What do oreos and nuns have in common?

Eat me.

I went out on a school night this week. Tuesday, I think it was. Yeah, Tuesday. Because it was the previous Thursday that I swore that I would never drink again. Well, drink between the work week. No, I promised not to drink a lot between the week. I don’t know what I promised, really.

I was making the promise while walking up and down Miracle Mile, in heels, desperately trying to sober up. Or, maybe it was when a group of “out-of-town” guys who had “just come from the ATM,” mistook me for a high-priced escort. Although, by the state of my mascara, they probably thought I was just a ten dollar hooker.

I was serious about this promise. Until my dear friend called me to say hello and I answered, “Tuesday, drinks, perfect.”

When she asked me to pick the place, I used an app on my iPhone and it spit up the name of a bar in the heart of downtown Miami on the corner of Shady Street and Purse-Snatcher Avenue. It sounded like a guaranteed good time.

As soon as the bell rang at work, I headed over to my new favorite bar. I valet’d my car at the crack house down the street and walked toward the bar in with my super-sized Coach purse in my hand and Dolce and Gabana glasses on my face. You know, in case of paparazzi. Because the bar didn’t have a door, I took the opportunity to stand at the doorway and take off my sunglasses in slow motion, you know, like in the movies, I even shook my hair side-to-side. That shit is really hard to do, by the way, at least in slow motion.  

However, instead of hundreds of urbanite hipsters squeezing around, there two guys in ties and an old, married couple. And me. So, I quickly mounted a stool and ordered a beer.

I knew I had to take it slow. There was no way I could walk around this neighborhood if I needed to sober up. At least not without getting attacked by real hooker for trampling on her territory or getting bitch slapped by a pimp for not getting into the backseat of a Pontiac.

That and my friend hadn’t gotten there yet.

There’s nothing more unpleasant than meeting a friend for drinks and finding them drunk without you. I mean, that’s just rude. And there’s no catching up. You can’t possibly catch up to a drunk person. That’s a myth. There I’ve said it. If you get to a place and everyone is drunk already, just turn around and go home. If not, you’ll be called a bore and end up holding someone’s hair while they puke on your sensible work pumps.

 Well, about an hour later, my friend, who had finally arrived, and we were deep in conversation about…office supplies when all of a sudden we were approached by another woman.

“Hi, sorry to bother you,” she said.

As I turned to look at her and tell her it was cool, I recognized her. I mean, I recognized her face. Not having a face recognition app on my phone, I had to search my brain for memories. Scary enough, she knew my full name and I couldn’t even come up with the time period of my life where we might have crossed paths. Immediately I felt panicked. Especially when, trying to jog my memory, she said the phrase, “It was my first time.”

Oh boy, I thought. What did I do now.

Luckily, it wasn’t what I thought it was going to be. It was worse.

Apparently, it was the first time she had heard a “religious” talk or testimony. And I was giving it.

I know.

There was a time in my life when, well, I was a practicing Catholic. And, I wanted to be a nun. In full habit. Super nun. I wanted to be Kathy Najimi’s character in Sister Act. I wanted to talk about God and heal the world. I wanted to do good and spread the love. It wasn’t until I realized that what I really wanted to do was make it with Whoopi Goldberg that I dropped the whole nun thing and the whole religion thing for that matter. 

A few friends know about this time in my life, others can’t even conceive it happened. And now, there was this woman. This woman who said, “I remember, in your speech, you said how you were like an Oreo cookie. Hard on the outside and soft on the inside.”

To which I responded, “Jesus Christ! Even back then I wanted people to eat me!”

Phone home

The lessons I’ve learned from a decade and a half of using a mobile phone are too many to list.

Okay so here they are:

