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Month: December 2018

First Cell Phone – Get this. I Used It to Call People!My first cell phone from the early 2000s

First Cell Phone – Get this. I Used It to Call People!

Published by Michele Miles Gardiner on December 15, 2018

Here’s the first cell phone I ever used (top photo), way back in the late ’90s. Found it yesterday. Oddly, upon seeing this teeny techy thing, I got a little nostalgic thinking back to when I used it only for PHONE CALLS. Weird, right? That sounds so quaint now that I’m walking around with a gadget that allows me to text/record and edit mini movies/rant/respond to emails… But when someone calls me on it? I don’t hear it.

Wearing my 1990's Mom Jeans
The 1990s: mom jeans, Zima and cell phones I couldn’t yet use to humiliate myself.

Yep, looking at this old device wistfully, I thought about simpler times, before smart phones, back when (cue flashback music): I didn’t accidentally text a male friend “I love you!” meant for my daughter; didn’t get into heated arguments with online strangers; didn’t accidentally reveal to business-related people scantily clad photos of myself; didn’t stick my phone in my pocket, causing my butt wiggle to activate a YouTube video, so that the entire market produce section heard a Louis CK raunchy rant (I looked around for far too long wondering where the rant was coming from. Duh! My pocket!). Yes, long ago I could walk my dog without getting pinged, vibrated and beeped from business contacts… which I once could escape, momentarily.

Still, I would never want to go back to pre cell phone days. I spent far too many hours, when I first moved to LA, stranded with my array of broken cars on nearly every So Cal freeway – the 101, the 405, the 170 – sweaty, dusty and crying out to nobody. Yeah, cell phones are a much better option than screaming toward the smoggy sky. Halloween of 1987, I spent six hours on the 101 freeway, on the fast lane shoulder, as cars – including quite a few police cars – sped by me. Meanwhile, my boyfriend who was expecting me home, was sick worrying. Eventually, some kind soul scooped me up and dropped me off at a pay phone.

Pay phones. Remember the ones in a booth? To think we once went into a booth, and closed the door behind us, for privacy. Today we can walk down the street yelling at people, announce to the world we had amazing sex, share exciting news to everyone at our local coffee place. Privacy is so passé… I say as I type my thoughts out into the virtual world. Yeah, I’m a whiny hypocrite. But at least when I eat dinner with you I’ll be whining as I stare at your face and not my cell phone.

Vintage ad from Pacific Telephone about the phone booths of the future
Vintage ad from Pacific Telephone about the phone booths of the future. Way to predict the future, Pacific Telephone!
Woman with old portable phone
Look at her! So proud of her cumbersome telephonic device. At least she isn’t capable of showing strangers her scantily clad photos. Found this here.
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How To Become Broke and Influence Nobody

How To Become Broke and Influence Nobody

Published by Michele Miles Gardiner on December 5, 2018

I thought of my next book’s title: “How to Become Broke and Influence Nobody.” Yep, last night while making dinner (okay, heating up leftover chili cheese fries), I realized I’ve had so many crappy jobs, all while making absolutely no money, I could fill an entire book.

I’ve been an awful waitress (After spilling a tray of filled beer mugs on customers, they returned another night wearing yellow raincoats), a bad showroom model (I accidentally insulted a designer), a terrible receptionist… a not-so-great aerobics instructor.

Well, here’s an excerpt from my book, Craving Normal.

While working as a movie extra, I got a second job as an aerobics instructor. I figured, why not get paid and get in shape? But I could only bounce my way to a tighter butt and shin splints at minimum wage for so long.

A few months after working at Holiday Spa in Torrance, I called in to let my manager know my car overheated and broke down. Since I was living in Hollywood—nearly an hour drive away from work—I wouldn’t be able to make it that day without a car. That’s the way I figured it, anyway. But my manager “helped me out.” She said, “No problem. Kimmy lives in your area and can pick you up on her way to work.”

I yelped a fake, “Great,” and shuffled off to get ready for Kimmy, a cute blonde aerobics instructor, to pick me up.

Wearing my aerobics outfit—nothing more than a tiny shirt, tights under black French-cut bikini bottoms, big, poufy socks, and white bouncy shoes—I waited on the sidewalk in front of my apartment. Kimmy pulled up to the curb, and I jumped in. Right away, we bonded. Not only were we both out in public wearing little clothing, but after talking, we learned we were both burned out from being bubbly every work day. We agreed we were tired of cheering people on to tighter thighs. “Come on, ladies! One, two, three, four, keep it up—just a little more! Five, six, seven, eight. Keep going. Doing great!”

We drove through the palm tree-lined streets and headed south toward the Torrance Holiday Spa via PCH, parallel to the ocean. It was a stunning summer day. As we passed the sparkling blue water of the Pacific and tanned guys carrying their surfboards, Kimmy said, “Wow, the sky’s so blue. Beautiful day.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, looking toward the beach and the tanned guys, “and . . . so hot.”

We looked at each other. I knew what she was thinking. She knew what I was thinking. The beach was way too tempting. Kimmy stopped at a pay phone and called in to the spa. “You won’t believe our luck. My darn car overheated. Can you believe it?”
Somehow, I don’t think they did.

 

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