Ring, ring

Dayton is a small town. Just about everybody knows the names of everybody around them. New people don't take long getting acquainted and finding their footing in the community.

In junior high, I broke out of my first shell. (I would say I have had more than one shell because of the VARIOUS changes I've gone through in my life.) I was loud, I was outgoing, and I was easy to talk to. At the beginning of my eighth grade year, I became the new girl's first best friend. We had P.E. together. I'm sure she picked me because I could fill her in on all the gossip. I've always been good at juicing up stories. Nonetheless, the two of us became good friends. I realized this when she called me every day to talk on the phone. "What do I say to her?" I asked my mom. You see, I didn't like talking on the phone. It seemed like a waste. I didn't understand the purpose. If we wanted to talk, why not just hang out at the Pirate's Den?

My opinion on phone talking changed when I moved to England. The first time, when I studied in London, I would find the red telephone booths and call my mom from them. They were so cool. I refused to call her from another type of phone. When I lived in Oxford, I came to enjoy the phone even more. I would call my mom or my sister, Shanna, to find out new news and see what was up on the homefront.

The real phone-talker in me came out in Ukraine. I called my mom once asking her to give me a wake-up call. At the time, I didn't know how to set my phone alarm. Later, I would call my sister, Shanna, because there were people shouting at me outside my windows at 2 a.m. Although I enjoyed my life in Ukraine, it was essential for me to keep in contact with my people back home.

In the past few years, I have tried to become less of a phone-talker again. Unfortunately, I can hardly go a day without talking to my mom on the phone. There is always a really good story to tell her. And my sister, Shelli, lives all the way in Idaho. The only way I can keep up with her is via telephone.

Today, I talked to my seven-year-old nephew, Spencer, on the phone for a few minutes. After telling me a few things about school and his new teacher, he told me that his mouth hurt so he couldn't talk anymore. Um, that's just funny. How many times have I wanted to tell people that my ear or my hand is killing me? I'm a dork. I know it. Before, I've positioned my phone to rest on the same pillow as my head so I didn't have to work at talking on the phone. Perhaps I should invest in one of those headsets for my cell phone.

Phones are okay. They keep us connected. I just like to chat too much. Phones COULD become a real problem. If that ever happens and I have to go to AA-type meetings regarding phone use, you'll still probably be able to find me active on facebook. I'm just THAT kind of social!