Yesterday morning, I may or may not have been sneaking in a quick Grey's Anatomy episode before work when my phone rang. I didn't recognize the number, and I don't usually pick up those calls because they are invariably either an irate Spanish-speaking man who insists on calling me Luis or some earnest freshman from Wesleyan, my alma mater, trying to get me to send them money for their new nudist performing arts center or whatever. But yesterday I was just chillin' in my sweatpants eatin' some eggs and watchin' a biopsy, and I thought, What the hell? Live a little.
"Did you call to make an appointment in this department?" asked a friendly, West Indian-sounding woman when I picked up the phone.
Um... I don't think so. What department is this?
No, I definitely didn't.
"OK, thank you."
Maybe it was just the Grey's Anatomy, but as soon as I hung up I thought, Shit. That was God telling me I have a brain tumor.
Because, seriously, why would a random hospital call me to ask if I called them? I have never once gotten a live person on the phone at a hospital when I actually needed to. It is a fact that in 2007 I took Jeff to the emergency room and the only person on call was a homeless woman in a wheelchair asleep by the vending machine. And now they're calling me? It had to be a sign.
I'm big on signs. I'm like Mel Gibson in the cornfield (is that what happened? I didn't even see that movie). Anyway, what I'm saying is, I have a little... problem with believing too much in fate sometimes.
For example, I often play iPod roulette. I step out my door in the morning, set my iPod to shuffle, and decide that whatever comes on will determine the course of my day, or, at least, contain some hidden message, like an aural horoscope. Sometimes this works out, because I have a lot of Nina Simone and The Beatles, so I'll get "My Baby Just Cares For Me" or "Let It Be," which are both pleasant and straightforward. Other times I set myself up for bad omens like "Everybody Hurts" or "Toxic." But more often I'll get something cryptic like "Humpin' Around" or "Eat Em Up El Chill," (or one of my 1500 Christmas carols that I forget to remove, year after year, so that I'm constantly flipping past "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" in the middle of July when all I want is my summer jam) and so I have to play again and again until I get a clear message (I realize that I'm starting to sound crazy now).
I also ascribe irrational psychic powers to my BlackBerry... or, more specifically, to my Brick Breaker score. Once, on the way to a job interview, I decided that if I beat my high score I would get it (and I did!) Since that worked out, I then decided that somehow I could control other things with the BlackBerry, like when I might get knocked up. What should have been a mindless diversion morphed into a crazy high-stakes game with fate as I attempted to will myself to become impregnated by manipulating a tiny ball (which sounds wrong in so many ways). I might actually have a touch of OCD. When I was an adolescent, in the summers my dad and I would play paddleball at the beach. We got pretty good, even getting a volley up to 500 once. Before every round, though, I remember I used to discretely kiss both sides of the paddle. If I didn't, I was convinced I'd falter.
Wow, guys, this has been really therapeutic. I just convinced myself that I'm probably not dying of a brain tumor, but that I should really think about starting therapy again. Of course, to make the final decision I'm going to consult the ol' iPod.
"Girl, You Know It's True." (HA! I didn't even fake that. But damn. Even lip-synced it stings.)