My cel phone died at work today–apparently dead to the world. I was suddenly isolated from the rest of the cosmos. I couldn’t call Cingular to tell them my phone didn’t work, because my phone didn’t work! I couldn’t call James to ask him to call Cingular, since we’re on the same plan, because my phone didn’t work!
I’ve been trying so hard to be independant, and man, shit keeps breaking right and left. Car. Computer. Car again. Computer again. Of course the phone would go. Every time something breaks, I wind up having to call someone–usually James–to fix it, and although I work very hard to stay positive and try not to believe that The Universe Is Trying To Bitch Slap Me, it’s starting to strain even my inherent optimism.
So I call James on the phone from work, and he says to come over after work, he’ll see if he can fix it, and if not, all the paperwork for our cel plan is there. Great, sez I. I hang up.
The perky goth chick who works the register–and who makes me feel older than Methusalah–says “Hang on,” takes my cel phone, pries it open with black nails, yanks the battery out and does something arcane that looks a lot like slapping it against her palm a few times and blowing on it. After this peculiar CPR, she pops it back in and hands it to me. The phone promptly comes on. Holy crap. Saved by the perky goth chick!
I call James back to inform him that I am saved, and he invites me to dinner anyway. So that worked out.
Well, for everybody but Ben. Even though I got back at the reasonable hour of 10:30 pm, Ben did what my buddy Kathy described as his “You were out with that boy again, weren’t you?” routine, which is why I’m covered in tabby hairs, my chin itches and smells faintly of fish breath, and there are several claw holes in my shirt.
Also, a sixteen pound cat that drapes himself over your shoulder can and will reach down, and in the course of kneading, snap your bra. I don’t know quite how to feel about that.