What is the sound of one hand holding a telephone?

I think it's internet silence.

Because I don't have much to say. So sue me, internet; I used up this week's supply of drivel on a bunch of marathon telephone calls.

Let me just say that 1) being allergic to telephones and 2) chairing not one but two fundraisers is a bad combination. And before you crack up into loud hoots of derisive laughter--OK, I'm talkative. I freely admit it, so you can stop rolling your eyes. My talking isn't the problem. I don't mean to brag, but when it comes to talking, I have a lot of natural talent. The problem is all the listening I have to do. On the phone. I hate phones. Especially cell phones, but land lines suck, too.

Basically, I've just spent a week doing dishes, moving laundry in and out of machines, making beds, cleaning out the refrigerator, cooking, and tidying the house with one hand while someone keeps me on the phone for the length of (pick one)

a) a root canal
b) a complete detail job on a school bus
c) Ahab's quest for the White Whale

I'm so tired not only can I not think of anything to say on my blog, I don't have the energy to read yours.

Not to mention the tact that I don't have and SORELY NEED.

I find myself saying things like "That's a really good idea; I'll look into it," when my id is screaming "SHUT UP YOU MORONIC WINDBAG!" When I say "Thanks for calling," my id is shouting "IF ONLY THE FUCKING CALLER ID HAD KICKED IN!"

If only a utility existed that would translate people's conversation into a text file, and then email it to me. That I could look at the transcript at my leisure, say, at 4:00 on a Sunday afternoon, which is a depressing time anyway, with nothing good going on, so you might as well catch up with your emails.

Because these marathon telephone sessions are killing me. My mind has all the freshness and savor of the ancient chewing gum that has been stuck under a booth at the town diner. I've been going around holding up one shoulder for hours at a time, and I'm going to end up like Quasimodo.

Not to mention that people, please. Sometimes I need to pee.

"Shucks, folks ... I'm speechless."

You know what's weird?

Getting praised on the internet by total strangers. Right now, over on Essential Day Spa (I think) this completely lackluster piece of shit blog* has just been called "hilarious."

Which makes me feel ... I don't know ... kind of dumb. Because I'm a discerning reader, and I know funny when I read it. Badger is funny, for example.

So now I'm thinking I should register on the site so I can demur. And tell them to go over to see Badger instead. And I don't want to do that, because what the hell-- readers are readers, even if I'm getting them under false pretenses.

Also, to tell the truth, I'm really not a spa person, unless the masseuse or facialist promises to duct-tape her mouth shut. Oh, and to turn off that idiotic New Age music they're always playing. So how much do I want to go join a spa forum? To tell them not to read my blog? Not much.

So, I'm grateful for the plug. But I just don't feel hilarious. I'm ... wait for it ... funny that way.

* Albeit with--OK, I'll say it--great punctuation. OK, I know that sounds really egotistical, but it's true. There's no point in going all false modesty about it; I am the Princess of Punctuation. I mean, did you see that semi-colon back there? Well, stick with me and you'll be strewing semi-colons around like Jackson Pollack on crack.