I'm curious what the compulsion is for most people to tell the truth to a complete stranger when asked a question. I suspect only the most guarded person will avoid the truth with initial questions, yet answering the truth, even when it potentially does harm, is the default.

Today, Kris and I went to the nearest-I-could-remember T-Mobile store to purchase a new phone for him. He's been without a working phone since March, and we were tired of paying $30 a month for no phone. Each time we went into the Cingular store, they said they couldn't fix hist broken phone, how about you buy a new one? Oh, and to activate that spiffy new phone to replace the one that broke less than a year into your contract? That'll be another year contract please. With the crappy customer service, horrendous prices (even with the big Oracle discount) and bad connections, staying around another year was like offering to gouge our eyes out on a daily basis.

No, thanks.

Kris remembered to take the last Cingular bill with him to the store, so that we could switch carriers without getting a new number, but I was unable to find my last Sprint bill. Apparently, the mobile phone carriers need your account number to transfer a phone number. Oh.

Now, I have been with Sprint for six years, ever since I started working at Sinia and they offered to pay for my phone (but it had to be a new, WAP phone). I regret to this day accepting that new phone, because it meant I no longer had Kris' phone number + 1, which was really cool. We were connected not only here, but in the phone's spirtual sense. Ooooooo! Aaaaaah.

But, no. Sprint. Sinia. New phone.

So, I called Sprint's customer help line, and begin the infinite-hold dance. After twelve minutes and thirty seven seconds on hold, the customer service rep answered, and asked how can she help me.

"I'd like my account number."

"You want your account number?"

"Yes."

"Why do you want your account number? Is it to access your account online?"

"No, it's to switch companies."

"You want to switch companies? I'll have to transfer you to another department to access your account number."

Huh? You just asked me for my social security number, why do you need to transfer me to give me the account number right on your screen? I think.

"You have to transfer me to another department for my account number?" I ask, incredulously. "You're saying you don't have my account number right in front of you?"

"I'll need to transfer you to another department," she answered, deflecting my question.

"Is this the We-won't-give-you-your-account-number until-we-have-a-chance-to-convince-you not-to-go department, by any chance?"

"Yes," she answered in a small voice.

"And I can't get my account number without talking to them?"

"No."

"Okay, transfer me."

While I was put on hold for another five minutes, I commented to Kris, "Next time, I'm just lying and telling them I'm going to use the account number to log in online."

The next rep wasn't as nice as the first, and he started the conversation by first butchering my last name, then accusing, "You want your account number so you can change carriers?"

"I would like my account number, yes."

"But, you want it to change carriers, right?"

"I find that irrelevant. I would like my account number, please."

He gave me my account number grudgingly, and I was able to give it to the T-Mobile guy to switch my account away. We'll see how this goes. My bet is that my second phone number, the one attached to Kris' number, will be cancelled when his number is transferred away from Cingular.

Because that is the most retarded thing I could think for a mobile phone company to do.

And that's our luck with phones.

When we tell the truth.

Telling the first representative, sure, yeah, that I need it to access my account online wouldn't have been the truth, yet I doubt it would have caused problems. I told the truth to the second representative, but wished I didn't need to even consider lying in the first place.

When was the last time you had to speak in front of a group? How did you feel?

There's an episode of Star Trek The Next Generation that opens with Enterprise heading into some sort of bizarre electrical storm that sends a bold of energy into the bridge, striking Jean Luc Picard in the chest. The energy disrupts Picard's artificial heart ("What? He has an artificial heart? How the heck did that happen? Oh? Wait for it? All will be revealed in the next 54 minutes? Okay, fine, I'll keep watching."), and he starts to die.

As he lay there dying, Q (the annoying all-powerful, but not quite, omniscient) shows up and hovers over Picard. He knows about the heart; he knows why Picard has it. He offers Picard the opportunity to redo the moment in his life that lead to his having the heart in the first place. He knows of the decisioin Picard made years ago, the moment that regretted to this dying moment, the choice he would have made differently if he'd had the chance.

And who wouldn't jump at that chance to undo that one such moment that has caused a lifetime of regret, to fix the source of all that is wrong, to live a moment longer knowing you finally made the right choice?

