Answer the Bloody Phone!

There was, once, a device called a phone.

Not a “communication platform.” Not a “text portal.” Not a “tiny glowing rectangle for sending me 47 messages while I’m doing 100 on the highway.”

A phone.

You picked it up. You spoke into it. Another human spoke back. It was efficient. It was direct. It did not require me to decode three separate messages that arrive like pigeons with anxiety.

Now?

Now I am in the car. I am driving. I am, in fact, doing the very thing the entire civilization has agreed requires both hands, both eyes, and ideally a will to live.

And what happens?

Buzz.

Buzz buzz.

BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ.

I glance at the phone, comfortably cradled in the dash holder. There are messages coming in which I cannot either read or respond. So I ignore, them for the time being. Until I get home, park on the driveway and can now look at them:

“hey can u pick up milk,

“also cereal”

“also where is my charger”

“also r u coming home”

ARE YOU KIDDING ME.

CALL ME.

YOU HAVE A DEVICE.

IT IS CALLED A PHONE.

IT WAS NAMED THAT FOR A REASON, NOT AS A SUGGESTION.

Sorry bud, no. No milk, no cereal and I can’t imagine where your chargerS are although I seem to buy 3 every month. But yeah, you’ll soon find out that I arrived home. Cause’ I’ll let parental tact go down the river and go straight to yelling. You are my kid but you’re not 5. You’re a young adult. LEARN TO USE THE BLODDY PHONE.

When I call them—if I dare to use the phone as a phone—the response is silence. Nothing. The abyss. The long, echoing scream of a call rejected by a teenager who is absolutely 100% looking directly at it. Followed by “The voicemail box on the number you are trying to call was not setup by the user”.

And then—ding—

“what”

WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHAT.

I JUST CALLED YOU.

WITH THE PHONE.

THE PHONE PART OF THE PHONE.

You don’t get to ignore a call and then send “what” like I’ve just thrown a brick through your window and fled the scene.

And don’t tell me, “calling is stressful.” You know what’s stressful? Having to wonder if the six fragmented texts that arrived while I was merging into traffic are something very urgent or life threatening. All this while I AM THE ONE PAYING MONTHLY FOR THE EFFIN’ PLAN!

Pick. Up. The. Damn. Phone.

Or better yet—here’s a thought—use it properly in the first place.

We have reached a point where calling someone is treated like a declaration of war.

“Oh wow, you CALLED me?? Is everything okay??”

No, everything is NOT okay. I needed to know if we have eggs, and now I’m emotionally compromised.

And don’t get me started on the “three rooms away” messages.

“can u come here”

No. No, I cannot. I am not a summonable spirit bound to the Wi-Fi.

You have legs. You have lungs. You may walk and speak. These are features you came with at birth. No subscription required.

I swear, this, is sufficient reason for someone to arrest you for crimes against common bloody sense.

Somewhere, Alexander Graham Bell is spinning in his grave like a ceiling fan on high, muttering, “It was ONE job. I gave you ONE job.”. If you don’t have any idea who that is, stop scrolling and read a damned book for once.

And here I am, answering calls like it’s 1997, shouting into the void, waiting for someone—anyone—to remember what the damn thing is for.

Anyway. I’ll be in the car. And from now on you’ll be dealing with my Gen-X approach if you don’t answer. Here is how that looks like: There is an easy way, you answer and then, there’s a hard way: I’ll Replace your smart phone with a rotary phone, door to your room with curtains and then I’ll tell you with a smile on my face and the most smug voice I can muster: “Go ahead, keep scrolling and texting on that one”.

If you need me—

CALL ME.