Yodel me on my cell...

While at the movies last weekend, I had the unfortunate experience of sitting next to an obnoxious blockhead who kept texting on his cell phone throughout the movie. True, he wasn't talking, and yes, his cell was on a silent setting, but the brightness of his smartphone was so annoying in the dark theater and the thickheaded man apparently didn't didn't get the message when I kept putting up my hand to block the light from his phone. I should have sent smoke signals, or better yet, a text.

He was definitely a twit, but not as much of one as the ignorant woman sitting next to me at the nail salon Wednesday, chattering non-stop on her cell about everything, anything and nothing at all. I was treated to her opinion on Casey Anthony (along with a long synopsis of the never-ending trial), new threats on how terrorists will now be smuggling medically implanted bombs and a general who's doing who in her life. She regaled everyone in the salon with her escapades for a solid hour and a half.

Like who cares?

For the life of me, I don't know why people just cannot shut off their cells, along with their mouths, for one or two hours of their lives. Will they miss that much? Really? Clearly, as in the case of the woman at the salon, she likely never shuts up long enough to listen to anything or anyone. She might go into withdrawal if she can't hear herself talk. What a boor.

Oy. Rant over. I promise.

The color on my toes? OPI's, Yodel Me on My Cell. The irony does not escape me.

The shawl continues to grow and is beginning to remind me of the M*A*S*H episode where Margaret started to knit a sweater for her husband one summer, but as her life changed during a long Korean winter, so did her knitting plans. In the end, she knit a huge afghan.

I believe I'll start calling this my Hot Lips Project.