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.”

For Whom the Phone Rings

A cell phone is an incredible invention, designed with amazing technology by intellectual minds, so that our children, who normally count screaming “Front seat shotgun” as they race to the car as interpersonal conversation, can talk to us in the bathroom even when we're not at home.

With high hopes for a goal of widespread family communication in the new year, I finally submitted to the cell craze and bestowed the most basic instruments upon the family, admonishing the kids that these phones should be used only in cases of dire emergency such as a vehicular crisis more severe than a broken radio knob, physical injury resulting in the use of the family health insurance, or an unbelievable shoe sale at the mall.

Minutes later I received a text message from my oldest son who was located directly across the kitchen table, typing furiously on his new phone’s keypad. During several attempts to read the message, I managed to call myself twice, change the screensaver, and turn on the speakerphone function.

“Mom, just press this button,” the Alexander Graham Bell of the electronic age reached across and tapped the keypad. With a resounding beep, the message leaped to the screen.
“Pass the potatoes.”

New rule. No more text messages between people who are close enough to cut each other’s meat.

On my next trip to the mall, I visited the convenient restrooms thoughtfully located in the luau-themed food court. Hanging my purse on the pineapple, I assumed the classic public restroom hover-squat recognizable to health-conscious women everywhere. Suddenly, the unmistakable sounds of Beethoven’s most famous four notes exploded against the ceramic walls. DA DA DA DUN! I wanted a ring tone I could hear. I picked one that climbers sheltering from sudden storms on Everest could hear. I looked up. My purse hung tantalizingly above my head like an overripe coconut on a palm tree.

If I could kick the bottom of the bag, I could knock it from the hook to the floor and retrieve it with the toe of my imitation leather flower-bedecked thong sandal. I reached out tentatively with one shoe and immediately appreciated the disastrous results of stretching further.

DA DA DA DUN!

An attempt to use the spare roll of toilet paper as a projectile also failed.

DA DA DA DUN! Beethoven played on, more insistent with every note.

In desperation, I lunged for my purse, grabbed it off the hook and fell back in place just as the automatic flusher sensed evacuation and commenced operations. I pulled the phone from the depths of its nest and flipped it open with a flourish. The caller was my firstborn son, obviously in some turmoil that only his mother could resolve.

“Hello?”

“Mom, do we have any clean spoons?”

It figures. To me, crisis avoidance is saving my skirt from the self-flusher. To him, it’s getting a snack before CSI comes on.