I managed to survive a brief but memorable career in the high-stress behind-the-scenes arena of the trucking industry known as dispatch. Basically, the job of a dispatcher is to appease the tempers of salesmen, customers, management and, of course, truck drivers. Days were spent in a vast room filled with partitionless cubicles, breathing the ever-present aroma of coffee mingled with diesel fumes that crept in from the adjacent shop.

When the trucker-turned-dispatcher seated next to me slammed down his receiver and muttered an expletive, I momentarily ignored the four flashing lights vying for my attention from my own phone and peered around my computer monitor.

“What’s wrong?” I dared to ask.

“I gotta make a delivery appointment in Laredo, Texas, and this guy don’t speak English!”

Ignoring his own lack of skill with the language, I thought, “Ah, Spanish.” All those years spent sweltering in Yuma, Arizona, would at last come in handy. And, while I had always taken an interpreter on my frequent trips to Mexico, I had mastered all the necessary phrases: “How much?”; “No, thank you”; and “Where’s the bathroom, please?”

“Let me see the customer information,” I offered. He tossed me a half-wadded sticky note with a phone number scrawled on it. I dialed the number and responded with an appropriate greeting (in Spanish) to the voice that answered. At that point, the conversation immediately advanced beyond the scope of my expertise, and, as a baseball manager in a tight situation points to the bullpen and pats his left shoulder with hopes of saving the game, I pulled out my emergency all-purpose phrase: “¿En Ingles, por favor?” Within moments the appointment was set. I gave the obligatory “Muchos gracias,” and handed the note back to my co-worker.

With a face like that of a child who just witnessed the antics of some grand illusionist, he asked, “How’d you do that?”

“Simple,” I said smugly. “I asked him to speak English.”

A few days later, my neighbor once again needed to set up a delivery in Laredo. “Hey, Linda. Teach me what you said to that guy the other day.”

A ten-minute Spanish lesson ensued, at the end of which I could make out, “¿En Ingles, por favor?” through his gruff southern drawl. We were ready. Filled with anticipation, my co-worker dialed the number while I, the proud teacher, listened carefully for the well-practiced words. Fidgeting in his chair, he tapped his fingers on the desk during the greeting. He paused momentarily, and I gave an encouraging smile. He nodded, then suddenly blurted out, “Hey dude, you speak English?”

…Perhaps I’ll leave well enough alone.

Some things to consider before launching the pooch vs. paunch plan:

1. Dogs are ALIVE. You want a walking partner? Get a treadmill. Dogs require care. They need food, water, new leather furniture to chew on, underwear to drag through the house while you’re entertaining, and (more…)

• Using self-hypnosis, associate in your subconscious the word “cooties” with your bathroom scale. Ew!
• Hire an armed guard to shoot weigh-day violators on site.
• Toss the scale to the annoying neighbor kids and tell them to play keep away with it. When you tire of hearing their “nanny-na-na-boo-boo” taunts as you desperately attempt to retrieve your scale, tell the armed guard you saw one of the little tykes sneak a peek at their weight.
• Kidnap the neighborhood pit bull–you know, the one that terrorizes you on your daily trek to the mailbox–and chain it to your scale.
• Wrap crime scene tape around the corner of your bathroom where the scale resides and refuse to enter the area until the CSI team arrives.
• Rig your scale with a whoopee cushion.
• Have the local electronics shop wire your scale with an alarm that shouts “Step Away from the Scale” when touched on any day except your designated weigh-in day.
• Connect your scale into your electric fence’s circuit and fire it up.
• Phone the scale prevention hot line whenever you feel the urge to weigh before your scheduled day.
• In the spirit of community development’s “Clean It, Green It, or Screen It” motto, install a privacy fence around your scale to keep it out of your sight.
• Join a support group, such as “Over-weighers Anonymous.”

I was wrong.

The real punishment came when I spoke with my insurance company’s latest employee, NEW GIRL.

