Cellular Mania

You know you don't feel good when you're running a tad behind schedule for an artist board meeting in The City, you've repacked your bag, and laptop twice but you can't find your cellphone, thinking you've lost it last night at the play. So you shake down all your dirty laundry (but there's an awful lot of it (purple mountain ranges come to mind) because that pesky virus you picked up last week gave you far too much permission to let things slide). And you're off your vat of morning tea (not a good thing on a clear day) because your gut's protesting overmuch. And a jolt of caffeind would work major wonders right about now. Maybe the second glass of wine last night wasn't such a good idea. Then you tear apart the car and find all kinds of wondrously distracting things (dark chocolate caramels—still edible, BTW, dried cheese, your other reading glasses). You're laying supine on the sidewalk in an Odalesque nude position, in order to peek under the seats (or change a tire). You have enough stuff crammed in your car to go camping, teach an art class, and outfit the Bolinas Freestore. Some of the flotsam finds its way onto the sidewalk and people walking down the street are giving you wider berth than usual. Soon they'll be making you offers. Then as a last ditch effort, you flag down the postman so he can call you on his cell, but it's locked in the mail truck which is a half a block up the street. And so you go into the house to shake down your laundry again, thinking you really, really must do the laundry, wondering if you should call the auditorium. Did you save your ticket from last night (what a great play), so you can tell the cleaner-uppers (now you're sorry for leaving all that garbage), exactly where it fell out of your pocket of the stretch jeans that are too big because the spandex is shot. No need to unbutton them—they slide right off your hips like ghetto-pants if you cram too much in your pockets, like a wallet, keys and cellphone. Forget coins—a pocketful of change is like cement boots at the bottom of the East River—leaving your pants in a puddle around your ankles. Not to mention the fact that they're girl-pants: postage-stamp-sized pockets too shallow to even hold a wallet—what were they thinking? We don't need no stinkin' place to stash our credit cards, keys, or cellphone? And you've been off your fodder lately. Damned virus making you daft as a goldfish—you are reminded of the myriad times you've lost your readers, only to find a few pairs in a cozy herd perched on top of your head. So this is how it begins: 60 is not the new 40. Fuck that cellular decline thing. Just say no. Then it hits you: why not just call your bloody cellphone from the landline? Duh. No shit, Sherlock. But even that concept requires a modicum amount of skillsets which you don't seem to possess this morning, like what your cellphone number is, not the boyfriend's old number, or all your old phone numbers. No GL4s. Nor do you possess your cellphone which has the number safely stashed on it and now it's clear that you'll be officially late for your artist meeting. And you hate the late artist cliché. None dare call it mentalpause. But here you are. Meanwhile, your gut's practicing its warm-up wind instruments for some aerodynamic audition for Cirque du Soleil, and you finally manage to dial your cell number on the fifth-time's-a charm rule. Did you remember to take it off mute? Oops! A faint buzzing sound like an angry beehive or a lilliputian thundering herd of beefaloes eminates from under the bed. Shit! It took a powder during the night and was on the charger all along! (Gawd, would you look at all the dust bunnies under the bed? So, there's where the amethyst earring you got in the real Inverness when you were 19, went!) At least the charger was plugged in. It could've been worse. You could've locked the keys in the car.

You're saving that one the next time.