You Called?

I have no idea how many messages are on my cell phone. According to one sister, I have 50 just from her.

My beloved phone met its final demise nearly a month ago, about 2 weeks before Elliot was born.

Those who really know me, know I am the kind of person who was permanently attached to her cell phone. After trying desperately to hold onto Luddite standards, I bought a cell phone for my first professional job as a reporter. I was hooked after that.

But, in all honesty, this last month I have quite enjoyed not having a cell phone. It's a convoluted freedom not being tethered to the shrill ring of a cell phone at all moments of the day.

I have Jane to thank for me new-found freedom. Jane, who quite enjoys playing with Mommy and Daddy's cell phones (mostly admiring the different photos of her that are the backgrounds), took my phone one day and threw it across the room. Perhaps the phone had gone black and she could no longer see herself? I don't know.

She'd thrown the phone before, so I calmly went over to pick it up. It had come apart a little, nothing new, so I went to snap it back into place.

But perhaps you can see a white something peeking out from under that top side button in the photo? Yes? It is some chip.

Now anytime I open my phone, it starts dialing random numbers. I can hold no conversations. Set no alarms.

It's a perfect play phone now. Too bad she won't touch it now that it's busted.

Really? Have you tried to call my cell phone? We'll be purchasing me a new phone, with a new number (local to our area, because, let's face it, as much as I wish I was still there, I haven't lived in Orange County, California, for 3 years), but in the meantime I do have a home number. If you were close enough to me to have my phone number, surely you have my e-mail. So write to me (you know I love e-mails) and I'll give you my home digits. Even better, send me your number again.