The Hard Cell

A couple of years ago, we downsized our apartment. To this day, I remember the conversation my wife had with a representative from Bell, when we called to get our service transferred to our new address.
Bell flunkie: "We'll need a contact number where we can reach you on your moving day."
Eva: "Umm, that's why you're coming...to connect our service."
Bell: "Either your husband's or your cell number would be fine."
Eva: "We don't have a cell phone."
The Bell boy, who was maybe shaving every second month, was absolutely flummoxed at the thought that there were two people left in the city who did not have cell phones. He recovered quickly, though, and tried to sell us one...only to be informed that we had no interest whatsoever in obtaining a cell phone. Master Bell was at a total loss for words, and I'm sure we were the laughingstock of the call center that day. Hell, for all I know, they still tell the story of the Luddites who flat-out reject cellular technology.
Except we're not Luddites...the mere existence of this blog should prove that. And we don't reject cell phones. They have their place. If, for instance, we lived in Listowel now--as we had been planning--and Eva was commuting to Waterloo, on roads that can get fantastically hairy during the winter...well, then we'd own a cell phone. For emergencies only. Or if I was a high-priced gigolo, like I am in the universe six doors down, I suppose I'd have to bite the bullet and get one.
But I do flat-out reject the idea that we, in our present incarnation, need another phone in our lives. We have three of them already...one on each floor. How much more convenience can one family need?
What was that? What about when you're not at home? Well, for those occasions we have this neat contraption called an answering machine. It's really cool...see, what it does is, you call us, my voice answers, and you get a chance to leave a m--
Oh, you've heard of them. Well, why don't you have one? They've been around for decades now.
You do? Then...why do you need a cell....oh, wait, I get it. You're a Very Important Person. People must call you at all hours of the day. Either you save lives for a living, or you have a ten million dollar stock portfolio, or...
You work in a grocery store?
Oh.
I guess this is yet another of those things that proves that KEN BREADNER IS NOT OF THIS EARTH.
See, I like the idea of being someplace where I can't immediately be reached. It's one of a myriad of ways I keep from going crazy, and I highly recommend it. Peace. Tranquility. So valuable, and so rare in this hurly-burly world. And if anybody truly has something important to communicate, they could (a) leave a message, (b) call back later, or (c) send me an email. (This "Luddite" checks his electronic mailbox daily, almost without fail.)
Another thing I just can't accept about cell phones: they charge you for incoming calls. To me, this is ludicrous. Why have people not revolted over this?
You get a Christmas card in the mail from Uncle Drunkstubble. But you can't open it until you pay postage. Somebody faxes a document to you, but it won't come out of your machine until you insert a buck. Ridiculous, right? So why the hell should you have to shell out every time a telemarketer...or a wrong number...or your friend across town calls you? Last time I checked my phone bill, it didn't list all my incoming calls and charge me for each one. Or any of them. Even the one from California.
And another thing. Text messaging. WHY??? Buddy, you have a PHONE in your hand. Pick it up and USE it. Hit the buttons...BOOP BOOP BEEP BEEP BOOP....and TALK INTO IT.
Leave a message at the sound of the *sigh*....