I'm Here for My Sister's Cell Phone

Tuesday Evening, Our House

Moi: Shite, where is my cell phone?
Jon: I'll call it.
[Dials. Nothing.]
Moi: I'll check the car. [Nope.] The bedroom. [Nope.] The yard? [Definitely not, though plenty of Houston's leftovers.] Shoot. It's lost.
Jon: Nice work, fool.
Moi: Ah, it'll show up somewhere. The battery is probably dead.

I am secretly pleased, as I despise the cell phone.

Fast forward twenty minutes. Fully enjoying "The Next Iron Chef" on the Food Network as Jon paces upstairs, chatting away on his cell phone. I'm stuffing my face with Harvest Cheddar Sun Chips and obliviously enjoying cell phone freedom. Life is pre-tty sweet.

The house phone rings and shocks the living daylights out of me, as usual. (Since we are pretty much the only people our age who have a landline, my first response is always, what the hell is that hideous sound?)

Ah-ha! It's my cell phone calling us!

Assuming Jon has discovered the phone upstairs and is calling me, (he likes to do this trick, oh, every other day) I answer the phone in a manly, singsong, 'Hi, I'm Christopher Plummer from The Sound of Music' voice (there is just no good reason for why, people):



Caller: "I'm sorry, ma'am, I'm calling because we located your cell phone outside Blockbuster Video."

Oh, jaysus.
(That's Jesus in a midwestern accent.)

I quickly end the call with no dignity whatsoever and promise to pick up the phone the next day.

In disguise. 

Just shoot me.

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