Can You Hear Me Now?

My friend Raelynn has a phone she swears will do her hair and nails, tell her what shoes to wear with all her outfits, and lie about her age.

I don’t need a little electronic box to tell me what to wear, how to organize my CDs, or when to flip the steaks over. To me, a smart phone is one that knows not to ring when I’m in the shower. And never accepts messages from discarded spouses.

Also, I don’t need a phone with a name of its own. I can’t remember the names of my children. I don’t need to try and conjure up an extra one for a device I can’t figure out how to use.

My phone has so many buttons, I feel like I’m initiating a launch code whenever I check my messages. The last time I tried to take a picture, I accidentally turned on the voice controls. I was out shopping, and I’m pretty sure Mall Security picked up my trail before I got as far as Victoria’s Secret.

“Say a command,” the phone snapped smartly.

“Shut up!” I squealed, digging in my pocket to retrieve the thing.

“Say a command,” the device insisted.

“Fold the laundry!” Humor is my defense mechanism. As with most of the other mechanisms in my life, the warranty expired the day I needed it most.

“Dialing 5-3-3”

“No, not five, FOLD, you crazy thing.”

“Calling the Captain.”

“Not Captain. Crazy!”

Other shoppers shot uneasy glances in my direction. “Talk about Captain Crazy,” an elderly woman muttered and whipped an Emergency Bat Turn with her walker right in the food court.

“Look,” I muttered discreetly to the palm of my hand. “Behave. No one will hear you scream.”

“Dialing 9-1-1”

“I said NO ONE. Not 9-1-1.”

“Emergency services” came a refreshingly human voice from my phone.

“HELLO!” I screamed frantically. “My phone has taken over. Please help me!”

Silence.

Small children hid behind the clothes racks in Lane Bryant. Passersby detoured around the hemp tattoo kiosk to avoid me.

I spoke into the phone. “You think I’m psycho, don’t you?”

“Lady,” the Emergency Responder answered. “You had me at hello.”

Lost and Found

I received a call from my son today. Early in the morning. On my cell phone. All indicators that a crisis has risen with the sun and was threatening to bring on gnashing of teeth and rending of garments before breakfast. He’s a wonderful guy, but stress transforms him from Dr. Jekyll into Mr. Hulk. (Hulk smash toast for getting too brown!)

It’s too early in the day for him to be concerned about the dinner menu, so there must be some other need like, say, the funnies are missing from the newspaper or he’s supposed to have a complete physical before soccer practice that afternoon.

Mothers can’t ignore hysterical children. At least not until they find out if there’s broken bones or missing teeth and whether the crisis is covered by insurance. I thought briefly of hurling the phone into the jaws of an oncoming minivan, but instead pressed the button and faced the mutant.

“Hello.”

“Mom, I can’t find my name tag.”

“I can’t find our house on a city map, but I don’t use your minutes.” It’s not that I don’t love the kid, but everything’s a crisis.

“I have to have my name tag to go to work.”

“They can’t tell it’s you from the joyous way you bound through the door in the morning?”

“Mom, it’s not funny.”

“Look son, it’s not like you work in the Oval Office and you’ve accidentally misplaced launch code numbers for the first volley of thermonuclear missiles. You work in a sandwich shop.”

“It’s not a sandwich shop. It’s a sub shop. The best sub shop in town.”

“Well can’t the best sub shop in town afford a new name tag?”

“That’s not the point. I don’t want to look unorganized.”

This from the kid who refers to the pile of T-shirts in the corner of his room as his “spare clothes.” Several generations of dust bunnies have called that pile home and lived a very nice life indeed.

“Have you looked in the dryer? I heard something making that clickety-clunk sound in there this morning.”

“I’ll look. Hold on.”

I paused at a traffic light and studied a man tracking his vacation itenerary on a shiny GPS while I mentally computed the number of minutes my cell phone plan was losing to dryer lint.

A relieved voice in my ear said, “Got it. Thanks, Mom.”

“It’s nothing. I live for these moments. It’s even better than getting AARP rates for my room at the retirement home.

“Huh?”

“I said you’re welcome.”

“Oh. You’re the best.”

“Yeah, that’s what they say down at the Piggly Wiggly when I have enough teenage boys in my living room to qualify for gangland activity and I buy enough hamburger to feed them all.”

“Mom?”

“Yes, son?”

“That reminds me. What’s for dinner?”