It was a lovely day to be at a coffee shop. A bit brisk out, so we were all gathered inside, each pair of hands cupping our own little version of hot, liquid bliss. Some were engaged in quiet conversation; others tapping away at laptop keyboards.

All content and happy.

Then your phone rang. It was like a fire alarm bell. A bell one would expect to find on the dry, wood and straw building next door to the main furnace of Hell. After jumping out of my chair several inches and checking to see if I had wet myself, I looked over to see whom it was that could possibly want their phone that freaking loud. Perhaps it was a new “Spinal Tap” model that can be turned up to 11. I think I felt the building shake a bit. I saw the dudes working construction outside look around to see what was drowning out the jackhammers.

You reached for it and picked it up. Thank heavens! Reprieve! You will answer! And after what I imagined would be no more than just a few moments of residual ringing in our collective ears, we could get back to our lives.

But what horror is this? You did NOT answer. You stared at the screen with the nonplused, bewildered look of a Chihuahua to whom wave/particle duality is being explained. Via interpretive dance.

Clearly, through several additional ear-splitting rings, you needed to ponder whether this call was worth taking. The suspense of those of us in the room–who were tearfully saying good-bye to our hearing–was palpable. It was nearly as strong as our collective urge to dunk your phone like a biscotti in your extra-fancy latte. Or perhaps shove the phone someplace that may give you an eensy-weensy idea of the discomfort you were causing us.

Suspense…..suspense…….

YOU TOOK THE CALL! Wow what a moment! But of course loud, obnoxious technology tends to be owned by loud, obnoxious people, and so our collective sigh of relief was soon being strangled to death by the icy cold hands known henceforth as “you talking”, the volume and tone of which could politely be called what any mom would recognize as an “outside voice”, but which I will more accurately compare to a screeching banshee whose fingernails on the proverbial chalkboard are miked up and running through the Marshall amp stack once owned by Deep Purple guitarist Ritchie Blackmore.

So, kudos to you, ma’am. We can now hum your ringtone (though, due to hearing loss, we cannot tell if we’re doing it correctly), and we clearly discerned every last syllable of your side of a dreadfully boring phone conversation. But don’t mind us. We are obviously nowhere near as important as you are. Carry on.

Love, Buzz