I've been driving myself bananas looking for my new cell phone - the one with all my contact numbers that I never bother to put on my hard drive or any where else. The last time I remember using it was last Friday, when the AT&T guy came over for 12 hours to install super-duper-high-speed fiber optic lines all over the house so John and I could surf the Internet in the bathroom and watch 12 different HBO channels. Saturday and Sunday came and went, but I got by since John had his identical twin cell phone (we have the same cell phone, but his is black and mine is lavender. Awww. Cute!) with him the whole time. But by Monday, the day when I go to work and like to have my cell phone with me in case the Daycare calls again, Monday I felt the pain. No cell phone! Where was it? I checked our cars twice, under the couch pillows, in the bed, in Bennett's toybox. I called myself many times hoping to hear a ringtone. Nothing.
Tuesday. Another day without a cell phone! Arrrgggggh! But when I get home from work, there's a message on the machine. It's the AT&T guy from last Friday. Somehow my cellphone got into his box of fiber optic cable wire. There's a little hole in the box, just big enough for a little cell phone and a little, tiny hand - a hand that perhaps belongs to a boy with two cowlicks.
Tuesday. Another day without a cell phone! Arrrgggggh! But when I get home from work, there's a message on the machine. It's the AT&T guy from last Friday. Somehow my cellphone got into his box of fiber optic cable wire. There's a little hole in the box, just big enough for a little cell phone and a little, tiny hand - a hand that perhaps belongs to a boy with two cowlicks.
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