Please leave a message. Beeeeep.

If you want to get a hold of me or Mike, the best way is via e-mail. The second best way is cell phone. The least preferred way is our home phone.

When someone calls our home phone, if they are lucky we'll answer it. Sometimes we don't answer it because we're busy. Sometimes we don't answer it because we see who it is on caller ID and we just don't want to talk to that person -- usually it's someone wanting money. A lot of times we don't answer it because we can't actually find the phone.

Consequently, we get a lot of voicemail messages. But we don't always check the voicemail on our home phone. Kind of out of site, out of mind.

That's all gonna change now because Mike just showed me that I can actually check my home voicemail online! What will they link of next?

I just log into Bright House, which delivers our phone, cable and internet services. From there I can click "My Voicemails." Each call is listed separately so I can see who called. I can click the sound file to listen to the message and delete them once I am finished. How cool is that?!

So if you call my house and we don't answer -- I'm sure we just can't find the phone. Of course I'd answer if I knew it was you. Anyway, feel free to leave a message. I'll listen to it the next time I'm online.

This cracks me up!

Have you see this commercial? It's sure to make you laugh:



Mike is a big butt dialer. I mean, he is a frequent butt dialer. Obviously, he's not the only one!

Dear Santa...

Tomorrow morning I'm heading to the shopping mecca of Cleveland, Ohio for my annual shopping trip with my mom, sister, aunts, uncle and grandfather. I'm sure I'll have plenty of blog fodder when I return. In the meantime, I'm leaving you with a letter I wrote to Santa three years ago. Enjoy!

Dear Santa,

Please bring me a new cell phone. Now, before you dismiss my request as just another Northside prima donna with a penchant for the latest technology, let me tell you how my cell phone was lost in an act of maternal heroics...

We were driving home from Ohio last night (of course you know that because I assured my children numerous times that you were indeed on the watch for naughty—or nice—behavior). Somewhere just inside of 465, Robbie started crying that his tummy hurt. So I leaned back to calm him down and strategically place a plastic bag under his chin. A few minutes went by and he blessedly returned to sleep without tossing his cookies.

So I snaked my way back to the front seat, glad to have dodged the vomit bullet, when what to my wondering ears should hear, a sudden cry then retch. I sprang from my seat, plastic bag in hand, to catch the upchuck wherever it should land.

Unfortunately, my young boy has not perfected his upchucking aim and instead of the bag, hit me square across the arm and chest. (And since Santa, I know you've been watching, you know this was the THIRD time I've been thrown up on in a week!)

Santa, I'm hoping you left to go check out some other naughty or nice kids at that moment and didn't witness the 20 minutes that Robbie and I rode the rest of the way home virtually naked, except for our underwear. (Let me tell you that leather seats are cold on bare skin!)

And I hope you weren't flying too closely behind us because Mike took our pukey clothes and tied them to the luggage rack; they smelled way too bad to leave them in the car with us for the rest of the ride.

So Santa, I know that you are wondering why all this leads to my request for a new cell phone...

Well, when I sprang from my seat to tend to my son, my cell phone flew off my lap and into my husband's open Big Gulp of Diet Coke, only to be discovered this morning...

I realize, Santa, that this request comes late in the season. If by chance you don't have any cell phones left in your sack, reservations for one at a remote island resort would do just fine.

Your friend,
Amy

What the cell?!

Twice this week, I witnessed incidents involving cell phones that left me quite judgemental of the parties involved.

The first was at the neighborhood pool. A mother arrived with her two daughters, the oldest of whom is going into the 6th grade. There was nothing remarkable about the situation, though I did notice that while the girls were swimming, the mom went off into the corner with her cell phone and had a lengthy conversation.

When the conversation was over, she called to her oldest daughter and proceeded to tell her that she'd gone nearly 100 text messages over her allotted 1,000 text messages for the month and that the billing cycle was still more than 2 weeks away.

The daughter was alternately defensive and contrite. Mom said, "you'll have to pay me for those extra messages." (A sum of less than $10.) Then, went on to say, "I owed you $10 for blah blah blah, so we're even." Which, while mathematically correct, doesn't in my mind equate to a lesson learned for young daughter.

Mom then proceeded to tell the daughter that she had arranged to increase the daughter's text message allotment to 1,500 messages per month.

What the cell?!

Nice consequence Mom. How long do you think it will take her to use 1,700 minutes and expect Mommy to up her limit to 2,000? Never mind that this is an 11-year-old girl we are talking about. I have yet to hear a convincing story of why an 11-year-old child needs to have a cell phone. And, being the parent of my own 11-year-old, I've heard a myriad of weak reasons for why "I NEED a cell phone, Mom!"

The second incident occurred at Target, though it could have happened just about anywhere these days. Man checking out, wearing a blue tooth and yapping on it the entire time he was in the check out.

I hate those blue tooth things. Much too Star Trekkian for my tastes. Plus, I can never tell if the lady in the cereal aisle is talking to me or to the invisible woman in her ear.

So many people have lost the art of offering common courtesy. Is it too much to say "hello" to the cashier? Or even "how's your day going?" Very few people like to be treated as though they are invisible. But that's exactly what this man distracted by his self-important phone call did to the cashier.

I wonder what was so important that this man could not offer to return the call or even let it roll to voicemail. I wonder if he gave it a thought later? I wonder if it bothered the cashier, or if she has grown used to that kind of un-greeting?

In short, I was left wondering "What the cell?!"