Forget Big Brother… The Cherub Is Watching
Somewhere in the bowels of my purse, my silenced phone vibrated. I stopped my shopping cart to see who it was.
Cherub Text: Remember we were going to talk this morning? ?
I tucked the phone back into the bag, grabbed something off the shelf, and headed for check out.
I didn’t bother answering her because my iPhone is a royal pain in the butt. It might as well be a landline. The only time I can use it is when it’s plugged into my car. Otherwise it overheats in minutes. Once it gets too hot to hold, the screen goes black, but the phone stays on. It can’t be used again until the (new) battery completely dies, and then I have to wait while it recharges.
I’m learning to live with it until I get a new phone.
Yeah. So, that’s going to be my last Apple product. I’m getting a new phone.
However, I’m not going to replace it until my daughter buys her new phone. Then I’m going to get the exact same phone she gets. That way, I can ask her how to do stuff on it when she’s not around in person.
But, I digress.
The Cherub wanted to talk to me, so I needed to leave the store and get into my car. On the way to check out, some lovely scarves caught my eye… and the sweaters behind them… and the—
ZZZING! ZZZING! ZZZING! ZZZING!
Someone was calling. I dug out the phone only to find the caller was my impatient Cherub. I knew better than to answer the phone. I didn’t want it conking out on me when she needed to talk. With the intention of calling her as soon as I got into the car, I paused by a display of delightful shoes.
Somehow that single vibration conveyed annoyance.
I stirred the contents of my purse until I found the phone so I could peek at it.
Cherub Text: I only have 20 min B4 work. Call me.
What? No smiley face?
I started to text her back so she would know she was getting through.
My Text: W – I – L – L C – A – L – L F – R – O – M C – A—
The store’s PA system interrupted my slow typing with an important announcement for its patrons. “Deborah Davis, please call your daughter.”
Seriously? She had me paged in a Connecticut store from California?
Hot under the collar, I found and punched the “R” on my keyboard, hit send, and rushed over to check out, hoping I had enough cash so I wouldn’t have to whip out a credit card identifying me as that Deborah Davis.
Nope, I didn’t have any cash.
I can’t complain about my entitled cherub. After all, I helped raise her. Plus, it showed me first hand how the nifty tracking feature on my cell phone works. The Cherub could actually tell which store I was in. But, it raises a question…
Did that cell phone tracker show how fast I moved to check out, or was that just knowledge born of experience that told The Cherub where I was?
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