Picard accepted the offer, and found himself moments before a barroom fight which will end with a Klingon's weapon in his chest, moments before he stood up to the bully in the room and nearly died for the effort, an artificial heart a constant reminder of the choice he had made.

No gift from Q is ever truly a gift, as Picard remembers as he flashes through moments of his life up to the according-to-the-viewer present moment. Each moment that we see begins as an event where Picard is the Picard we know: he's strong, self-assured, confident and leading the charge. As we watch, in the pivotal moment, he crumbles. He doubts. He second guesses himself as he had done in the bar, as he had done when he chose the second time not to fight.

He is unable to follow through, and becomes less of a man. He never reaches his potential. He thinks, all I need is a chance, my chance, to prove to everyone he is the leader he knows he can be, the leader the viewer knows he was. Chance after chance he tries and fails. He doesn't follow through and no one believes him, believes in him.

The one moment he felt was his biggest regret, the moment he believed was his worst choice was as he believed: the moment that defined him. But it defined him in the way of his fullest potential, and not the smaller person he could be.

I recall very few episodes of STNG. I recall that one because it reminds me of how I feel every time I stand up in front of a crowd. The feeling of this-is-not-quite-as-it-should-be hits me as I get ready to stand. The worst moment is when the speaking is impromptu and I've had no time to prepare. Can I think of something witty? Can I be clever and dynamic and smart and funny? Crap! Where are my jokes?!

My briefest of moments of such was in June, as BarCampSF started. Messina asked every attendant to stand up, give their name and a 10 second explaination of what they hope to get out of the weekend. Rather than something witty like, "I'm just hear to make sure you have snack food," something tragically nondescript and stupid came out. Something like, "I'm here to learn new AJAX tricks and techniques."

Interestingly enough, my heart didn't pound, I didn't sweat profusely, my blood pressure didn't rise. Standing in front of 200 techies doesn't bother me. Not having something to say does. Not having time to prepare (who prepares for a 10 second introduction to people who, chances are, you won't interact with much after this weekend?) bothers me.

It bothers me because I know I can do better speaking in front of people, having done so with my presentations and lessons I've done over the last years. I know I can be that happy, confident, self-assured person at the front of the room, talking to everyone. I know I can be the Picard who made the right decision the first time, instead of the second time when he second-guessed himself.

I know, because I have been, am, and will continue to be that person.

"Bella, sit."

* ignore *

"Sit!"

* ignore *

"Bella, sit!"

* ignore *

"Bella, I fail to believe that your smelling my crotch while I'm peeing can possibly be anything enjoyable."

"For either of you, actually."

So, yeah, I lost my sense of smell a couple years ago. Before the loss, I had a very good sense of smell: I could smell Kris' morning coffee on him at bedtime; I could often smell what he had for lunch in the evening, too. The smell of Kris was (is) one of the most wonderful smells in all of the world.

Turns out, I didn't complete lose my sense of smell. Instead, I lost my sense of smell for good things. I could still smell crap: the dogs' crap, their stinky butts, the offensive woman at OSCON, the dog poop at the park, the old lady at the bank. Yeah, the bad stuff, but not the good stuff.

I mentioned that I had lost my sense of smell to my naturopath, who had suggested a natural remedy for sinus problems: essentially penicillum shot up the nose. Nearly desperate to try anything, I used the homeopathic solution, to good success.

For about a week.

And then my sense of smell started disappearing again. The root cause wasn't solved, so it was just a matter of time before it disappeared again.

A couple weeks ago, when I mentioned my lack of smell to Heather, she commented that I really should look into the problem. Head trauma and stroke, as well as other underlying physical causes much worse than dog allergies can cause a loss of smell, and finding the root cause is important.

So, back I went to the naturopath. Back I went to snorting penicillum. And, thankfully, back came my sense of smell.

Happy, happy, joy, joy! I can smell! For the first time in over half a year, I can smell Kris. I can smell the morning air.

With the sense of smell, however, comes the downside to scent. The smell of Annie's butt. The smell of Bella's breath. The smell of the neighbor's cigarette smoke.

And, then there's today's little incident with a coworker, a pair of feet, and a desk top.

Yeah, my sense of smell is back. Let's hope it lasts longer than a week this time.

Emails like this one from Beth are wonderful, too.

I heart kitt.

That is all

B