Anyway. As I was saying, for a girl who worked from home, seldom leaving the property, the little phone was her connection to the outside world and her beloved circle of friends.
It was also a connection to Certain Someone who’d piffled and whiffled when the subject of cell phones first arose. Now, however, he was sold. Hooked. Smitten. Dependent on his own VSP (Very Smart Phone) to keep his schedule, set reminders, contact clients and run his business. Oh, yes. And to get hold of his wife.
Every Friday morning at the high, round table, the phone would beep. “You can order now,” he’d text on his way into town.
“Where r u?” This on a Saturday night at the mall.
“Looking at shoes,” I might reply, chuckling to myself at the beads of sweat this would raise on his brow. “And purses,” I’d add, knowing how he’d blanch when he read it.
“Come quick. Save your kids!” How many of those had I sent, a maternal SOS tapped out on the keyboard of the pearly pink phone? Without fail, I’d receive a reply from Billy Graham himself (or someone who sounded suspiciously like him) with orders to “pass this on.”
So it was that one fateful night when I went to check my phone, it wasn’t me who turned weak in the knees. It was him.
For unknown reasons, it simply quit. A strange dampness on the back hinted as to what could have happened. No One, of course, knew anything, Nobody claimed responsibility and a quick two days later, I found myself at the phone store with Mr. Schrock, a man on a mission with the cash in hand to fund it.
Now, Mama’s got her own VSP (Very Smart Phone) that does everything but scratch her back and start the coffee. The kids are calling, The Mister’s texting, my fellow orange purse fanatic is checking in and the phone’s a-buzzing in its bright orange cover. In the pocket of the bright orange purse.