I miss the days when getting a phone call was equivalent to being summoned by the mothership. Those days when the phone rang while you were in your bedroom while writing in your My Secret Diary and playing with your puppy on your Casio JD-3500 (the seafoam green one, not the wavy one – of course). The only one in the house was down in the kitchen, and you bolted like a cheetah from your bedroom down there, basically teleporting from one point to the other, to wrench the phone off the hook and gather yourself in .23 micro-seconds in order to say, “Hello?” as though you hadn’t been waiting or excited at all in the first place. These days I don’t even have a house-phone (do they even exist anymore?) and when my cell phone rings, I look at it and nearly have a panic attack because I have to answer it and sound excited, or at least not remotely disgusted that I have to speak to the person on the other end (usually). I don’t have to answer it, but answering it saves me from having to listen to a voicemail and ponder about calling the person back. Oh, 1998, how I miss you (and Savage Garden, Brandy, Chumbawumba, Real Talkin’ Bubba, Skip-It, Troll dolls, and real Polly Pockets).