India’s Calling

So, today I received my first cellular telephone in the mail. I wanted to make sure this cell phone thing wasn’t just another fad before I jumped in. It was well packaged. In other words, it took a hammer, chisel, scissors, and two kitchen knives to open the damned shipping box. When I finally tore the box open, parts scattered like cockroaches across the dining room floor and beyond. I’m not certain all the parts were collected and inserted properly, which may have been the problem.

I followed all the prompts on the website. See, I’m not totally without technological abilities. I can do the world wide web. Then, I followed all the prompts once again, and again, and again with no success. An error message kept coming up, ‘Not registered. Invalid pin.” Pin? What pin? No one told me about a pin.

Calling the helpline did nothing more than frustrate me. After two back-to-back Evanescence albums played as I waited on hold, all I wanted to do was find a razor blade and end it all. I know how to handle delicate electronic equipment that won’t bend to my will. I didn’t need someone from across two oceans to set me straight. I got my meat mallet out of the kitchen and banged the hell out of the phone, then tried to set it up once again. Nothing. I was surprised because when I smack my husband on the head with the mallet he straightens right out and does what I tell him to do.

Disappointed, because it was Valentine’s Day and I had planned on taking some spicy photos of myself and sending them to his phone. ( To make up for hitting him on the head.) I checked the little pictures on the screen and sure enough, there was a picture of a camera and it looked like it would work. Giggling like a hyena, I tried on one of the lacy teddies I’d purchased to surprise him with. It was a bit snug around the butt, but, hey, boys like a little junk in the trunk, right?

It’s not easy taking pictures with these damned phones. How do people do it? I had pics of my knuckles, the ceiling, and the scraps all over my fabric room floor. When I finally learned how to turn the camera around, I realized I now have three double chins. Not very spicy. So I took a picture of my boob. Well, I thought it was my boob because there was something like a nipple on it. I’m not absolutely certain it’s not my foot with a growth. Then, I took a modest picture of my, you know, down there, with my hand covering it, thinking to myself, “This does not look like I’m playing with myself at all.”

I gave up on my stupid Valentine’s Day gift and called the help desk again. They informed me that my problem was beyond their pay grade (if they only knew how right they were), and told me to send the phone back. Well. That’s just peachy. My son is my help desk for all things technical. No way am I going to ask him to delete nude pics of his mother’s feet. Or whatever. I’m going to have to return the phone as is.

PS. There is more. I started laughing so hard I thought I was going to pee my pants when I realized I had to send the phone back and didn’t know how to get rid of my naughty pictures. So, of course, I had to write to my friends and share my ridiculous story with them. I also sent the story to my husband who wanted to know what was so funny.

He stopped laughing and called me to look at the message I’d sent him, the same message I’d sent to all my friends, complete with the photo of the foot, or whatever, and my hand at crotch level. I’m sort of scared to write them back and hope someday they will speak to me again.

But, the worst part of the entire episode is I’ll never be able to show my hands, feet, or chins in Calcutta again.