Tuesday, January 7, 2014

I Need an Ambience Ambulance

            Like you, I have a cell phone.  Unlike you, mine is possessed.  St. Bob gave this contraption to me so that I would have a Smart Phone and be able to use it like a computer.  As is my style, I refused to read the instruction book.  The same thing happened when my boys tried to teach me Dungeons and Dragons and pulled out an instruction book the size of War and Peace.

            However, like many a chimp, I have learned some tricks.  I have a microphone to help me text, I find coupons on there, and I use a stylus to play Words with Friends with my third son, who is at the moment beating me but I am getting nothing but Vs and vowels.  And I even have a directory of everyone in my church.

            Okay, not my entire church—there are 15 million Mormons, worldwide. Just the phone numbers of people in my local congregation. And, as president of the women’s group, I have occasion to call some of them from time to time.
            AND, since it’s a New Year, we have changed meeting times.  Our new time is 10:30, perfect for people who thought 8:30 was ridiculous.  So I, bearer of glad tidings, decided to call a few of the less active sisters, and remind them of the promise I wrangled out of them in October, to start coming when the time changed.
            I dial a woman I’ll call Ethel, but her name is really Doris.  Just kidding, it’s not Doris.  Anyway, Ethel’s answering message comes on.  Just as I’m about to leave word about the new time, my cell phone STARTS PLAYING GUITAR MUSIC. 
 And not just any guitar music, but a complicated Spanish number with what sounds like 12 strings, and I am looking around for Zorro to come riding up.  It is so loud I have to yell over the music for Ethel to hear me.  This woman will no doubt think I have called her from a cantina somewhere in Mexico, 

 where Tequila drinks go sliding across the bar to drunken patrons with those curly mustaches you see everywhere these days. 
 (I also got the lowdown on those mustaches, recently—turns out they’re a hipster thing, but no self-respecting hipster would actually call himself a hipster, yet the fad rages on.)  Anyhow, that is the mental image I am sure Ethel will have when she listens to her messages.   She will think I am a boozy floozy (bilingual, though), who called her from South of the Border somewhere to make a debatable claim about the new church meeting time. On a possessed cell phone. 
            Whatever.  Just as long as she doesn’t think I’m a hipster.  
If you know why guitar music suddenly came pouring out of my iPhone, leave me a comment.  And for heaven's sake, order my books on Amazon, so I can afford a better phone.

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