OK. I'll 'fess up. I've resumed drinking white wine, a week before my self-imposed "nothing until" date. I blame the iPhone.
Dweedle dweedle, beep, rrriinggg, brrrooomm, chachingchaching, nannooonannoonannoo, auyoogah auyoogah, . . . until I crack. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" "Oh, sorry, just looking for a ring tone."
"Mom, Mom, stand still." Click. Hugh's fingers twiddle across the screen and then he chortles. "Look!" A hideously fat version of my face stares from the iPhone screen.
"Hey, a Spanish translation app! I told you this would help my grades."
"Listen, this is totally cool." Hugh fidgets on the iPhone screen and his voice, sounding as if he's underwater, booms out. "Isn't that cool?"
Hugh walks around the house, the phone an inch from his ear, blaring out the Grammy Award-winning song "Fuck You." "Great," I say to Keith, "$200 for a transistor radio." Hugh overhears. "What's a transistor radio?"
"Just think, Mom. Now we'll never be lost again."
If only.
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