Dropped Calls

Dear Defunct Cell Phone People,

I got your end-of-service reminder text at breakfast. And at noon. And at dinnertime.

Every day for two weeks.

Maybe you’re not getting the message.

We’re through.

You might be surprised to find out that I don’t need a phone that Facebooks, Twitters, or plots the shortest route to the doughnut shop.  I got my phone so the kids could call if they ran out of gas or had an accident.

Or if I did.

Or in case I needed to retaliate when someone I was having an in-person conversation with put me on hold to answer their phone.

My apologies to my cardiologist.  And to old man Brenner.  I didn’t realize it was an emergency.

At this time I would like to thank you for your interest in my communicational well-being.  I appreciate your concern that I will soon lose the telephone number I have kept through so many wrong numbers.  I’m not sure who people will call for delivery service now that I’m gone, but I will undoubtedly be replaced at this number within the next fifteen minutes.  I imagine there is some poor guy out there who will soon get a call for a dozen Extra Cheese Pepperoni and Jalapeno Pan Pizzas, Heavy on the Red, and will try to explain to seventeen people with nicknames like Kojak, Tiny, and Pork Chop that he doesn’t deliver.

There is a family reunion full of people who are even now eyeing one another’s pocketbooks, thinking a purse-bottom peppermint might save them from starvation while they wait for thirteen orders of bread sticks that I’m never going to bring to their feast.  I’m not Dominoes.

I’m not even DiGiorno’s.

There’s also the bill collector that has called faithfully every week. His tenacity is inspiring, even though I have never opened, nor do I expect to, an account at Fringe and Frolics.

Can you see where this is going, Cell Phone People?  I’ve let your phone service lapse on purpose because I’ve found another phone. One that can help me with my goal to communicate without requiring the use of a foreign language translator, two English to Portuguese reference books, and a link to the Urban Dictionary.

As an example (this is true), my last text on your edgy, new-age touch screen read:

Desr Captaim,

I’ll be eivng back. Xp’yoke wa’t go biu this?
I love yoj.

My husband thought he received a vulgar text from a Klingon.

Which is kind of redundant if you know Klingons.

But, dear Cell Phone People, times haven’t always been bad.  Whoever the stranger was that wished me Happy Mother’s Day with an extensive musical message brought a tear to my eye.

Because they used up my last six minutes.

So we’re through. Let’s part without bad feelings, or reminder texts that continue for six months and include jolly holiday messages touting Santa Savings. There’s a new phone in town that knows how to speak my language. 

If I can figure out how to turn it on.