All good things come to an end; be they sex, an old love affair or a cocktail. The flip phone is no exception. At my recent birthday celebration, Oldest Chicken informs me that my days of embarrassing him in public are over.
“Oh, darling,” say I. “That will never happen; neither in public nor on paper. You drew the short stick when the Good Lord gave out mothers. Being humiliated by me is your destiny.”
He adds that he has never, nor will ever, read the blog so he pays no heed to what may be embedded in such foolishness. Instead, he is referring to my flip phone. “The time has come,” he says in his stern voice. I fight the urge to pat him on the head and remind him it is I who am the parent. I hesitate because he will laugh aloud reminding me it was The Norwegian who taught stern voice and me who taught raving lunatic running about the house wooden spoon above my head threatening to swat any errant child to sass me again. At twelve years old he grew taller than I and could outsmart me with the simplest of hockey maneuvers leaving a wooden spoon my last resort. Idle as it was. It was supposed to signify seriousness. The chickens laughed–all of them. Sigh.
I collect stern voice child from work on Friday and we venture to Verizon. His intent is clear. I clutch my beloved flip in one sweaty palm. I use a phone only to speak to those I absolutely must and to text others. A flip phone affords one the luxury of being out of touch. Never been a phone girl. Commercials featuring teenage girls laying about in robes, curlers akimbo on the phone for hours, one finger interwoven in the cord, were lost on me. My phone conversations are simple and purposeful.
“How are you doll? How are the little ones? Shall we meet for drinks? Wonderful. See you in ten.” That’s about the most anyone gets from me. Perhaps I was talking face to face or lecturing someone about manners when the Big Guy was passing out the girl chip that enjoys phone conversation. Even in business, conversations involve pacing the floor in a circular motion until I can say, “So lovely to speak with you. Let’s make sure we follow up on that.”
The world of iPhone, Droids, and the like fills me with dread. Visions include walking into oncoming traffic, missing an important flirtation or chipping a nail as I meander willy nilly face down, flinging wild fingers all around–oh wait, just my opposable thumbs. Evidently I am doing that wrong as well.
Why can’t Oldest Chicken just allow me to become The Supreme and not drag me into the next century. I’d much rather settle into a handsome New Orleans mansion and teach girls about the finer things in life than be constantly reachable. Before this venture my weekend plans involve channeling The Supreme and using my expansive brain to harness my power. In other words, I was taking the weekend for transformation into The Supreme. Friends are out of town. I won’t be disturbed. I can channel the divine Miss Lange if I concentrate hard enough.
Whaaaa? You are confused? My dear, have you not yet finished Coven? The Supreme is the leader of the pack, the bitch that’s back, the anointed one and the Goddess that might even challenge our dear Goddess for her place atop the food chain. It’s the third installment of American Horror Story featuring a trip into the world of witches. At first viewers believe they are following up with all those unfortunate Salem instances of yesteryear. If we take a closer look we realize each episode features a bad ass girlfriend ruling her world, be it fashion, botany, spells or boys. If I am ever burned at the stake, I too, may scream out, “Balenciaga,” as my last words. I certainly will be wearing an amazing sheath, a killer pair of Louboutins and my curls will be exquisite.
This charming little story is fraught with conjuring, potions, cruelty, sex and all thing Louisiana–it’s an interesting story dear so, of course, we are in the South. Baby Chicken visited the house on a recent visit. Color me stunned she didn’t stay. She has informed us that New Orleans may indeed be her future writer home as the city understands her. Of course it did, dear, for it is in New Orleans you may carry your drink out into the street, greet your neighbors in a sweet, slow drawl and if you so desire, do what you must to collect colorful beads. That scoff will exit your face when your shirt lifts of its own accord in all the revelry. Must be the saxophones playing in the street, the haunted hotel and a big strapping man to ferry you about. Don’t forget your fan darlin’.
So if I want to be The Supreme, what’s stopping me? The damn iPhone I tell you. How the hell am I supposed to rule the world, look like a million bucks at 64, (yep girls Miss Jessica, who channels The Supreme, is 64) and walk the streets of New Orleans in Jimmy Choos if I can’t even make the damn phone work.
Three hours pass before we exit the Verizon store. Oldest Chicken says he needs refreshment of the relaxing sort and some sushi. He is most patient as we learn it’s very difficult to move information from a flip phone to an iPhone if one doesn’t have apple id’s and passwords from every computer ever owned at the ready. Oh, and no, we can’t move your photos. Technology. Pfft.
But it is a pretty phone and Baby Pea gifted me a lovely Kate Spade case to make me feel better. I am excited at the thought that I can combine the two super powers, the iPhone and me becoming The Supreme. Technology’s ugly hand slaps me once again.
“Siri?” I speak clearly and loudly as if the girl is hard of hearing. “Siri, call me The Supreme,” I command.
“I’m sorry,” she informs. “I don’t know who you are.”
Only because I did not lay down the cash does Miss Siri not feel the wrath of The Supreme and find herself shattered against the opposite wall. Once my powers kick in, she’s got no idea what she’s got coming.
The Duchess Diaries 