Why I don't Skype

I work at home, far away from the niceties of civilization where one must be showered, dressed, primped and proper.  Where food must be chewed with one's mouth closed and where the strategic application of a napkin is called for if you don't want to attract undue attention and frantic wiping gestures from your dining partner who looks like they've just had a sudden attack of Tourette's.

In my kingdom, if you call me on the phone, you will be eternally grateful that you cannot see me as part of our social transaction.  Because I most likely am...

...running naked through the house chewing on a piece of toast slathered with peanut butter because I'm late for something and I forgot that all of my clean underwear is still in the dryer.  And I also have a large blob of peanut butter on my chest because when I grabbed the phone I dropped the toast and with a desperate spastic flailing gesture managed to mash it against my body before it hit the floor.

...sporting a chest pelt more impressive than Mike Myers in Austin Powers because I've just brushed all four cats while wearing a tank top.  At first glance, it looks like I've been sired by an international delegation and the hormone part of my sex change operation has yet to kick in.

...in need of a shower and if you look closely into the Skype window, you can see visible stink lines wavering up from my unwashed body.  Also, my hair is a frightful Jenga tower built with an assortment of small clips, sticks and possibly duct tape, the frizziness and sticky-outiness of which would make Elsa Lanchester's Bride of Frankenstein updo look positively glamourous.

...back from a bike ride in 90 degree heat with the remnants of my SPF 750 clown makeup sunblock slowly sliding off my salt crusted, sweat dripping visage.  Oh, and there is probably a small assortment of small dead flying bugs stuck on there as well.

So I recommend you just print out and paste this photo above your thankfully blind telephone and give me a call sometime.