I have a cell phone, as does hubby and about a few other billion people on this planet. Hubby also has a mobile phone.

It’s his pickup. Not in his pick-up — his pickup is the mobile phone, on wheels. He can say “Call home” and it does. A call comes in to his cell phone and it rings through his pickup. He answers and talks just by the press of a button.

I lust after his mobile phone.

What I want the mobile phone on wheels for is to call into radio talk shows on my drive into the office. Not to give an opinion on their topic of the hour, no. What I want to do is tape their call-in numbers to the dashboard so I can call and talk to their traffic reporters.

I am sometimes dismayed to hear a “good-to-go” report while I am sitting in stop-and-go traffic on the Interstate. By the time I inch forward enough to discover the bottleneck, the tow truck is there, the firefighters are cleaning up, the police are directing traffic. The drivers of the two vehicles involved in the accident are joking with each other and exchanging mailing addresses for Christmas cards; that’s how long they’ve been there.

I want to call the radio stations and help them with their traffic reports. I’ll do it for free, even, just as soon as I get my own mobile phone on wheels.