My phone died this week. Alright. I probably killed it with my virulent hatred. Or maybe with my frequent dropping of it on the pavement. But probably the hatred.
I did hate that thing. It took me a year to figure out how to switch between calls. This could possibly be because it is rare that two people call me in the same day, much less at the same time, so I didn't get a lot of practice. It also had a quick-dial function for the 5 most-frequently-called people, and I accidentally called my husband nearly every day, just trying to open the menu or access my contacts list.
So I went and got a new phone; I had 4 choices, since I don't want a smart phone. I might have picked the most expensive one. But it was way better than the other schlock they had in stock. The user's manual is all of 25 pages long. It may seem like an odd way to choose your electronics, but I had to defer to my husband's common sense. The one I initially wanted had a 150-page manual, and he knew I'd never read that, and he'd probably end up having to check my voice mail for me every night plus turn it on for me in the morning. The phone store helpers aren't all that helpey, other than to suggest multiple peripherals you might purchase in an effort to double your ticket price. They never really show me how those things work. Dave picks up the slack and makes sure I don't hurt myself.
And now I can't operate the call-waiting again. Sorry, Amee. I'll call you right back.