Patrick called and wanted to talk to me right away, but my cellphone was charging in the kitchen and I was in my bedroom. I didn't hear the ring, nor was I immediately aware of his urgent texts. That's why he should call my landline.
John complained about the quality of our connection. Um ... oh, hell, don't make me say it.
There's an extension in my living room and one in my bedroom. I cannot NOT hear it. The sound quality is almost always perfect. It's the same number I've had for freaking decades, so I know it's programmed into all their phones.
I will never be one of those people who carries her phone with her from room to room. I'll just lose it.† When we return to regular life, my cell phone will languish in my purse all day, because I have a perfectly serviceable landline on my office desk.
No, it doesn't accept texts or take photos. But it rings. It takes voicemail messages. It's the most dependable way to reach me when I'm at home. To borrow from Bruce Springsteen, "Use it, Rosie, that's what it's there for!"
*I lose track of the days while on shutdown.
†You have no idea how much time I waste looking for my glasses in this Covid19 days when it's unwise to wear my contacts.