Mistaken Identity with Cell Phones

Do I believe safety issues exist when drivers talk on the phone or text while driving? Oh, yeah.

Funny thing is, 97 per cent of Americans, in a recent poll, think the rest of you are dangerous. A majority, on the other hand, thought they personally were safe.

Not me, by golly. I wasn't polled, but I would be one of those saying, "I'm about as safe behind the wheel with a phone to my ear as I would be in rush hour traffic with three shots of Wild Turkey on an empty stomach."

So I always pull over, and if a pullover place isn't immediately available, I probably won't answer before the phone quits ringing. Which creates a distraction of its own. After trying several times to snag it out of my purse while driving a stick shift in rush hour stop'n'go a few years ago, I wisely decided not even to try till I was safely stopped. Even though my current vehicle is automatic.

Oh, I have coordination, of sorts. I can walk and chew gum. The problem is when I try to talk and do--almost anything else. When transporting foster kids all over creation and North Texas on often unfamiliar byways, I missed so many exits while in conversation that my kids expected my cheerful rejoinder to "you just missed the exit" that we were again taking the scenic route. I am pleased that it became a point of camaraderie among us. At least, I thought so.

And that was with an actual person sitting beside me.

Cell phones, however, factor more than just on the road.

I play Yahzee with three friends every week, where we play all six games at once. This results in scores usually over 7,000, and I prefer to use my calculator. (Two of us add in their heads faster than I can with my calculator but I forgive them, and they forgive me.) I got a telephone call on my cell the other day and after the call I brought it back to the table with me. My cell and my calculator are approximately the same size. I was talking to my friends while deciding to add a column, and had punched two musical digits before it occurred to me I was trying to add on my cell phone. Yes, I know I actually can do that, but I wanted to use my nifty sun-powered calculator which I've had since the 80s. They didn't notice.

So of course, I confessed. And was ribbed unmercifully. And then a friend confessed she had been watching tv last week when she decided to make a call and absentmindedly picked up the TV remote and tried to dial. Wasn't she good-hearted to share that?

I'm the woman who had to train myself to hang up my car keys each time I entered the house after one nerve-wracking morning when it took us 30 minutes to find the keys in the refrigerator. And when we did, I remembered how that happened. But when I am thinking about something else, my hands do things I hesitate to take responsibilty for, although ultimately I must.

I once knew someone who could read while driving 80 mph down the highway, simultaneously carry on a conversation, watch tv and read--although with delayed reaction times--and never miss a lick.

Me, I can walk and chew gum. Oh, and I can cook and talk at the same time. Definitely not write and talk. Drive and talk a little bit--although I can listen with better driving concentration.

Fortunately, the computer and printer have discrete functions. Else I might never post.

Texting and kareoke have a lot in common

I know I stashed my cell phone instruction book somewhere I could retrieve it easily. Unfortunately, it's not in any of the spots I thought I might have put it. And since every blinking phone has different blinking features arranged in different blinking ways, a check with more knowledgeable human sources hasn't helped.

I know a lot of you text. I do not and have no intention of hunting and pecking on a cell phone. I do receive those messages, however...and that is the problem.

This afternoon, taking a nice little nap, I was jarred awake when my phone began thundering out this whole tonal phrase. Woke me thoroughly. When I checked, it was some stupid message saying how they bet I didn't know who this is and the texter goes by niceangel 82. If a log of texts is retained on the phone, I can't find it, but I am told there is some way to get the number of the sender from the text, although a number was not displayed on the screen before or after the message. At the time, I simply turned my phone off for awhile after the second message from niceangel82.

I suspect this is the new technology way of making stupid phone calls as Bart Simpson still does when he calls the bar. And no, I don't feel particularly tolerant. I certainly don't feel amused. I do get texts from a few persons who really have to watch their pennies, and that's okay. I can forsee the day when my granddaughters may want to text me.

But.

For now, I simply want to block my phone to text messages. I think I should be able to do that, at least from time to time.

A store clerk was a recent hero in the Metroplex when he surreptitiously texted his boss in the back, "call 911" while under the gun of an armed robber. The boss did so, the police came, and the robber was caught because the guy could text.
That's great. But I have no desire to do it.

A friend of mine is getting text advertisements on her cell phone, which costs her. It certainly doesn't make her an EAGER CUSTOMER.

(Sigh) At least I have stopped getting all those e-mails for Viagra. (And you know, if the drug could perk up a certain part of the aging female's anatomy as it is supposed to do for another part of the male's, they might have a sale.)

Technology. It aint always perfect.