Chocolate Cell? Phones Used to be Flavorless
By Karen Williams | March 01, 2007 - Seminole Chronicle
My teenage daughter got a new cell phone, and I'm utterly confused. It's as if my brain is saying in a recorded woman's voice, "If you'd like to think a thought, please hang up and try again."
I cry out for olden times, when a phone to a teenager meant having her own extension in the bedroom. Now things are vastly more complex, and a parent can't even eavesdrop.
I'm just one more glazed-eyed baby boomer, steamrolled by new technology while trying to get up to speed with the obsolete stuff from last month.
Cellular phones - once regarded as a passing fad by, uh, surely somebody - have become more important to young people than schoolwork, obeying dress codes, and writing thank-you notes, all put together. And at regular intervals, some fiendish inventor cranks out new versions of these phones that every teen this side of Christendom must have.
I yearn for the days when Emily (possibly not her real name) was content with her Fisher-Price Chatter Phone pull-toy. I would even put up with diapers and spit-up on my best dress to go back there.
Emily's new phone is called the LG Chocolate. The phone plays music and videos. It has games and a navigation system. It connects to the Internet. All on a miniature rectangle that could fit into a miniature pocket and accidentally get washed in a full-sized washing machine. (This sort of thing once happened to possibly-not-her-real-name Emily.)
I was out of my element as we entered the busy phone store. Maybe it was my high-water sweat pants. Maybe it was my T-shirt that read, "I saw Elvis at the five-and-dime." Most likely, it was the massive wall display of phones ranging from itty-bitty to teensy-tinier, with posters listing all they could do, which was just short of stopping nuclear war.
If a person signed up for one particular phone plan, they would get loads of extra minutes and a free phone. Another plan offered tons of extra minutes and new phones for the entire family. Yet another plan threw in free music videos, ring tones created by monkeys in the Rain Forest, and a personal makeover from Catherine Zeta-Jones.
We approached the counter, and a clerk interrupted her chatter on (what else?) a cell phone.
"We just want a regular phone," I stated.
The woman squinted. "What do you mean?"
Emily elbowed me. "What she means is, we want an LG Chocolate."
"This isn't a malt shop," I announced. "We simply want a basic phone with no bells and whistles, no downloads, no uploads, no extra minutes, no ring tones, no dial tones, no Sudoku, no nothing. Just simple. And cheap."
My voice had gotten loud, and I found myself growing warm as people turned to stare.
Emily and the clerk exchanged "the poor thing needs help" glances, and Emily covered her face with her hands.
"I'm sorry," I sighed, recovering myself. "I guess all these cellular signals threw me out of whack. Go ahead and give her the Large Chocolate, and toss in a hamburger, for all I care."
I left the store feeling dazed and confused and hankering for a bygone era when you could pick up a sturdy black receiver and a nasal-sounding operator said, "Number please." Then you recited three numbers and a letter, and the call went through. And if you had a party line, you could listen to other parties talk.
Why on Earth must we try to improve on perfection?
Copyright 2007, Karen Williams
