It is no secret that I am addicted to that little screen in a way that seems silly for a woman who never ever in a thousand years talks on the phone ever at all ever. But I text. I take pictures of food. I have six games of Words With Friends in progress. I use my iPhone to check email. I tweet and aimlessly scroll through Facebook when the physical world fails to engage me. I stream Pandora and The Current. It is my alarm clock, not to mention my clock-clock. I actually consider it my primary computer.
One day I came in from outside and a friend asked me if it was still raining.
I gave him a puzzled look.
"I can't remember," I told him. Paused. "No. It's not. My screen didn't get wet."
This smart phone-less outdoorsy sort has gone on to repeatedly use this story as some sort of cautionary tale among his Baby Boomer contemporaries.
I tried multiple cords. I tried charging through the wall charger and through my barely functioning computer, which I'm assuming only turned on because a) my phone is broken; b) I hadn't had enough sleep; c) I hit my head on the coffee table and the world had decided that I had struggled (albeit heroically) enough for one day.
I thought of how I had used that block of battery and concluded it was a waste: Streaming music that sounds like the band Air on Pandora, confirming plans for a visit from my parents, telling JCrew that my middle name is "Leigh," ("Really? How come I didn't know that?"), using the screen as a flashlight.
I'm not kidding about the shakes. I feel empty and very disconnected without a functioning phone. I know this is sad. That people traveled across the prairie with no means of communicating triple word scores to opponents, hell, that for more than half of my life my only source of connection to the outside world was a shoe-sized plastic talking machine attached to the wall with a curly cord.
WHEREIN I FIND A PLACEBO
My old iPhone, a clunky second generation device that is now practically obsolete, went to a watery grave. I dropped it in the toilet, which is how I'll probably continue to kill off iPhones for the rest of my life. It has been sitting in the bottom of my purse since that happened and last night I tried plugging it in.
Apparently it has sufficiently dried out by now, as I could get it to turn on. I was able to pull up the last website I was looking at before it died: A listing of phone numbers for cab companies in Duluth. Ah, the fumbling fingers of a woman drenched in PBR versus the magnetic tug of toilet water.
Chuck has an old iTouch, which actually is obsolete. I found that holding one of these two gadgets in my hot hands calmed me, even though neither of them can actually do anything.
"Yeah, yeah, it's like I'm camping," I told Chuck staring into the muddy screen of the Touch.
Chuck suggested I try carrying around a deck of cards, see if that works.
"You're like one of those crazy ladies who wanders the streets with a dead baby in her backpack," Chuck said.
Apple is sending me a new phone that should get here Saturday (SATURDAY?!) or Monday (MON-DAAAAY?!) In the meantime, the iPhone 4's SIM card is too small to fit into any sort of replacement phone. So I've got nothing but a plan to buy a track phone from K-Mart.
"The nice thing about a track phone," Chuck said, "is you just drop it in the gutter when you're done with it."