*Warning: Because our cell phones are under the age of consent, their pictures will not appear here. Does anyone know when a cell phone reaches the age of consent?
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The it’s-too-large-to-fit-in-a-pants-pocket smartphone sat patiently on top of my better half’s car roof like it does every morning when he loads his car to leave—gleaming gold and white on the black roof top.
He climbed into the car and backed out of the garage. The phone, still sitting on the roof and powered by the laws of physics, took a different route and landed on the cement driveway with a sickening crunch. The face plate fractured, splintered. Siri moaned in protest, her back light faded.
Our insurance company sent us a new phone over night.
FedEx delivered more than a smart phone. Lurking in the shadows of the box something dark and ominous arrived with the phone.
The instructions from the insurance company requested I remove the SIMM card from our original phone before returning it. Done.
I set the old SIMM card on my desk on top of the return envelope.
I opened the box with the phone. Twin to the original with a pristine face plate. I opened the SIMM port to install the new chip. My phone rang. I set the new SIMM card on my desk.
One of my cats hissed, leaped on my desk, and knocked everything but the phone to the floor.
Oh crap, which one is the new SIMM chip?
I guessed wrong.
Somehow my older version smart phone and my husband’s sleek new smart phone mind melding, becoming an old fashioned party line. Shared Texts, check. Shared photos, check. Shared phone calls, e-mails, documents and apps, check check check.
We were one in phones as well as last names.
I swapped the SIMMs, reset the phone and via the magic of tech support we separated the Siamese phones, everything that is but the text messaging. They couldn’t figure it out either.
It worked well for the first few days. Then the phone hiccuped during a meeting. He couldn’t make calls, couldn’t answer calls, couldn’t even unlock his phone.
On the bright side I could still read his text messages, but I don’t really care about chimpanzees drinking beer and orangutans making photocopies of their derriere—you know, that important stuff.
This time we drove to our service provider’s brick and mortar. They assured us this happened all the time, people just tapping the wrong part of the screen. After thirty minutes of struggling with the phone, it worked properly. Problem solved.
Two weeks of smart phone serenity.
Then the phone hiccuped again—during a conference call while on speaker—in the middle of a conference room table when no one touched it. It changed settings to VoiceOver mode. Only we didn’t know that’s what happened.
Siri nagged non-stop, but she wouldn’t listen.
I handed my husband my phone and took his phone back to the brick and mortar.
My hands folded in prayer. “Please help.”
The concierge said, “You look like you might cry.”
It took me fifteen minutes to unlock the phone—with supervision.
I took copious notes on 3” x 5” cards as two technicians performed the exorcism.
Caution tape, big orange cones, another 15 minutes, a group prayer, the laying on of hands and the Hallelujah Chorus. The sun broke through the clouds filling the store with real daylight. And by the power invested in us by Father Guido Sarducci or maybe it was Greyskull, the phone worked properly.
Although when the sun broke out, I thought I heard Arnold Schwarzenegger’s voice whispering in falsetto, “I’ll be back.”
As I walked out the door Technician 2 said, “Visit YouTube for instruction for working with your phone.”
More important, Technician 1 said, “Have a blessed day.”
Can I sprinkle holy water on a cell phone?
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