I Fall to Pieces

Today I gained a huge insight into myself; humorless people intimidate me. If I can't joke my way through a conversation, I turn into a blabbering idiot. The path to this self-awareness began with an email I sent to a company that sells hinge-topped mint-tins. The response I recieved says, "I tried to call you. The people said they never heard of you. Please call me. Vincent"

I grab the phone, dial Vincent's number and get his voice mail.
"Hi," I say, "This is Liza. Sorry about the phone number, I think I sent you the wrong one. My real phone number is...I'm not sure. I think it's 123-4555. No. Maybe it's 123-4455. Wait. I think the first one was right. Anyway, call me."

As I hang up, I realize my message was too stupid for words. I still don't know my number so I look it up. Both the numbers I'd left were wrong. I call back, get the voice mail, and leave the right number. An hour later my phone rings.

"Hello?"
"This is Vincent," he says, clipping off the end of each word with the precision of a neurosurgeon, "What is your phone number?"
"Oh," I say, laughing, "you must think I'm so dumb."
"No, I don't."
I laugh again, "I had to look myself up in the phone book."
Silence. Okay, so he doesn't think it's funny. I decide to get down to business, "My brother and I want to get the back stamped out of a tin."
"What do you mean by 'stamped?'" He sounds mildly disapproving.
"Cut a hole," I say.
"By 'back' do you mean bottom?"
"Yep. We're going to have printing on the top."
"By 'top' do you mean lid?"
"I guess." Does he feel like he's pulling teeth as much as I feel like mine are being extracted?
"Let me tell you the parts of a tin box," he says.
"That's a good idea," I say.
"Lid, body, bottom," he enunciates each word for all it's worth.
"Oh, okay, I'll remember," I say then proceed with what I'm trying to say, "I have a schematic. The length I need, or maybe it's the width..."
Leonard sighs, "We call the longest part the length, the shortest part the width."
"Oh," I say and tell him the dimensions.
"What's the depth?" he asks.
"Um, I dont' know. Not very deep."

And so the conversation goes. Inch by painful inch. I try to crack a joke here and there, Vincent isn't buying it. Perhaps a bit of self-deprecating humor will break through his shell. No dice. I finally give up, knowing he hates me because I'm a tin-box dunce.

Vincent wraps up the converstaion by telling me what he needs to know before we can discuss price, "Send me a schematic," he says, "That includes the depth. Also send your name, address, and phone number. Be sure to include your phone number."
"I will," I say, "I'll even look it up again to make sure it's right."
Leonard does not chuckle, he bids me adieu and politely hangs up.

I set the phone down and wipe the sweat from my frazzled brow. I am such a fool. I don't know the first thing about anything. I replay the conversation in my mind, where did I go wrong with Vincent? It's because I gave him the wrong phone number, it has to be. But, he called me! It doesn't matter.

Another Fine Old Family Expression

Texas Sit/v. When two or more people gather to spend countless enjoyable hours talking about anything that happens to come up.

Texas Sitter/n. A person who comes to visit then stays long past their welcome, ingoring their hosts' glances at the clock, donning of pajamas, and other subtle hints suggesting the visitor leave.