Phone Number Roots Go Deep

When I gave up my land line, I moved the number to my cell phone so I could keep it.

I've had the same phone number for over 25 years.

It's a good phone number, a constant in my life no matter how many times I've changed homes (and jobs and boyfriends and cars ...).

The fact that my number starts with area code 303 is a particular point of pride. It means I've lived in Denver longer than someone with a 720 area code. 720 was introduced a few years back when they ran out of 303 phone numbers.

So I'm not a newbie to the area, as illustrated by my vintage area code. This is important to me. I don't know why.

I think it has something to do with needing to belong someplace.

In Virginia, where I had an 804 area code in the 1980s, you had to have roots multiple generations deep to be considered a Virginian. Coming from Nebraska (erroneously referred in the Old Dominion as a "yankee" state), I never stood a chance. If I'd stayed there the rest of my life, I'd still die an outsider, no matter what my phone number was.

When I lived in New York City, also in the 1980s, my phone number started with 212, the traditional area code of Manhattan. While I didn't reside in a trendy Village apartment or a fabulous penthouse overlooking Central Park (indeed, I lived way up town in a  dormitory room with only a bed, a desk, and a rented push button touch-tone phone), anyone who called me knew I was in the most important borough and that reflected on my own importance.

It used to be that a phone number went with a place. You called a number, and you got the home or office where that phone resided, no matter who was there. Now, phones are as portable as their users. Our house doesn't have a phone. Both of us living there have our own phone which goes where we go.

These days, you can't always tell where someone lives by their area code. More and more people keep their phone numbers even when moving to another state. You could be travelling anywhere in the world and still answer your phone, so the phone number is no indication of where you are currently located.

I don't judge other people by their phone numbers. Actually, I don't know anyone's number except mine. Most everyone I call is programmed into my iPhone. I don't even need to punch a button. I can simply say, "Siri, call so and so,." With blue tooth,, I can even do this while driving. Actually, I haven't yet figured out how to use blue tooth, but I know it can be done.

I really should learn someone else's number.  I imagine myself in the emergency room, bleeding profusely. Someone asks who they should call. I give them Clyde's name and they ask for his number. Alas, though I know many details about Clyde including his middle name, I don't know his phone number. I only know mine.

I hope the hospital personnel are impressed by my area code.

Flu Forces Extended Stay at Home

Forced by the B strain of this year's influenza virus to stay home for several days and do nothing, I'm here to tell you that missing work and watching TV all day is not all it's cracked up to be. For one thing, I was miserable most of that time, sporting a fever that averaged 101, coughing so much I thought I broke a rib, and shivering with chills so severe that every blanket in the house couldn't keep me warm.

I know you're wondering, and yes, I did get a flu shot back in October. Lot of good that did.

My boss wants to know why I keep telling people it was the B strain. I don't know, but that's what my doctor told me. It seems more official than when people get a stomachache and say they have "the flu."

During those moments when I felt slightly better, say, having just mastered sucking on an ice cube, or when my temp dipped to 99 and my head didn't pound as much, I perused Facebook and posted what I thought through my feverish stupor were clever little gems of wisdom. When I look at them now through the clarity of 98.6, I see that among other things, I ranted at an ice cream truck's endless looping music,  and complained that my actual hair hurt. I generally don't put intimate and personal information on Facebook, but I did keep the entire webosphere appraised of my temperature. Fortunately I did not report on the ongoing consistency of my nose mucus.

And I had my phone to play with. I think I exchanged some foggy texts with my sister and brother but I'm not sure. I must have alarmed my sister because she checked in every couple hours for a couple days. It kept me from climbing the walls.

I learned that Alfalfa's in Boulder has great chicken soup. Clyde brought it to me.

I also learned that taking Clyde to urgent care after being cooped up for so long was like going on a vacation. He also got the bug, but having gone on tamaflu the day I was diagnosed, his encounter with the virus wasn't quite as bad as mine.

Like Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window, I kept a close eye on my neighbors. I didn't have the strength to rage at them through the window like I usually do, but I managed to quietly judge their actions, particularly during those walks of shame that occur just before dawn. It was also fun judging the man who wore VERY comfortable shorts on his deck while talking on the phone all day long. Kind of made me miss licra shorts guy who lived there before.

A building down the block was getting a new roof. I watched the workers up there for half a day before I realized I wasn't hallucinating them. No wonder they never started flying.

Now recovered, I'm still a little weak and I'm coughing a lot. I have to go back to work. I wish I could just stay home a few more days and really enjoy some TV.