I love you. This morning before I rolled out of bed, I turned off my tribal music wake up call. I watched Josh Groban sing something in a language I couldn't place about a woman he can't live without. I played four rounds of Words with Friends, scoring more than 30 points on each play—at the END of the game (and with sucky letters, but yay me.) I checked the weather, because lifting my eyes to look out the window and see rain was more effort than I was willing to give. I friended eight new people on facebook, answered a message from one of them about erotic writing and the market, and smiled at Wasin Boontham who thanked me for adding her to my page.
I sent a text to my mother who wanted to know if I'd like her free copies of Better Homes & Gardens (Sure, Mom, because killing everything green is my super talent, and I must learn new and diverse ways of plant extermination. *this causes me great anxiety, for I love greeny things.*). I checked all the new tweets that I follow, that mention me, that are directed at me and scowled at the spambot that sent me a generic link to something I won't click on.
I didn't, however, take calls because my friends are wise enough to know that callling me at 6:30a will get them an earful of surly brainfog.
I also hate you, Smart Phone.
You don't make awesome coffee, or heat my teapot. You failed miserably at doing my laundry like I asked you to. I was so sweet about my request, and even bought you new laundry detergent last night. You didn't do the two pots and one sheet pan in my sink, though I did my part of loading and emptying the dishwasher. You didn't tell the toaster that I wanted sourdough toast this morning, and that, Smart Phone, was the smallest favor you could have done for me.
You didn't take out the cat litter or feed her. She's really pissed off at you now. I know, because she picked up one dry nugget, put it by my chair while I was working on this letter, and looked up at me balefully. Do you see that? Look what you've done!
Smart Phone, we've had several good months together, but you're going to have to change your attitude and pick up the slack. You tell me what the weather is, but don't provide an umbrella. All the really cool phones give their owners an umbrella in the future, so I think you need to be more cutting edge. And speaking of cutting edge—the lawn? Please? Must I do everything, Smart Phone? I told the neighborhood association that you hadn't seen to it and they scowled. Smart Phone, that scowl was at you. It was all you.
There are going to be some changes around here. Because I'm generous and kind, I'll let you start making it up to me with something easy. I want to have roast for dinner tonight. I already bought the ingredients. I'll even let you use the crockpot so that you don't have to think about it too much. I'll expect dinner around 6p.
Baby steps, Smart Phone. Don't fail me.