There was only one quiet interval at work today wherein I could check my email, and there was this cry for help from my stepmother. She’s got a new cell phone.
What new cell phone? I fired back while my stomach made like iron and nickel on the molten earth and sank.
I will not mention the make and model, as that would betray where I work, and I do not want to tempt my corporate overlords into separating me from my only means of acquiring kitty kibble. Needless to say, she’d chosen the one phone that is the bane of my existence (and the source of considerable job security). It’s one of the most complicated phones we carry. And this purchased by a woman who, a few years ago, swore she’d never own a cell phone ever in her life, and who only last year was flummoxed by a pre-paid flip phone.
So I spent my lunch hour muttering “I can’t fucking believe you bought that fucking phone!” whilst helping her bring it to the point where it could potentially make and receive calls. I feel betrayed. I expected better of my family. Next thing I know, my dear old Dad will be calling me up wanting help with the same model, or worse. At least I know the ins-and-outs of the thing. And at least they won’t blame me for its quirks.
At least I have solid proof, should I ever need it, that my bitching about this phone in my private life carries no weight with anyone whatsoever. Even my own family doesn’t listen to me. So the company needn’t worry about my impact upon its sales…