Hell Hath No Fury Like A Woman With A Cell Phone

As I walk through the lush hamlet surrounding the Charlotte and Jack's hideaway cottage I cheerfully dial Mom's number. Endorphins must really put a whammy on a person. I had the unabated courage of a drunk dialer.

Mom answers on the second or third ring. She probably had to A)find the phone, B)figure out that that sound was it ringing, since it is undoubtedly an unfamiliar sound, and C) do that squinty thing she does to try to read something without her Hubble Telescope readers.

She answers cheerfully in a voice that sounds as though she's swallowed turpentine.

I say hello and Ask how she's doing. Loaded question. Her response could be anything from something as benign as the weather to annoying as Bill's latest health issue, whether it be ass or elbow, or as inflammatory as a Fox News inspired rant about the government and how we are turning into a Communist Country. Again, endorphins make you brave.

She was just back from the Piggly Wiggly or some darn store and had not had any in-the-aisle-across-the-aisle confrontations, pricing disputes or parking lot altercations evidently. She seemed to be in a good mood.

Or not. You never know. There is a coiled snake waiting to spring at any moment. I just need to say the magic words.

And I did. Without even knowing them! What a coincidence!

I told her I'd gotten her text and wanted to tell her that she'd probably be better off getting a bare bones contract with an actual carrier rather than her current situation of being held hostage by the plan that is no plan.

She starts to object but I ask her to listen. I tell her that it is not a coincidence that she and Joe have the same no plan plan and have the same problem. They are the only people having this issue with me, and I send a pant load of texts. The problem lies on her end of the line, not with mine.

And though I was fairly certain that the conversation began with my mother, at some point she had apparently handed over the phone to Satan. She bellowed back in a demonic voice (even worse that the chemically burned one she had at "hello") and screamed that IT WAS NOT HER PHONE IT WAS NOT HER PROBLEM IT WAS NOT JUST HER IT WAS EVERYONE AND JOE MADE A PHONE CALL TO THE COMPANY AND THEY CORRECTED HIS BILL BUT SAID IT WAS THE PHONE THAT RECEIVED THE TEXT THAT WAS AT FAULT.

Had it been a text, it would have been in the Screechy Howler Monkey Bold font. Red. Twenty-four point.

I pulled the phone away from my withering ear and put it in front of my face as though I were about to say something directly to her.

I hauled out my best Mercedes McCambridge/Exorcist voice, ramped it up a few decibels and bellowed. "DON'T YOU DARE YELL AT ME!" and hung up. (A most unsatisfying hang up. There isn't even a click on a touch screen hang up. It should sound like shattering glass or flying bowling pins.

And with shaking hands, I call Charlotte. A feel good call. She is always bearing the brunt of Mom's rage (no one else really talks to her) and feels like she is Mom's special pet target for venom and meanness. I get her voicemail.

>"Hey, Char. It's me again. I won't rain on your bicycle ride but I just wanted to let you know what happened when I called Mom. She Jekyll and Hyded on me and went from zero to sixty in under a minute. Over the texting thing. I believe I am in the dog house for good. I also may have profound hearing loss. I'll let you know if she sends me a venomous text. Or calls back. Or sends me a letter bomb or some kind of exploding package."

I am sure Mom's next call will be to Charlotte to screech about what a flaming beyotch I am. She'd be smart not to answer her phone. Or carry it at all. I consider her forewarned by my voicemail. But may have to text her a smoke signal to make sure she is duly notified. That is a snake pit she most definitely should know to step around.