NEW GIRL: Thank you for calling BIG NAME INSURANCE COMPANY. This is NEW GIRL. How can I help you?
ME: Someone backed into my car in a parking lot and it’s dented above the right rear wheel well. No one was hurt, so we didn’t call the police.
NG: So, you’d like to file a claim?
ME: Yes.
NG: Okay. So, who was at fault?
ME: Umm…the man who backed into me.
NG: Did you get his phone number?
ME: I only got his name, drivers license number, and, since he’s also insured with BNIC, his policy number.
NG: Can you give me his address?
ME: Uh…No. Can’t you pull it up using his BNIC policy number?
NG: The Claims Department can.
ME: Great.
NG: I’m ready for that phone number now.
ME: (She’s kidding, right?) NEW GIRL, honey, I didn’t get his phone number.
NG (giggles): Oh, that’s right. So, where did the accident take place?
ME: Nashville.
NG: Do you think the other driver lives in Nashville?
ME: I don’t know.
NG: But, it was in Nashville, though, so, probably?
ME: Well, I was in Nashville, and I live here.
NG (disappointed): I have to put an address.
ME: Can’t you leave it blank and get the info using his BNIC number?
NG (worried): I’m not sure.
ME: I bet BNIC has his address.
NG: Probably. So, was there a police report?
ME (I realize we’re filling out a form here, but sheesh–didn’t I already answer this question?): We didn’t call the police.
NG (shocked): What?!
ME: They won’t come to a non-injury fender bender on private property.
NG: Oh. Okay. What sort of damage did your vehicle sustain?
ME: Uh, it’s dented above the right rear wheel well.
NG: On the right side?
ME (wondering if she’s going to ask for the guy’s phone number again): Yes.
NG: What was the nearest street?
ME: Hillsboro Pike.
NG: Is that street, road or avenue?
ME: It’s Pike.
NG: What’s a pike?
ME: It’s a road.
NG (I swear I’m not making this up): So, Hillsboro Pike Road?
ME: No, just Hillsboro Pike. Pike is the word they used instead of street, road, or avenue.
NG: Why?
ME: I’m not sure, but the city of Nashville is quite fond of Pikes. (I name a few, just for kicks.)
NG: Thank you Mrs. Fulkerson. I’ll file the claim now.
ME (WAIT!!! Even though this convo has been super fun, getting my car fixed IS the ultimate purpose of the call.): Where can I take my car?
NG: Oh, yes. (Names my choices and explains the policy if I don’t want to use one of BNIC’s designated fix it shops. Thankfully, I do.)
ME: Thank you, but don’t you need the BNIC number of the man who hit me?
NG: It doesn’t ask for it.
ME: Can I just give it to you anyway?
NG: I suppose so.

At least the BIG NAME INSURANCE COMPANY I’m with doesn’t claim you’re in good hands with them.

2. Don’t marry someone who folds their socks. (The positive twist to this one is, (more…)

While I struggled for air in the sudden sea of orderliness, I found myself unpacking boxes of copy paper, stacked in the hallway for months, and actually putting the reams into the cabinets—where they belong! Mind you, there was no real reason to remove them. They’ve been comfortably nestled next to the box of Christmas decorations since January. We just grab whatever size, shape or color we need from the boxes and go on. And every week, the UPS guy brings us more. What a life! (And the man in Brown knows better than to mention my mess!)

I should have known better. After several minutes of heaving Hammermill’s heft, blood pressure pounded my temples. I began sucking in short, shallow breaths. Just when I realized I was likely on the verge of a stroke or heart attack—boom!—it happened. I broke a nail.

You scoff? Just because I’ve allowed my body mass to escalate to the size of a small ski slope doesn’t mean I don’t take pride in my manicure. O/U people do have standards, you know. Besides, I’m not writing this for the benefit of those with alphabetized CD racks. I felt the need to alert my fellow train wrecks. (Tell me I’m not the only one!)

Consider yourself warned. If the tidiness tide carries you out to deep water, sharks are the least of your worries. Organizational attempts can be hazardous to your health!

Have you ever read any diet books? They’re pretty much all alike. The first half of each book is spent discussing why one should diet. I can answer that question with two words: I’m fat! I suppose diet book editors specified a word-count range, so the authors fluff up section one with topics that attempt to scare the reader into dieting, such as “The Psychological Effects Caused by No Longer Being Able to Clothes off the Rack.”

The second half of most diet books is filled with recipes. I love recipes. I love cookbooks. Normally, this would be my favorite portion of the book, however, diet books are filled with useless recipes for dishes like “Braised Asparagus Spears Smothered with Watercress, Caper, and Alfalfa Dressing.” Does that sound appetizing to you? My goats might eat it, but I’ll take a burrito supreme!

So, if you’re in the market for the “perfect” diet book, save your money. There aren’t any.

I suppose dieting is my weakness, but there’s more than one way to shed a pound. I choose (drum roll…) exercise! I doubt if I’ll sign up for another aerobics class, though. The last time I attended a high-impact class, I huffed and puffed enough to make the Big Bad Wolf jealous. The guy next to me yelled, “Are you okay?”

“Do you know CPR?” I panted.

