posted: August 6, 2003
The phone rings. I can tell by the particular im-musical warbling that it is mine. As I have a one-pound keyboard on my lap and am in the middle of pounding out some copy (for which some distant client is paying, this time), I do not move to fetch the insistently yipping device. I continue to slash away.
My husband picks up my phone and answers it for me, but says nothing, only thrusting the now-live and listening phone with its remote and anxious connection toward me.
With a muffled howl I glare at him and snatch the phone as he says "It's Jason...." (He has read the caller information off the cell phone's screen.)
"Hi, Jason, what can I do for you?" I bite out.
It's not that I don't like Jason--actually I think he's grand--but I doubt there is anything Jason has to say to me on a Sunday morning which is so life-changing that I really needed to take this call this minute and drop what I was doing, thus losing my train of thought and the flow of the words in which I was immersed. And on client-time, too.
The rest of the conversation is really unimportant (besides, it's personal, so there, nyah!)
I do not know for certain what strange hold phones have over us that most of us rush to answer them as if bound by some ancient curse. "And when I speak, so shalt thou come unto me upon the instant, be it darkest night or coitus interruptus...." "Yes, Master...." They have the instant, spine-curling compulsion of a baby's scream which commands us to heed their demands for attention at once! (if not sooner.)
How did this come to pass? I can understand, to some extent, the desire of young girls to chatter on the phone with their friends, but this strange impulse to answer the phone when it rings, even when you know it cannot possibly be as important as what you are currently engaged in (dining, sex, work, sleep, extracting yourself from an assault by fast-moving, commando alligators...), has no reasonable explanation.
Having noted this weird behavior, I have made an effort to break this compulsion in myself, only to have my efforts thwarted by my husband. And the irony is, he hates to talk on the phone, himself.
Since becoming a cell-phone slave, the tyranny of the ring (or the buzz, as the case may be) fascinates and appalls me. I have found myself excusing myself from activities and people I would, in the past, have immersed myself in completely in order to bow to the demands of the phone.
This, sadly, has led people who call me to imagine that I should be available at all times without delay. If I do not answer their call, they leave snippy messages, as if I have deliberately ignored them (sometimes I have) or been one step from criminally negligent in not answering. Apparently it does not occur to the callers that the phone is not, in fact, grafted into my skin and it does, upon occasion, recline, unattended, in inaccessible locations relative to my position, such as on the salon table while I am in the shower. Is it really reasonable to answer the phone while in the midst of soaping up? Or undertaking other private functions? Well, then, why do people suppose that my phone shall be answered at all times? Why, further, does my husband collude in this horror? Have they lost their minds (or at least common sense) where other people are concerned?
I admit, I find a sort of sick amusement in seeing someone talking on the phone while in the restroom. Doesn't anyone but me notice that there's something a little... odd about the sound quality? And what is making that running water sound...? Having a very good imagination, myself, I'm afraid that I can all too easily envision the cause for such sounds and I do not want to have my calls answered when I might have such fertile fields of sound cues offered up along with the conversation. Bad enough to have to hear elevators or crying children or household appliances. I really have no need of hearing intimate plumbing, nor do I feel it is reasonable to inflict this aural horror-fest upon others.
And, yet, people will insist. Do they not mind that environmental sounds carry into phones and out into the ears of others? Or is my phone somehow blessed with a filter which has obscured from my callers all such embarrassing or harassing noise (the gods know that their phones have fed every noise on their end straight to me)? Oops, yes, my phone does have a filter many other cell-phones lack: me.
Still, in spite of best attempts to ignore, silence or otherwise negate the clarion call of phone calls, I still find myself twitching to answer and forcibly restraining myself, upon occasion.
When very busy, I do not answer my phone, myself. Upon occasion, I command my husband to "Leave it alone!" as he starts to dart and grab. He does not like this and I can see him vibrate with tension until the beast falls silent. I know the horrid, jangling creature annoys--that's what it has evolved to do, in spite of having picked the least-offensive ring-tone I could find--but I must resist or I'll go mad. Not to mention never getting anything done.
