Phone-bia

When I was growing up, our phone rang incessantly. Well over 100 times a day, I'd guess. My father is an apartment manager, so his phone number was on many a sign and in newspaper ads galore. They'd call at all hours of the day. It wasn't unusual to hear my dad get up at 3 AM to unlock an apartment for someone who forgot his/her keys. Since my dad also worked a jillion hours a day, my poor mother would be the one who got to answer the calls. Back in the day of no cell phones (a sad, sad day), she'd pass along emergency information to my father via a two-way radio found in our basement. She could also talk to a few truckers while she was at it. Then, my dad got his first cell phone. It was a beauty:It still cost a small fortune to receive any phone calls, so mom still continued her relationship in the basement with the truckers (not nearly as scandalous as it sounds). These days they've worked out a system. Dad answers all of the calls (such as the one he answered on the Storybook boat ride at Disneyland), and mom goes to lunch with her friends, not a trucker to be found.

All of this was meant to be part of the history of my phone phobia. My own home phone currently rings zero-4 times a day (depending on how many times the computerized library system calls to tell me I have a book on hold). I use about 15 cell phone minutes a month. I think about calling a friend, and then I panic. What if I say something stupid, or start to stutter? Luckily, I've worked out my own system. Facebook and e-mail have saved me from becoming a sad, lonely hermit. Most importantly, I have charming, well-loved husband who frequently acts as my secretary. "Call Lisa (one of my best friends), and see if they'll be home when we're in Utah." "Call Chanel (another best friend) and see if she wants to do lunch on Saturday." Luckily, Josh is their best friend too. I still can't get him to make my visiting teaching calls for me, though. Maybe I'll see if my dad is available.