When he shook his head, I stumbled over to the exit and never looked back. Since that day, my only form of exercise has been searching for my car in the Wal-Mart parking lot. But I recently joined the local Curves. They’re in the process of changing the name to “Bulges” now.

My suggested solution is to add another week between Christmas and New Year’s. The way I figure it, an extra week is almost a necessity. It would give me time to catch up on sleep after the holiday guests leave and let those leftovers in the fridge gather a bit of mildew so I won’t feel guilty about starving third-world children when I toss a metric ton of turkey in the trash. I could even spend a few days doing and eating whatever I want before tackling my list of resolutions. (Think: Mardi Gras.)

Yeah, one more week oughta do it.

Just how does one add a week to the calendar anyway? And if I can figure out how to pull off that little trick, then I could probably pop in some time whenever I get in a pinch, right? Running late for work because I grabbed one more donut and poured another cup of coffee to wash it down? Insert 15 minutes. Missed the nephew’s piano recital because I took a “quick” nap after work? Slip in an hour when no one’s looking. Piece of cake.

I suppose until some child genius invents a time-making machine, the best way for me to “make” more time is to quit wasting the 24/7 I already have. But with all the tempting time-tickers out there, it seems as though a huge time-sucking black hole is hovering over me, inhaling instants while I’m busy being unproductive.

After all, they say that “time is the only non-renewable resource we have.” If we spend our money, we can make more. If we lose our talent, we can practice and sharpen our skills once more. If we forget what we’ve learned, we can study and renew our knowledge base. Even if we lose our job, we can search for another. But when I waste my time, it’s gone. Kaput! Once a minute is spent, it can never be retrieved. That’s a depressing thought they came up with.

No, I don’t know who “they” are. In fact, I’m not even sure if you’re supposed to take the tree down by New Year’s Eve to keep the bad luck in the old year or leave it up until January to carry the good luck from last year into the new one. I once debated that issue until June when I went on vacation and the house-sitter took the tree down. He got a nasty reference.

Well, I’ve been “blessed” with the chauffeur part anyway. Two of them. The bad part about waiting to have kids until you’re nearing the 30 mark is that you’ll have to teach them to drive during your heart attack years. Today they’re past the learning stage (so THEY think) and each have cars. (Well, one car is older than they are, but daddy got “I’m-a-big-college-girl-now” a new one for her high school graduation present.)

Now I’m saved from running them to football, band, basketball, quizbowl, church youth activities, and whatever else they come up with. PLUS…the big bonus for quadrupling my insurance premiums by adding two teenage drivers is that I’ll never have to go to Wal-Mart again. Unless of course, I want to!

And lately, my request for a personal trainer has been granted–in a way I would have never expected. My newspaper delivery person must have caught wind of my wish list because every morning when I get to the office, the paper is farther from the door than it was the day before. I’m nearly working up a sweat just walking to get my paper every day. Wow! Who would’ve thought sitting in a chair, drinking coffee, and browsing through the news could burn so many calories.

So now all I need to fulfill my wildest dreams is a maid, a secretary, and a cook. But my mother always said, “Be careful what you wish for–it might come true!”

Excited, (and knowing I have the same directional aptitude as a carpet tack), he offered to walk with me. “We BOTH could use the exercise,” he noted. (He’s right, of course. I recently celebrated a birthday and, coincidentally, my new age exactly equals the number of pounds I’ve gained OVER my “fat” weight–you know, the weight I swore I’d NEVER exceed again as long as I’m alive.) Sure. I’ll start a walking regime. The trek is a half-mile, so once in the morning and once in the evening puts me at a mile a day.

I started off with him on Morning Number One, walking stick in one hand, Dasani in the other, while “Miss I’m Too Cute and Adorable to Potty Outside” darted back and forth chasing butterflies and sniffing the scent residue from whatever critter lurked across our lawn during the night.

Why the walking stick? No, I’m not (yet) old and decrepit. But Arkansas mornings are not only filled with chirping birds and fluttering butterflies–spider webs loom between every tree. And we live in the woods. I’m not particularly afraid of spiders or snakes, but I detest walking through webs. Yuck! Thus the stick–to slap down webs while I walk.

So, we’re off. And sure enough, within minutes a web crossed our path. I raised my stick and gave it a good sideways swing and, with one Freudian slip of the stick, WHACK! It came down across the back of hubby’s neck. Oops! (I promise it had NOTHING to do with the Mommy Popping remark.)

Proof that walking is hazardous to your (spouse’s) health.

(Sorry, Sweetheart!)