Seriously, Jesus!

"Dear Lord, I'm so very thankful for your blessings"--RING! RING!--"and I ask that you watch over my family"--BEEP!! BEEPETY BEEP BEEP!!--"especially for my baby niece that hasn't been born"--"Take me out to the ballgame!!"--"okay, seriously God, what's up with these old people and their cell phones? Please send me a sign that you will take care of this." ALLELUIA!!!!!!! ALLELUIA!!!! "Yeah, that's not the sign I was thinking of, okay? In your name I pray, Amen."

Old people. I love 'em. Some of my favorite people in the world are old people--self-proclaimed, I did not give them the label. Their manners can be impeccable. Doors open, pleases and thank yous, great listeners, and the list could go on and on. But there is one piece of etiquette that hasn't caught up with these traditionalists and baby boomers: the use of their cell phones!

Several years ago there was a big to do with young people and their cell phones. They were bringing them to school, they were talking on them in public places, they were letting them ring with loud, obnoxious ring tones, and of course they were interrupting any face-to-face conversation to take a call. They were a rude nuisance to all those around the impolite cell phone user.

Since then, I'm not saying that young people have gotten better, but we've made some changes to squelch the aforementioned rude behaviors. We walk to quieter places to take a call, we put our phones on vibrate or silent, we have been using text messaging to avoid the very public conversations, and perhaps we have replaced face-to-face talks for ones over the phone.

New cell phone etiquette rules are well-known among those 40 and younger, but I was very much enlightened by old people this past weekend. In case you haven't noticed, they all have cell phones now. Oh, wait you probably have.

I was at a conference this weekend with roughly 1200 other individuals. This was a Catholic conference I was invited to by a good friend of mine. I was excited to spend time in prayer and give myself a fighting chance to make it to heaven. Walking in, I was surrounded by older people--as in 60+ years! This would be a great place to nurture my need for peace!

One would think that you had a perfect audience to speak about Jesus, God, and the Virgin Mary. We were good listeners, we sat quietly, we said please and thank you, but we had a problem. THE CELL PHONE. During one particular part of this conference, we participated in something called the Adoration of Christ. It is a very sacred time of awe, prayer, and meditation. It is supposed to be silent, with the exception of the priest leading us in prayer. I was excited to be alone in my prayer and go through my laundry list of people I wanted God to watch over and bless and those I wanted him to zap with a bolt of lightning.

But no, my quiet thoughts were interrupted several times, and by several I mean roughly 10-15, with cell phones blaring the trumpet voluntary, Fleur Elise, the salsa, and I think ringtone #5 was thrown in there at some point. But when I quickly looked up to give the cell phone culprit a dirty look--I threw all Christ-like forgiveness to the wind--a white haired lady would be rummaging through her gunney sack of a purse to quiet it.

My friends and I would exchange our judgemental and horrified glances. Don't they know the new rules? Don't they know that their phones come with different sound settings? Didn't they remember to do something about their phone before they were going to start praying really hard to Jesus?

A personal favorite of ours was when the classic Verizon ringtone went off, starting quietly, then progressing to an extremely loud jingle. I turned around to see a man roughly 80 years old struggling to get his phone out of his hip holster. His cane kept falling every time he tried to grab his phone, creating quite the scene. When he finally won the struggle with the holster, I thought he would quiet the phone and put it away, but I guess he figured it took so long to get the darn thing out that he may as well take the call.

While the priest prayed for all those in failing health, my man behind me let the confused caller know he was not happy with her timing.

"Well, where do you think I am?!....Okay, I'm sitting on the side part...Well, they've already started so you better get here soon...Yes, I have a seat for you....ya...bye."

Did that just happen? At first it made me annoyed, but then I think the Virgin Mary gave me some divine intervention. My annoyance turned to laughter. She reminded me that old women were still finding ways to nag their husbands. No matter where this guy was, he knew he better answer that phone because he would get it ten times worse if he didn't answer it. I agreed with the Blessed Mary and chose not to judge--well, kind of chose not to judge.

The old people will come around soon. They will learn to fiddle around with their phone long enough to find all the neat things it does besides take and make calls. But I can't wait until I'm 87 years old to cyber-poke my husband and ask him to repeat what the priest just said.

Can 60 Get Me Over the Hill?

Ugh! Gas prices are killing me! I'm not lying, they are really going to kill me one of these days when I pull up to the gas pump and have a heart attack as the counter hits some ungodly number. My drive to and from a city 35 miles south of the valley did not used to render such hatred until this year. The 70 mile round trip was always shared by at least one other person up until this year when all of my carpool friends have gone to bigger and better things.

Besides the fact that I am forced to go to the pump every 5 days to fill up, the actual drive has seemed to be getting longer. Don't get me wrong, I love being by myself in my car tootling around town or on long car rides. I've got my new best friend, books on CD, as well as my back up friend, NPR. We could get lost for hours on deserted desert roads. Now our romance has a third wheel, making the drive more uncomfortable.

This intruder is my mileage counter, or as I like to call it, my money counter. Every mile dollar signs flash before me. It's disgusting to visualize. I try to focus my attention on the road, but will occasionally look down at my gas gauge with resistance. I can't believe a needle that was once pointing to a half a tank minutes ago has crept to a quarter of a tank. How could that be???

I've read all the myths about how to get the best mileage gas, however, they are just that, myths. Buying gas in the morning is really no different than buying it in the afternoon, besides the fact that I don't have to stand in 110 degree heat. Or the fact that Chevron has much better gas than Shell, it's all the same at the rate I blow through it. I have, however, been driving 67, instead of 75ish. This just makes me feel better, but I'm quite certain I'm going to get mauled by a big Chevy truck.

Gas station attendants that previously knew me from my candy addiction, now see my car pull up to pump #3 and shake their heads in the same manner. Gas addicts, candy addicts, we've been lumped in the same category...greedy SOBs.

This is why one late Friday night I was face-to-face with my problem of gas. I actually went out with some work friends in my city of employment. I wasn't used to doing this and the dinner we had didn't come until late in the evening. When I got into my car around 11 pm, I was tired. I turned my car on and saw the needle just a tiny bit above the red line. The closest gas station from the restaurant would cause me to cross over the interstate and pay almost ten cents more. I decided that I've driven on a low tank of gas before and this will be one of those times I can fill up at the station by my house as soon as I get home.

My decision of course was accompanied by little twinges of regret. I wondered if I should have pulled off at the last exit. This is the point of no return, since an Indian reservation separates the two cities from each other and there is only desolate highway on this journey. I decided, no, I would keep going, and I would be alright.

My next course of action was to take the speed down even further than my already grandma pace. 60 seemed like a decent number and I stayed at it. I also decided to turn off the AC. That was painful all in itself. Only in AZ does one still sweat after 11...yes, it's that hot! I was getting to the first exits into the valley and my gas light would have been blowing whistles and bullhorns to tell me to get some gas. I knew that there was a station right off the interstate with decent prices and I was going to pull in there.

Approximately 1/3 of a mile from this gas station, my car shut down. Oh, yes, I had run out of gas on a very busy interstate in Phoenix. I had no one to blame but my sorry self. The humiliating phone call to my almost asleep husband was too much to handle, but he is a good man and came with some gas to fill my tank up a little bit. I laughed as he approached and said I was baffled as to how this could have happened. He looked at me very doubtfully and said nothing. The cold shoulder was enough to know that this wasn't funny, so I shut my mouth.

I don't want to do that again, but I also still loathe filling up my car with gas. I think I'm going to find out where Maria Vazquez's Mexican Catering van loads and hitch a ride. She does the same route I do and I would get to eat tomales!