Dick Move, cell-phone lady.

Posted on
May 7, 2010

I can’t actually believe I had to write this post. I think that what I’m about to say falls firmly within the bounds of obvious human decency and etiquette. I feel that it’s something everyone one should already know – like how we shouldn’t shake babies nor pick our noses while performing surgery on someone.

And yet, apparently, there are a few morons wandering around out there who simply have no clue. Consequently, this blog post, however obvious, is now necessary. I am going to take a deep breath before I start. A breath that will not only signify my exasperation, but also give me enough air to scream through the rest of my post.

(deep inhale …)


This should not be news to anyone. Much like “Not pooping your pants at the dinner table” and “Not eating things we find on the seat of a cab”, I find that this is intuitive. When you enter a museum, library, classroom, movie theater, or place of worship, you SHUT OFF YOUR PHONE. And if you should forget to do so, you should be absolutely mortified when it rings.

You should NOT, under any circumstances, answer the phone. If it is an absolute emergency, you can politely excuse yourself and take the phone call in the hall.

Also, you should NOT PLACE CALLS WHILE IN A MUSEUM. Do you hear me, cell phone lady? I realize that you desperately wanted to tell Gracie that she needed to call you about the bag that you left in the hallway closet, but unless it’s full of Gracie’s insulin, I can’t imagine it was that important.

You were on the phone for nearly 20 minutes, cell phone lady. And I honestly was about to rip your throat out on several occasions throughout the call (and the subsequent one you placed). But during that time, I found out so many pathetic details about you and your life, Lillian (may I call you Lillian? Because, among other things, I know that is your first name), that I really wasn’t sure how me yelling at you was going to make things better.

Seriously, Lillian, you’re a moron. Your son isn’t much better, and your husband is clearly depressed. I also think he has heart-disease. You’re on that path, too, by the way, unless you all start eating better, instantly. As for your co-dependent relationship with Gracie, you desperately need to cut the cord, because she is an adult. Sure, she might be unemployed, but it’s not the end of the effing world. She doesn’t need a half-hour pep talk. Certainly not from the inside of a museum.

Sigh. Now I’m starting to feel sorry for you, Lillian. I feel sorry for you based on the intimacies I learned of while you were speaking incredibly loudly on your cell phone for the better part of half an hour in an effing museum. Because of the small size of the place, and the noise on the street outside, the staff didn’t hear you. But I did, Lillian. I heard every word.

And while I pity you for it, I also hate you.

You shouldn’t be on your cell phone in museums, Lillian. It’s impolite. Not only does it bug other people, but it also means that they know your business. They know all about Gracie, and your well-meaning but nevertheless useless son, and your marriage to a shell of a man. And sometimes they blog about it on their sites.

They might even include your picture.

I spared you a photo of your face, Lillian.

I spared you a photo of your face, Lillian.

I hope you’ve learned something from all this, Lillian. I really hope things get better for you. And I hope someone takes your phone and drops it in a toilet.

Because, seriously? A 20 MINUTE PHONE CONVERSATION IN AN EFFING MUSEUM? Half of the time, I think you were talking about how to use the washing machine.

Dick Move, Lillian.

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