Tag Archives: phone booth

Cell phone

Cell phone: (n) short for cellular phone.

Heaven is reserved for those who are not spooked into proclaiming the party line.

It is a good thing to be positive. It is a bad thing to lie. If we could get that straight, we might be able to make progress.

Case in point: there is nothing more handy than a cell phone. If you need to call someone, you don’t need to pull your car over, find a phone booth and hope you have enough change. (Matter of fact, nearly 40% of the population might not even know what a phone booth is.) You also don’t have to wait for people to call you back because they’re not home.

But to ever present the idea that cell phones are preferable in quality and durability to the original home phone is ridiculous.

They actually remind me of the walkie talkies I was given at Christmas when I was twelve. When I was in range, the antenna was pointed just right and the weather was good, my walkie talkies were amazing. Any variance to these conditions created everything from crackling to no service.

Cell phones make it hard to hear, difficult to speak on and unpredictable. Giving them cute names and coming out with the next derivation of the previous inadequate model does not alleviate the problem.

So is it possible to be grateful for the object provided, yet practical on its actual application?

If you’re able to do that, cell phones are magnificent.

If not, you keep hoping that the next number they create will suddenly be reliable.

 

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Bath

Bath: (n) a process of immersing and washing one’s body in a large container of water.Dictionary B

I grew up in a small, two-bedroom house–one restroom and seven people. It is similar to having three people walk into a phone booth and make a call by committee.

It was many years before I discovered the importance of boundaries. For in my home, growing up, simply possessing the territory of the bathroom did not guarantee you privacy. I would occasionally be sitting on the pot and have one of my older brothers burst through the door, apply Brylcreem to his hair and comb away while I decided whether to continue my stinky endeavor.

Most humiliating was the fact that until I was about thirteen years old, my mother often came in during my bathtime to make sure I was being thorough. Being a kid, I never questioned this practice since I had no point of reference and certainly would not compare notes in the locker room with my friends.

She used these occasions to get chatty, sitting on the nearby toilet. She would discuss her day and even suggest various ways that I might choose to clean my private parts, which, for the time being, had become public domain.

I was uncomfortable with this, but keep in mind–she was my mother. It gave her almost martial law over my space.

Looking back, I realize that this was a bit bizarre.

Matter of fact, early on in my planning for a family, I recommended knocking before entering … and always celebrated the glorious wisdom of locks on doors.

 

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