  1. Mobile phones may or may not cause brain tumors that may or may not kill you instantly.
  2. Mobile phones may or may not cause fatal accidents, but they do cause you to drive like a total moron.
  3. Mobile phones are designed to give you first degree burns on your ear and face when you have spent more than thirty minutes bad mouthing someone. It’s phone karma. Sometimes you get burned, other times you get a tumor (See #1).
  4. Mobile phones cause rudeness. Traditional greetings have been replaced with: “Hey, what’s up, where are you, what’ya doin’?”
  5. Just like Facebook, mobile phones end friendships and, for some, relationships. The chief causes are pocket dialing and not hanging up properly – not the snazzy tracking apps. People that allow their GPS tracking to be viewed by others or published on social networking sites have no friends or relationships. Just kidding. (No I’m not).
  6. Sharing your mobile phone number with your office mates as an emergency contact number means that they will only call you when it is not an emergency, only when you are on vacation.
  7. Every month you use the same phone, but the bill is always different and $100 more than what you are supposed to pay.
  8. The iPhone will effectively turn you into both a hippie and a snob. Hmm. A snippie?
  9. You will never cash in on your phone insurance. There’s always a catch.
  10. Your mobile phone can get you out of any situation, from using it to call for help or pretending you’re on a call.
  11. If your current mobile phone has an antenna that actually comes out of the top of the phone, you are reading this through a dial-up connection.
  12. Don’t lend your cell phone to someone you wouldn’t want to press your cheek to.
  13. When a phone rings – any phone, any ring, anywhere – even though you are certain it’s not yours, you still check your cell.
  14. I have no idea why it’s called a cellular phone. After publishing this, I will look it up, but I’m pretty sure I’ll forget it by the time my phone rings.
  15. If you have a company issued mobile, every month your accounting department will yell at you for over-usage and, at the same time, your boss will frown at you for your under-usage. Go ahead, try to drop it, wet it, lose it and burn it. It won’t work. The IT department will replace it before that first degree burn on your ear and face has a chance to heal.
  16. BlackBerry is derived from a word used by native people to express the universal sentiment of “you are screwed.” Look it up when you’re done reading this, if you’re not on dial-up.
Photo courtesy of my iPhone.

Communication fracture

My phone has a hairline fracture across the screen. It is also shattered on the bottom left corner. And it happens to be all held together by one, pink band-aid.

Other than the cosmetic problem, it works perfectly well. Sure, I’m afraid the screen will crack and slice my cheek while on a call. Or while blogging, my thumbs will cause the entire screen to crack, like thin ice under a sumo wrestler. But now I find the process exciting.

Recently, I found out I wasn’t the only one that felt somewhat excited about my phone.

As many women do, I enjoy getting a mani/pedi every now and again. It makes me feel pretty and clean and girly. I never really learned how to do it myself, to the dismay of my grandmother who is a retired manicurist. I’ve tried, but the fingernails on my right hand end up looking like something that belongs in a modern art gallery. So to look and feel pampered on a budget, I make my way to the Asian-run nail salon.

I hate to admit it, but I don’t know what Asian country the majority of them are from. I feel it is rude of me to ask. That, and, frankly, we could hardly communicate about the color I want. I can’t imagine holding a where-are-you-from conversation. I know that not all of them speak the same language, as the chatter between the technicians varies in tone and musicality. Also, some of them speak to each other in English and I don’t think it’s for practice, but out of necessity.

This week I was taken care of by Toby. Toby is what’s on his name tag, but his cosmetology license says something completely different. Anyway, when Toby was done with my pedicure, he helped me take my belongings to the manicure station. Only, one of those items was my slightly cracked phone with a band-aid.

I noticed Toby staring at my phone in disbelief. He looked up at me and showed me my phone, like if I hadn’t noticed. So, I gave him a half smirk and nodded my head like, yeah, that is really my phone.

Well.

All of a sudden there was chaos. He ran over to a colleague and showed him my phone and then something was said and then three more technicians came over. The wax lady came out of her room with a popsicle stick with gooey wax in hand to see what all the commotion was about. The group walked my phone over to a manicurist that was in the middle of gluing on acrylic nails so she could see. And with every new person that was shown my phone, Toby would point me out to them and everyone would laugh. The clients, of course, had no idea what was going on, for all they knew I was showing the staff naughty pictures on my phone.

Finally, Toby made his way back to my table. While working on my hands he asked me if I wanted to sell him my phone. The question stunned me. Toby wanted to buy my cracked phone? Was he insane? I declined his offer, but stayed curious as to how much he was willing to pay. But, again, I didn’t ask.

A few days later, while admiring my manicure, I remembered that whole ordeal and laughed to myself. What did they see in my cracked phone that was so funny? Most importantly, I felt like there was no way I could part with my phone now. It, apparently, is the best communication bridge I’ve ever had.

I wanted to make a phone call, to share this funny story with a friend. So I pressed the home button that lights up the screen, when it finally dawned on me:

They were looking at my wallpaper.