I’m a cell phone killer. I’m probably wanted in multiple states for reckless cell phone homicide. I drop them. I drown them. Blackberrys hate me. Iphones fear me. Droids tremble in my presence.

It all started with my new phone. My husband and I changed plans and we had to get two new cell phones. Because we spent so much money, the cell phone company threw in two lesser phones for our kids. My kids were overjoyed with their new phones and we were all extremely happy for five minutes until I broke my phone.

Somehow or other as I tried to use it, I broke it. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how a phone that was supposed to be so smart could allow itself to break so easily.  Fortunately it was under warranty for another ten minutes, so the phone guys agreed to replace it for free. Unfortunately, I would have to wait a week for my newer new phone, so I borrowed my daughter’s. And then I broke hers. I dropped it as she handed it to me.

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Now the cell phone salesman had two phones to replace in less than two minutes and at least two people were very unhappy. As I tried to explain that I hadn’t dropped the phone, it had actually jumped out of my hands, I noticed that everyone in the store had begun to back away from me.

My son cradled his new cell phone. “Keep away, you cell phone killer,” he warned me. I glared at him.

The next day my son came up to me. “Mom, have you seen my new cell phone?”

“No,” I responded. “Where was the last place you saw it?”

“In the pocket of my jeans.”

I blanched. “You mean the dirty jeans I picked up off your floor and washed last night?” We both raced downstairs to the laundry room. I reached into the washing machine and pulled out a very clean, very wet, non-functioning cell phone.

“Ahhh! You killed my cell phone!” he shouted. “You’re a three-time cell phone killer!”

This was definitely not good. It’s one thing to accidentally damage one cell phone.  It’s quite another to murder three. I suspected the cell phone police would put out a warrant for my arrest.  I imagined my face on wanted posters all over the state for cell phone abuse and laundry-assisted cell phonicide.  At the very least, I suspected I would be banned from the Genius Bar at the Apple Store and lose my superior status on Snapchat.

I called my husband on our home phone. “I killed my cell phone and both of the kids’ cell phones,” I told him.

“You’re cut off,” he said. “No more cell phones for you.”

“But I need to have a cell phone,” I argued.

“We’ll get you something you can’t break.”

“What?” I asked.

He sighed. “Two cups and a string.”