Find My Phone

Well, after almost a three year hiatus, here I am.  My spouse suggests that I call my blog, "April Finally writes, for the 15th time, again."

It's true, I want to, and I plan to, but then somewhere between unloading the 47 cubic feet of Costco products, feeding the fish, and searching for whatever closet the cat is locked in, finding the time to blog has become a challenge.  It's not that I don't think of clever things that I think others might enjoy. It's not that I wouldn't feel awesome if I had a chance to relax and do what I love. What is it?

I'm home! MOM!  I need lunch money, honey where's my Bluetooth, did you remember your homework, what time is play rehearsal, did you clean the cat box, I'm out of pantyhose, what's for dinner, did you feed the fish, it's your sister's birthday, Nana is turning 90, it's on the kitchen counter, yes that's right, we’re out of Swiffers, dentist at 9:30, pressure wash the deck, sorry about shutting the garage door on the new Mazda, isn't it in the bedroom? what do you mean you didn't pay the garbage bill? who's texting you now? is there any Ranch dressing, I need ranch! your ex called, I need to drop some lbs, here’s $20 and would you like to buy some cookie dough?

No, that’s not it.

Really, it’s because I spend all my time looking for my phone.

Let's talk about the graduation from a land line to exclusive mobile phone use.  I remember in high school, talking on the wall phone (rotary dial, my favorite) that hung in the kitchen.  When it rang, you could hear it three blocks away.  It was yellow and had a mismatched 50 foot cord which I badgered my mother into buying because I could reach all the way into the bathroom and still talk to my boyfriend. The phone was a big deal and being able to talk privately on it was, well,  the highlight of my day.  My boyfriend would call, except I never knew it was him, there was no caller ID.  It might just as easily have been the IRS or Dick Cavett.  I ran from my bedroom when it rang slipping in my socks on the hardwood floor. My heart raced with excitement! 

“HELLO!”

"Hello, this is Ed from the Gazette Times, was wondering if you might be interested in the newspaper?"

Really?  Damn...  

Once, I got the nerve to call the local radio station and request my favorite song.  I had to leave my radio in the bedroom and dial the number all the way in the kitchen.  By the time I got past the busy signal...

whaahh, whaahh, whaahh

Hang up

redial

rinse, lather repeat

...well, THAT song is playing already.  The DJ was an ass, I felt ridiculous.  

For a very long time, if someone was not home the phone just rang until the caller came to the realization that the callee wasn't going to pick up.  Speculate all you want on whether or not they were home or simply didn't feel like getting up from the couch and racing into the kitchen.  After all, they might miss the crucial part of their show, like maybe where Radar knows there are choppers coming.  (Extra points here if you know what the hell I'm talking about). So next, try to remember when you last heard a busy signal. Yes, that's right, I'm talking to my third cousin from Topeka about his kidney infection and the man of my dreams is calling and I won't find out for three days that he couldn't get a hold of me.  He took that job in Tampa and is married to a beautiful blonde woman with voluminous breasts.

Bastard.

Technology advanced.  For $120 you could get and answering machine. These separately purchased leviathans sat on kitchen counters or entryway tables and had little tiny magnetic tapey things in them.  It took two hours to correctly connect to your phone but then you would never miss an important phone call, like the one from that totally cute guy last night at Bee Bop’s that asked for my phone number at 2:37 a.m.

Race home from work, unlock the front door, look for the red flashing light.  Oh My God, HE CALLED!!!!  

"Uh, hey,  this is Vince in 3B, can I like borrow your laundry soap?"         

Fuck you, Vince, and tell your girlfriend to stop parking in my spot.

It's all gone, the landline, the twisty cord, the answering machine.  I now rely on the latest techno-geek gadget from Apple.  I was at lunch with a friend recently; we were both checking our phones for something.  A stranger walked by and asked, "Are you guys texting each other?"  It was a legitimate question.  I've texted my husband when he's lying in bed next to me.  I've texted my daughter to tell her dinner is ready.  Was it really that hard to send my other daughter downstairs to tell her?  Or, I guess I could yell down the stairway like my mother did.

Texting has all but eradicated the need to call someone, or even talk to them when they are three feet away from you.  It creates this strange buffer, where you can be curt and restrained - or not.

It gives you an easy out, there doesn't have to be a conclusion, Oh, sorry, I have to feed the dog BRB...and then you're just gone.  It might be hours or days before you have to answer the question or explain yourself.  I found out my friend died by text.  I told my husband there was a shooting at the local mall by text. I found out my heartbroken daughter didn't get a part in the school play by text.  Her boyfriend dumped her by text.

What the hell is wrong with us? 

And seriously, how many places can an IPhone end up?  Thank God for the "Find My Phone" app or my alarm clock-navigator-phone-grocery list-map-close personal friend might be lost forever between the couch cushions. 

And then how could I download my favorite song? Oh wait, it’s already playing!