Don't come between me and my cell phone

I watch MTV every so often to see what the kids are up to these days. Usually it's having inappropriate relations with each other, drinking and whining.

So things haven't changed much.

But once in a great, great while, this 35-year-old will identify with something on that channel, very much geared to people 10 to 17 years my junior.

Most recently, I found an unlikely soulmate in the form of Geo Young, apparently ethnic and probably gay, it would seem this "70s House" game/reality show star and I had little in common until the scene where he had to give up his cell phone. The point of "70s House" is to relinquish all ties to 2005 and assimilate with 1970s life.

Geo, near tears, said something like, "My cell phone is my baby. I always have it by my side." Kids! I initially thought. They don't know what hardship is. Why, in my day ...

But then it hit me -- I'm probably more addicted to my cell phone than Geo could dream of being.

After all, what amazing news could he be getting? Suzie and Jeannie wore the same dress to the prom? LaCoste is back?

As a journalism professional, I expect to get extremely important cell phone calls. Sometimes, when my phone rings, I even say to people nearby, "Excuse me. This could be huge."

But unlike Geo, I remember a time when cell phones were just a "Star Trek" fantasy. Several years into a reporting career, I covered the first cell phone company's entry into Southeast Missouri. I tested it out by calling my future husband to say, "You'll never guess where I am. I am in a car!!!"

It didn't take long for me to buy my first cell phone ... a receiver attached to a large, heavy black bag that had to be plugged into the cigarette lighter and dropped calls if I turned off the ignition. "What if my battery dies, and that's why I have to use the cell phone?" I remember asking the salesman. He handed me another huge black bag -- the backup battery.

Today, if I don't pick up my cell phone, I'm either (a) in the bathroom -- although I'll even get it in there sometimes, (b) ignoring you, or (c) dead. In fact, I become oddly enraged when other people's cell phones go straight to voice mail, which means they have them turned off. How can a person turn off her cell phone? Don't they know this could be huge?

My phone, provided by my employer, has zero bells and whistles. It makes calls, it gets calls, it identifies incoming numbers on a little screen. That's it. But I still love it. It can make a long commute tolerable by allowing me to catch up with a friend. It's a safety net should the car break down. I never have to worry about being out of touch if a relative needs me.

My husband, on the other hand, bought his own phone. It's got every option imaginable. A camera. Internet access. He can even set it so people calling him hear their own ring tone as the call goes through -- mine is "Good Times" by Chic.

And yet he doesn't even appreciate it. He rolls his eyes every time my phone rings. "Great. Here we go," he says.

I can't believe he doesn't appreciate the treasure he has. You know what? I should make friends with Geo, someone who can talk intelligently about the joys of cell phone use. He's certainly available for a chat. He was the first person kicked out of the house, banished for mentioning "botox." Geo, contact me through the Southeast Missourian.

They can get me your cell number.

Heidi Hall is a former managing editor for the Southeast Missourian. She resides in St. Petersburg, Fla.