“Mom… the phone’s for you!”

I wave my hands frantically and mouth the words, “…not here! I’m not here!”

My ten-year-old son gives me an exasperated look and with mouth still manning the phone shouts, “Huh? You are too here. I can see you.”

I head for the bathroom, peeling off clothes as I run. Gotta think fast. Gotta stage an alibi, you know, create a diversion. Got… to get… a shower.

“Where are you going?” Eden shouts after me, “The phone’s for you.” He tackles me in the bathroom and tries to hand off the receiver.

“Tell them I’m in the shower.” I pant as I fumble with the faucet.

“Are not.”

“Am too.”

“Are not. You’re not even wet.”

Defeated, I slump on the toilet, and snatch the phone from his hand.

“No, of course not, Mom…” I say sweetly. My cheeks are five shades of purple and four shades of red. “Honestly, it’s not a bad time at all…”

Hello… my name is Arlena and I’m a chronic call screener.

Now call screening is call screening when you can actually screen the call. That’s what call display was invented for, was it not? And for the most part, it serves me quite well. But throw in a couple of ten-year-olds who’ll pounce on a ring like a fat kid on a Smartie, and my ability to screen is significantly reduced. What part of “don’t-get-the-phone” do they not understand?

It’s not that I’m a bad person or that I don’t love my family and friends. It’s just that on most days, I’d rather have my armpits waxed then get caught on a mobile. Call me crazy, call me cranky, or call me telephonophobic. (And yes, that’s a word. In fact, there’s even a website support group for those of us who get sweaty palms when we hear a ding-a-ling.) According to statistics, at least thirty-five percent of people have call-display and over sixty-five percent have an answering machine. Come on guys, admit it… call screening is a hidden epidemic.

Besides, as far as I’m concerned, communication should be face to face like in the days of the Neanderthals, or keyboard to keyboard as God had intended. Getting trapped on a call for half an hour while the most inspiring moments of Dr. Phil tick away, is not a cool thing. What part of “I-really-need-to-let-you-go” do people not understand?

And I guess that’s the problem. In my world, there’s no such thing as a two minute call. Possibly, for good reason. If I screen twelve calls a week, times three minutes a call, that’s thirty-six minutes of phone credits my girlfriends believe they’ve accumulated. No wonder I never get to watch Oprah. I’m in serious call-avoidance debt.

“Yes Mom, I’m still listening… did I get your message on September 2nd at four o’clock? Well I think so, but I’m pretty sure I was walking the dog. September 4th at ten a.m.? I’m sure I was in the bathroom. September 6th? A-huh. September 8th? Are you sure you left a message on September the 8th?” I crank up Dr. Phil and hope she doesn’t notice. I mean, this is important educational material.

The music fades and Dr. Phil waves with a big, bald-headed smile. Today’s topic: Confessions of a Chronic Call Screener.