July 13, 2005
In Memory Of The Nameless Phone
My cell-phone and I had never been the best of
friends. Despite its many bells and whistles, complete with
camera phone, Internet access and Tetris (my personal favorite), it
seemed to hate me from the beginning. My husband has the exact
same phone and it is in the same pristine condition it was when he first
bought it. He claims he just takes better care of his
stuff, but I am convinced my phone had a death wish. Its sole
purpose in life was to commit suicide. It’s not my fault, but my
husband now knows to always get the warranty for anything I’m
going to be touching at all.
I’m sad to say “it” doesn’t/didn’t have a
name. We never got along well enough for me to refer to it
as anything other than a disgusted “it”. Over the last nine
months “It” has slowly made it’s hatred of me clear. First
the side of it cracked (“it” jumped out of my hand with no provocation
on my part) then the screen cracked giving it a “mirror, mirror on the wall…”
sort of appearance. Eventually the screen died altogether,
and most recently the spring that holds it open decided to become
possessed. I would be talking quite contentedly when it
would surreptitiously snap shut, sinisterly trying to catch my ear and
quite successfully scaring the crap out of me while convincing the
person on the other line I had hung up on them (I suppose technically I
had, I just had to explain to whomever, it wasn’t me who was upset…it
was “it” again). Yesterday, I picked it up to
make a call and I had barely hit “talk” before it snapped shut on my
fingers at which point half of it made a wild dash for the
floor. Thus ended its short, frustrated life:
Death by decapitation. Maybe it was actually middle aged,
I’m not really sure what the life expectancy of cell phones are.
Having killed two of them before, I’m afraid I’ve never reached
anything close to normal.
I stared mournfully at the two halves this morning, not from any
affection for the phone, but with the comprehension that I had at least
fifty numbers on that phone and I only had about three of them
memorized. I went to call Jim and complain, when I realized
I didn’t even know his number.
I wandered around the trailer somewhat aimlessly, wondering if I
had perhaps written it down somewhere….I hadn’t of
course. So I got rather reckless and decided to just close
my eyes and punch in whatever numbers seemed natural. I was
hoping my fingers could remember the number even if my brain
couldn’t. They did, I got it on the second try.
However, I don’t think that’s going to work again. (the irate
gentleman I got the first time persuaded me not to try)
Hopefully the knowledge that I now have no phone numbers will inspire
some of you to call me, thus relieving me of the responsibility of
trying to find you. hint…hint…
My cell-phone and I had never been the best of
friends. Despite its many bells and whistles, complete with
camera phone, Internet access and Tetris (my personal favorite), it
seemed to hate me from the beginning. My husband has the exact
same phone and it is in the same pristine condition it was when he first
bought it. He claims he just takes better care of his
stuff, but I am convinced my phone had a death wish. Its sole
purpose in life was to commit suicide. It’s not my fault, but my
husband now knows to always get the warranty for anything I’m
going to be touching at all.
I’m sad to say “it” doesn’t/didn’t have a
name. We never got along well enough for me to refer to it
as anything other than a disgusted “it”. Over the last nine
months “It” has slowly made it’s hatred of me clear. First
the side of it cracked (“it” jumped out of my hand with no provocation
on my part) then the screen cracked giving it a “mirror, mirror on the wall…”
sort of appearance. Eventually the screen died altogether,
and most recently the spring that holds it open decided to become
possessed. I would be talking quite contentedly when it
would surreptitiously snap shut, sinisterly trying to catch my ear and
quite successfully scaring the crap out of me while convincing the
person on the other line I had hung up on them (I suppose technically I
had, I just had to explain to whomever, it wasn’t me who was upset…it
was “it” again). Yesterday, I picked it up to
make a call and I had barely hit “talk” before it snapped shut on my
fingers at which point half of it made a wild dash for the
floor. Thus ended its short, frustrated life:
Death by decapitation. Maybe it was actually middle aged,
I’m not really sure what the life expectancy of cell phones are.
Having killed two of them before, I’m afraid I’ve never reached
anything close to normal.
I stared mournfully at the two halves this morning, not from any
affection for the phone, but with the comprehension that I had at least
fifty numbers on that phone and I only had about three of them
memorized. I went to call Jim and complain, when I realized
I didn’t even know his number.
I wandered around the trailer somewhat aimlessly, wondering if I
had perhaps written it down somewhere….I hadn’t of
course. So I got rather reckless and decided to just close
my eyes and punch in whatever numbers seemed natural. I was
hoping my fingers could remember the number even if my brain
couldn’t. They did, I got it on the second try.
However, I don’t think that’s going to work again. (the irate
gentleman I got the first time persuaded me not to try)
Hopefully the knowledge that I now have no phone numbers will inspire
some of you to call me, thus relieving me of the responsibility of
trying to find you. hint…hint…
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