Operator, Well Could You Help Me Place This Call?

There's no shame in my game as you long-time readers know. Today was no different. I called into a test show for Rosie O’Donnell. You can imagine my surprise when the phone actually rang.

My heart was all racy and my hands were super sweaty. I got through nine times. Eight of those times the ringing turned into a fast busy signal. I was about to give up because I never took Stalking 101, but I was pretty sure after eight times, I’d be getting a fucking A in that class.

Mental oozing for the next three paragraphs, you can skip if you don’t want to know how stupid my brain is.

For some reason I was counting the rings like I was some sort of frickin’ dendrologist trying to determine the age of a tree. There were 20 to be exact. In between counting, I kept coughing and clearing my throat, while covering the mouthpiece.

I mentally invented a frog hopping around in there. I guess it was nerves. It was only a test show that wouldn’t air, so there really was no reason to be nervous. Counting sidetracked me from what I thought I should say. Why did I feel like I needed to have a prepared speech? Was I supposed to be funny or serious? Should I have a radio voice? What if my voice did a Peter Brady and she starts singing, Time to Change?

Certain I must have dialed incorrectly, I checked the number. But wait a minute, she said to call between 10 and noon, what if I’ve got the Eastern and Central time difference confused? And is today really the 16th of October? Was that even the day she said to call? Doubting myself is one of the things I do best. Amazingly enough, I was dialing the right number, in the right timeframe, on the right day.

My stomach did a Pirouette as a man answered saying, “Rosie radio please hold.”

Without sharing any pertinent info, while on hold I heard her cover a lot of news stories, including Balloon Boy. Surprisingly, Rosie didn’t say, “Winnie the Pooh called and said he wants his shtick back.”

After the meat and potatoes of the news was covered, she talked a little about Oprah and some of her guests.

I was taken off of hold and asked who I was, where I was calling from etc. I wanted to use my blogger name since Rosie has been here a few times and might actually remember Home Fires. But I gave my real name as I was put back on hold.

While I was on hold I kept beating myself up for not saying Lois Lane.

The man came back to the line and asked me if I’d seen the episode of Oprah she was talking about. I said no even though I felt compelled to lie. I was put back on hold.

She started talking about Halloween. That’s where I was taken off of hold again. “What are you going to be for Halloween?” the guy asked. I wanted to lie again, “Nothing this year.” As I could hear the “Why the fuck did you call?” in his voice, I quickly added, “I did dress in drag the year I was pregnant with my daughter.” He cheered up, “Okay, hold on.”

So I was gearing up to tell Rosie all about my homemade costume. I was going to tell her how I let my pregnant belly hang from the bottom of my shirt like a real chubby construction worker guy might wear his. I planned to tell her how I stuffed pantyhose with poly-fill and made a big ol’ prosthetic butt crack, complete with glued on curly doll hair to stick out of the top of my pants.

I was even going to tell her how Mr. Lane got drunk and took his boobies out on the dance floor after one too many cocktails.




Circa 1994, one week before Lane 2 arrived.

But then, something magical happened!!! Rosie O’Freakin’ Donnell started talking about the changes our bodies go through as we age, specifically, the patchy pudendum! Oh joy of joys! Now that right there is something I know ALL about!

So with my Halloween story out the window, I started singing in my head, “The old gray mare just ain’t what she used to be.” (thanks Melzie!)

Taken off of hold one more time, I was asked, “Are you talking about Halloween or was there another topic of interest to you?”

“Well, now that you mention it… I do know a little about the balding beaver phenomenon, and I’m only 37.”

He laughed and told me to hang on again. Finally, without a need or desire to lie, I mentally geared up for my first official talk to Rosie. I couldn’t help but laugh thinking, who really talks about gray haired cooters that look like they’d been intentionally carved with a Bobby Brown hair part during a first conversation?

I do. No really, I do. I’ve even blogged about before right here.

She answered and I spilled. I told her everything anyone could never want to know about my ever aging beaver. She laughed and it pretty much made my day/week/month/year.

I wish I had more time to tell her about my twat toupee.