Further, simply having the ability to communicate does not mean that I should. I do not make phone calls from ridiculous locations unless I must, nor do I want to receive them. If one is on the top of the Empire State Building and one has just had a very profound thought about the meaning of life, jot it down, don't call. I know I shan't be calling anyone in such a moment. Why would I want to receive the same call I would not make?
I've also noticed that cell phones have become so common among my acquaintance and business set that everyone assumes everyone else has one. No one makes prior arrangements or calls in advance for directions. No, we all say things like "Call me when you cross the bridge and I'll give you directions." In the age before cell phones, we would not have presumed upon our friends and business associates' ability to find a convenient phone to call from and then finalized arrangements, but would have fixed everything in advance.
While cell phones give us the option of moving about and making arrangements on the fly, they have an unfortunate side effect of making us think that this is a good thing. Sometimes, it is not. The apparent convenience of communication while in motion has led us to believe that because we can we should.
Why? Does life really need to move any faster than it already does? Do we really need to be so "plugged in" that we never have any moment of privacy or stillness?
Maybe that's the problem: we've become so used to and so dependent upon instant and constant communication that we have forgotten that it is a tool, not a master. Technology is here for our benefit, not us for its. As frustrating as it may be for some of my friends and family, they are just going to have to get used to this one criminal quirk of mine:
Sometimes I don't answer the phone.
posted: August 21, 2003
I'm not quite sure why, but a lot of people out in Electronica Land seem to think I need to grow a penis. And the biggest possible penis, at that. A veritable State-Fair-Blue-Ribbon-Winning Penis. Is this like Sea Monkeys? Will I be able to "watch them grow and marvel at their skills?" I receive a great deal of informative e-mail and, although my helpful correspondents did not say so, I suspect that I can grow one of these amazing, life-changing things in a pot on the foredeck. Or I hope so.
In order to grow my penis, I first need to determine how much space it will need. I know it's always a bad idea to take on a pet or a plant which has excessive space-demands. It might become pot-bound and lethargic, developing all sorts of degenerate habits and diseases. I have been reading up carefully to determine the needs of the average penis. Preliminary reports from the Internet indicate that healthy penises grow to be about twelve to eighteen inches and as big around as a cucumber. With this information in hand, I extrapolate that my super-sized penis will grow to be a yard long, with the girth of a two-liter soda bottle.
Apparently, the best penises have two rootballs which, if carefully unrolled, would be about six feet long--or something like that; I got a little distracted at this point in my reading, but I'm sure there was something in there about six-footers and roots. But, regardless, I expect that my penis will develop twin rootballs about two feet in diameter, each. So, a planter six feet wide, three feet high and three feet deep should suffice. If I cannot find a packing crate, I'm sure a coffin or a bathtub will do.
Once I have my planter and my potting soil, I must nourish my prize-winner-to-be with fresh water and various growth diets. Occasionally, it may need the assistance of a vacuum pump to become long and plump. Too much of this, however, and my penis may become limp and unmanageable. But, all will not be lost: I have only to feed my penis a special preparation called Viagra--which I suspect is just Vigro plant food with a few extra vitamins and minerals added--to remain rock hard and upright, creating a dynamic and attractive display.
Once I have grown my extra-large and super-hard penis, it will, without doubt, be hailed by all as the most amazing sight in all of agriculture. I shall take it on tour. I expect it to be so large that it will need its own bus and entourage and will only be booked into the largest halls. It will have its own fan club and the tale of the penis' rise from a small pot to major star will air on cable TV in prime-time. Life will be grand.
So, you see, I'm all ready to grow my own penis. Except for one thing: none of my helpful correspondents has offered me a cutting and I cannot find "Penis" listed in the seed catalog. No one has offered any assistance in acquiring a start on one. As penises seem to have an affinity for beer, I suspect that they grow from rhizomes, like hops. I'm quite excited about the prospect of growing my penis and find this setback of silence frustrating.
Won't someone, please, send me a penis? I promise to take good care of it.....
Back to top of this page, please.