I was too young for a real job, but old enough to be home alone during the day.  The phone rang, and I ran to answer.  This was also the days before answering machines, so we all jumped at the sound, just like a caveman being tapped on the shoulder. The tap could just be a neighbor inviting you to his cave for dinner, or it could be a saber tooth tiger testing out the tenderness of his possible prey. You never knew who could be calling.

The phone ringing interrupted whatever very important thing I was doing; probably watching TV or eating a whole rasher of bacon or singing along to a show tune as I banged out the melody on the piano (I did this A LOT).
I answered "Hello?"
"Amy, you gotta clean out my fish bowl for me!"  She was almost out of breath in her panicked state.  "I didn't have time to do it this morning, and now Fred and Ginger are both gonna DIE if you don't!"
Did I mention she is a little dramatic.
"No"  i answered.  I was loving having the power to thwart her desires.
"Please!!!"She was begging now, with a little sob in her voice.  "Think of poor Fred and Ginger!"
"No.  I'm not cleaning your fish bowl.  Your fish will be fine if you do it when you get home".
"I don't have time tonight!  I'm going out, right after work!!!"
"Oh well, you'll have to get new fish, cause I'm not doing it"
"Fine!  Be that way!"  Slam!
I got to hear the loud clunk as she hung up on me.  Oh well> I got back to whatever very important thing I was doing.  But just as I started whatever it was, the phone rang again.  I was pretty sure it was her calling back.  Ring ring ring ring....ten, eleven, twelve times.  No answering machines in those days, remember?  What if it wasn't her?  What if it was my mom checking in?  She'll be furious.  What if it was someone trying to reach my Dad? What if it was an emergency?

I answered,  "Hello?"

"Bitch!"

Somethings never change