Thank God for cell phones. Now, I don't have to be afraid of breaking down along the most rural, deserted stretches of the Pennsylvania Turnpike with no one to turn to for help besides the red-eyed, wild-haired, six-fingered truck driver who pulled over to offer me a ride. I don't have to worry that one of my daughters might break her nose on the playground and the hospital won't be able to reach me to give consent for the immediately necessary reconstructive surgery that would prevent her from looking like Karl Malden for the rest of her life.
Most importantly, I no longer fear long, boring car rides with no one to gab to.
Now, a British cancer expert is trying to rain on my parade . . .
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