Wednesday, September 21, 2011
So if my sister is calling to see how I'm managing with the problem I called to cry on her shoulder about on Sunday, she isn't getting through.
And if the library wants me to come pick up a book I ordered, I don't know about it.
And if I want to call my mom to reinforce the cell phone training we did last week--which I do--I CAN'T because the only place I recorded her cell phone number is IN MY PHONE! Aaaarrrggggghhhhhhh!
Publisher's Clearinghouse can't notify me of winnings, publishing houses can't reach me to beg for my half-finished novel, life is passing me by. But not my phone. It knows who's calling. It's storing the texts and the voice mail.
Clearly, the thing has legs. And no conscience.
Clearly, I have a problem.
The men in my life don't seem to experience this major life dilemma with anywhere near the frequency that it befalls me. I think it's because of the reliability of pockets in men's pants. And the lack of purses. And, I admit it, my own gypsy nature. There are just too many places where I non-routinely stash the stupid thing, and too many places where I use it, and hence too many locations to toss when it goes AWOL.
I've reached the phase of phone-disappearance where I'm about to move from the desultory searching mode, which followed the initial frantic pursuit, into the more laissez-faire approach. Phone? What phone? Did I used to have a phone? What was I doing with such a thing? Eventually, if the past is any predictor, this will conclude with serendipitous discovery. Oh look, a phone. Wow, it has pictures of familiar people, an address book of names I know, and some of my favorite music!
Until then, I guess it's just me and the land line. And the few numbers I can still remember.