I’m a cell phone killer. I’m probably wanted in multiple states for reckless cell phone homicide. I drop them. I drown them. Blackberrys hate me. Iphones fear me. Droids tremble in my presence.
It all started with my new phone. My husband and I changed plans and we had to get two new cell phones. Because we spent so much money, the cell phone company threw in two lesser phones for our kids. My kids were overjoyed with their new phones and we were all extremely happy for five minutes until I broke my phone.
Somehow or other as I tried to use it, I broke it. Fortunately it was under warranty for another ten minutes, so they agreed to replace it for free. Unfortunately, I would have to wait a week for my new new phone. So I borrowed my daughter’s. And then I broke hers. I dropped it as she handed it to me.
Now the cell phone salesman had two phones to fix.
My son cradled his new cell phone.
“Keep away, you cell phone killer,” he warned me. I threw up my arms in disgust.
The next day my son came up to me.
“Mom, have you seen my cell phone?”
“No,” I responded. “Where was the last place you saw it?”
“In the pocket of my jeans.”
I blanched. “You mean the jeans I washed last night?” We both raced downstairs to the laundry room. I reached into the washing machine and pulled out a very clean, very wet, non-functioning cell phone.
“Ahhh! You killed my cell phone!” he shouted. “You’re a three time cell phone killer!”
I called my husband on our home phone. “I killed my cell phone and both of the kids’ cell phones,” I told him.
“You’re cut off,” he said. “No more cell phones for you.”
“But I need to have a cell phone,” I whined.
“We’ll get you something you can’t break.”
“What?” I asked.
“Two cups and a string.”