Don't call me

Rita’s house seems to have a solid-lead block stopping all cell phone signals. Seriously…I keep wondering if I am in an underground bunker. Which is just great for business. Now every work call goes something like this…“hello? HELLO? Who is this – Bob? What?? Wait a second, I’ll step outside. Can you hear me? Can you hear me now? How bout now? Oh wait…I think I lost you. #%#$@ What? You can hear ME?” Bob would be the CEO of the Company I am working for…nice.

By the time the call inevitably drops, you’ve already used half your monthly minutes and you haven’t even said anything – that I’ve heard anyway. At first, I thought standing outside was the answer…but then I found myself repeatedly roaming the driveway at 5 in the morning (8 in Philly) while still in my PJs desperately trying to point my cell phone at what I hoped was a passing satellite. I’ve really classed up the neighborhood. And for the record…the sprinklers at Rita’s house come on at 5:15 in the morning…just.in.case you are wandering through the yard in your PJs at that hour.

So then we had to start using the home phone service in combination with the world’s LARGEST phone. One of those old slim line models that everyone used to have. You know the one…you spent your high school years talking on it with its awesome two feet of mobility. I can join a conference call or go for a diet coke, I can no longer do both. It’s amazing they eventually found a way to put a whole QWERTY keyboard on a phone, because they could barely squeeze 10 digits on the old variety. And when you put the cradle next to your face…it’s slightly akin to nuzzling up to a snow ski. I feel like a three year old talking on Mickey’s first phone.

And quite simply, Mom – THAT’S why I haven’t called more.