I have a cell-phone-shaped tumor on my brain.

A couple of weeks ago we had this night of Hellacious Demon Storms; my mom and I were driving back from Bryanna's wedding shower and it was terrifying. We couldn't see anything. We couldn't even hear the radio over the thunder and hail. The lightening was so frequent and bright it was like daytime. My mom was driving me to her house where Tony was supposed to pick me up. So, we made it through the storm and I sat in the front room, waiting for Tony. And I waited. And I WAITED. And he didn't show. I sat right by the window - Every time I'd see headlights coming down the street my heart would beat fast and my throat would close up, but it wouldn't be him. I sat by the window for forty minutes, waiting, sure that he was dead or stranded or worse.

Pair this with the fact that we keep driving to Canada with the engine light on and we find ourselves facing a necessary evil: the cell phone.

For years I have abstained and turned my nose up at these annoying little machines. I've hated them with a passion. I've rolled my eyes at the greasy executive in Kroger, pretending to scream at his broker to sell a million shares of some imaginary stock in the express check out line. At work, I've done entire pretests with bored housewives who refused to stop chatting with Blanche Down the Street about the mink-lined mules she got at Von Maur long enough for me to use the goddamned puffer. I've had entire confused conversations with people [studying me very strangely] who were NOT actually talking to me [although they were LOOKING at me], but to someone speaking to them through one of those tiny earpieces. ANNOYING.

But then I thought Tony was dead.
And I broke down.
As the great Bruce Silberburg once said to me [when I was a wee lass of seventeen] O, how depressing that my gods have feet of clay.

But. Christalmighty these things are convenient.

P.S. Could be worse, I suppose. I could be Tony. HE bought the belt-holster.