The New Phone Booth

The invention of the cell phone has made it possible to reach someone anywhere, and at any time.  Except, of course, if you’re trying to get a hold of me, and I’m at home where cell signal is restricted to the bathroom and kitchen window sills, and the southeast corner of the living room.  But hey, you should always try the house first anyway.  Archaic, I know, but believe it or not I find the old land line to be quite satisfactory for at-home communication. 

 Folks see cell phones as a necessity these days.  It’s like everyone has forgotten that us grown-ups grew up just fine without carrying a phone.  That’s fine and dandy.  Don’t go anywhere without your phone.  After all, your car might break down. Or more likely, you might have to call your husband while both y’all are in Super Walmart to find out where he’s at. 

 But it’s gone beyond a necessity or convenience or whatever—it’s an addiction.  How else do you explain people who MUST answer the cell phone?  No. Matter. What.  Really, you don’t own the phone—the phone owns YOU. 

 Just the other day, Mini Me and I went into the restroom at Macy’s.  It’s a small restroom, with only 3 stalls.  All 3 were full and another lady was already in the queue.  As we stood waiting, one of the potty occupants was carrying on a conversation on her phone.  “Well, Jim’s going to have to have another surgery.  Mmm-hmm.  He’s already had 3 open-heart surgeries, you know…blah blah blockage blah blah…” Mini Me and I looked at each other and smiled.  I’m sure Jim would be thrilled to know that you’re sharing all his business with random strangers.  Strangers, I might add, who are grateful that Jim’s not having a vasectomy or a colonoscopy.  Our amusement was quickly interrupted, however, by the ringing of another phone in one of the other stalls.  Doo-dee-doo-doo-dee-dee-doo, rang the phone, followed by the sound of purse excavation, urine hitting toilet water, and finally, “Hello? Oh hi!  Yeah, I’m at the mall.  Mmm-hmm…”  

 Okay, really ladies?  Could it not wait?  You’re not 911, you don’t have to answer the phone.  Good grief!  Call them back when you’re done.  And get out of the daggone stall, so some of the rest of us out here peeing our pants due to a combination of full bladder and suppressed laughter can actually use the place for what God and Macy’s intended!

Name that Name

So, I’m shopping at Penney’s the other day and over the intercom a voice says, “Lacey Baum, please come to the service desk….Lacey Baum, please come to the service desk.” 

 Seriously?  Somebody named their daughter Lacey Baum?  Because, you know, if I didn’t know better, I’d think maybe Molly was working at JCP these days.  If I ever hear Phil McCracken, or Bea O’Problem paged, I’m going to be really suspicious.

 But apparently this is a real person, because it’s not the first time I’ve heard this poor girl paged at Penney’s.  The first time I heard it, I ended up doubled over, snorting and laughing as I propped myself up against a rack of baby clothes.  I have to say, though that I am impressed that ol’ Lacey Baum is gainfully employed.  You know, a name like that might be some sort of self-fulfilling prophesy sort of deal.  It’s not too hard to envision ol’ Lacey, 40 years old, sittin’ on her parents’ couch, eatin’ cornies, watchin’ Springer, and becoming irate when her mom asks her if she’s looked for a job yet.  You can almost hear her snarl, “No, Mom, I’m a LACEY BAUM, remember?!” 

 Still, I’m thinking maybe the reason I hear her paged every time I’m in the store these days is because, indeed, you have to holler at least twice to get her to do anything.  She’s all like, “Hel-lo, I’m on break over here—yeah, that’s right the Lacey Baum is on break–again.”

 Really, people, let’s think this through before we hang some horrible curse of a name on our kids, k?  Maybe that needs to be something that’s discussed in those pre-natal classes.  Or maybe it’s something that should be included in baby name books.  Forget the meaning of the name—let’s point out that it rhymes with some bodily function, or sounds like something obscene. 

The future Harry Butts of the world will thank us for it.

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