My phone has been telling me for many months that it would like to retire, please. It told me on numerous occasions that it would much rather be sipping mint juleps in a cell phone condo in Boca Raton instead of slaving away for me in soggy Seattle, texting my friends for me and making sure I keep up with Jenny Slate on Twitter. I ignored my cell phone for a long time on this point, not filing the paperwork and such, until it couldn’t take my shit anymore and started going on strike. You want to listen to your dumb podcast while on your way to your dumb bourgie brunch, lady? it said. Well, I feel like playing you the Sound of Silence and I’m not talking about Simon and funking Garfunkel. It shut down constantly. It stopped letting me text certain people most of the time, and stopped letting me text other people ever again. I had a whole text conversation with Alli and Map, but I couldn’t text Map, so I would text Alli and tell her to please pass the text on to Map, and she put up with that bee ess and didn’t tell me to retire my goddamn phone already.
Day before yesterday, my phone just closed up shop for good. Incoming business was still functioning but it put a gag order on my saying anything to anyone or looking anything up. This meant that people were trying to contact me, and I could see that, but I was unable to respond in any way, therefore making me look like a royal buttmunch who ignores people who are speaking directly to me. Game recognize game, cell phone.
This is how I came to be in a phone store near my work yesterday, forlornly looking for a new phone because my old phone clearly hates my guts. I walked in, and even though I knew what I was there to buy exactly, I milled about the store, because that’s what you do in tech stores now since they no longer believe in having clear queues that one gets in for service (get off my lawn, tech stores!). A woman with a tech store polo shirt on, a tablet, and an earpiece came over and asked me what I needed, and I told her I would like to buy a phone, please. She said someone would be with me in a moment, and then left me to mill about some more. But before she left me, she stopped short and said: “I love your skirt” in a very abrupt sort of way, as if surprised by the love of my skirt. As if the love of my skirt were a surprise party for her and had jumped out from behind a credenza to startle her. “Thank you!” I said back. She hovered for a minute, looking hard at the skirt. “I…well. I really love it,” she said again. And then she walked off. You guys, my skirt made her flustered with its awesomeness. My skirt made her breathless with delight. I am the fashionista of the year! I milled about for a while longer. I looked at the phones, and I went over to the tablets. I looked at the readers. I walked the perimeter of the whole store in my awesome skirt. Finally, I decided to sit on a bench and wait. I walked to the bench, and before I sat down, I smoothed my skirt down, front and back.
The hem of the back of my skirt was tucked up under itself, is the thing.
Ok, ok, ok, let’s just make something clear. My ass was not hanging OUT of the tucked skirt. But it was on the border of hanging out. Like, my butt was Tijuana! Which means that that lady was not loving my skirt. That lady was surprised by the fact that she could almost see my fundament running free in her store. Apparently, “I love your skirt!” is code.
Am I wrong to think that she should have told me outright that my trunk junk was on the edge? Am I asking too much that this be an assumed part of basic customer service? I’m just saying, that if her polo shirt would have been dangerously askew in some way, I would have helped a sister out.
I also don’t think it is weird that I feel somehow that my old cell phone was behind this whole situation. That phone hated my guts, people.
Mr Telephone Man, by New Edition