You know my phone got stolen, right?
Say you: Seriously? You're STILL harping on that?
Say me: Yes. Bitter, I am. But there's a story so hang with me.
I was fortunate enough to have not sold my old iPhone after I acquired my new one.
And before I go any further, let's be clear here: Once one upgrades to a smart phone, there's simply no going back. And once one becomes a member of the iPhone club, it's only a matter of time before they are a default member of the Apple cult. In which no. Other. Phone. Will. Do. Period.
Where was I?
Oh, yeah. My old iPhone. His name was iFrank. I had been sitting on it for months after I purchased the 4. I meant to put it up on eBay but was frankly just lazy about doing so. Part of my laziness stemmed from the fact that I didn't think anyone would buy it. It's a first generation. It's slow. It uses EDGE technology for data roaming, after all. Meaning it's slow. The camera is a 2 megapixel (the 4 has 5 megapixels, the 5 is rumored to have 8) with no flash, so the pictures aren't that great. There's no video component. The GPS isn't a GPS at all, but some weird jerry-rigged cell phone tower locating software. To add insult to injury, my incase for it had long since deteriorated and rendered itself useless:
If I wanted to get all be-thankful-for-what-you-have about it, I was fortunate to have iFrank lying around. I was fortunate I could walk around with a smart phone of any kind. I was fortunate enough to be living in a country where such luxuries come with ease.
Naturally that wasn't my initial take on the matter.
For a solid week, I bitched. I moaned. I groaned. I complained. I whined. I compulsively searched the web for iPhone 5 release dates. Never mind that I could still check my email and play Words with Friends and waste time on Facebook and surf online and take Hipstamatic pictures and listen to podcasts and make notes for myself and remind myself of tasks via voice memo and text. Oh, I could also still you know, talk on the phone. But did I mention how SLOW it is? It's really slow.
Me, to The Geek: OhmiGod this phone is so slow.
The Geek: Well, go out and buy another phone. It's fine. Just insure it this time.
Later:
Me: I can't even use the Stitcher Radio app! The first gen doesn't support it. ARGH!
The Geek (reading, not looking up): Yeah, babe. I'm sorry.
Later:
Me: My photo transfer app isn't supported by this archaic piece of crap either! ARGH!!
The Geek (completely ignoring me): Uh, huh.
Later:
Me: OhmiGOD. Have I mentioned how fucking SLOW this phone is???
The Geek, thoroughly done with my angst: Then go out and buy another phone. I don't care. Just insure it this time.
Fast forward 13 days from the day my phone was stolen and one week from my daily my-life-sucks-I'm-forced-to-use-a-first-generation-iPhone-because-some-bastard-stole-my-superior-iPhone rants.
I got called to work. I get there and start trolling the parking lot for a reasonable place to park. Naturally there are none close to where I need to be. This greatly irritates me. I'm running late and I need to get in the building and on the unit that requested my presence. The answering service has already called me to warn the unit is looking for me and am I close to arrival? Clearly the world, and more specifically my place of employment, owes me a parking spot right next to the door I need for entry so I don't have to traipse a third of mile in heels and be later than I already am.
I make another loop around the lot and then I see them. Five unused parking places right in a row reserved for expectant mothers.
Huh.
I suppose this is a new trend. I certainly don't remember there being special parking places reserved just for me and my belly back when I was pregnant. When I was pregnant I had to hoof it across ten miles of parking spaces all the way to the mall and sometimes it was 121 degrees outside. And why should expectant mothers get their own parking place anyway? They got themselves in that condition after all. It's surely not MY fault they're all big and round and retaining water and miserable in their current state.
My mind was churning. I was late. I needed to make an appearance quickly. There were five unused parking spaces close to the door and I'm a woman who is still (technically) in her birthing years. No one was going to ask if I was actually pregnant because that would just be rude. I doubted anyone was even paying attention. Besides, I was pregnant not once but twice and as I said, I had to hoof it across 15 miles of asphalt in 128 degree temperatures and never did a parking lot offer me my own space. Ever.
Screw it.
I wasn't pregnant and I didn't care. I parked in one of those spots and I was being so defiant about it that despite my hurry, I fished out my first generation iPhone with a 2 megapixel camera, lifted my arm high and took aim at that stupid, exclusive sign. I was going to post it to Facebook, by God, and brag about how I was sticking it to The Man....
Say you: Weren't you technically sticking it to your pregnant sisters?
Say me: That's when I dropped the phone.
Face down.
On the cement.
The sound was gut-wrenching.
When I picked it up and turned it over, I was greeted with this:
Oh, but it gets better! Because not only did I destroy the protective glass over the screen, I damaged the actual screen. Take a gander:
See all those gray lines going across it? Turns out iFrank doesn't take too kindly to being dropped on really hard surfaces.
I think it's fair to say I got bitch-slapped by karma. ->
Say you: Seriously? You're STILL harping on that?
Say me: Yes. Bitter, I am. But there's a story so hang with me.
I was fortunate enough to have not sold my old iPhone after I acquired my new one.
And before I go any further, let's be clear here: Once one upgrades to a smart phone, there's simply no going back. And once one becomes a member of the iPhone club, it's only a matter of time before they are a default member of the Apple cult. In which no. Other. Phone. Will. Do. Period.
Where was I?
Oh, yeah. My old iPhone. His name was iFrank. I had been sitting on it for months after I purchased the 4. I meant to put it up on eBay but was frankly just lazy about doing so. Part of my laziness stemmed from the fact that I didn't think anyone would buy it. It's a first generation. It's slow. It uses EDGE technology for data roaming, after all. Meaning it's slow. The camera is a 2 megapixel (the 4 has 5 megapixels, the 5 is rumored to have 8) with no flash, so the pictures aren't that great. There's no video component. The GPS isn't a GPS at all, but some weird jerry-rigged cell phone tower locating software. To add insult to injury, my incase for it had long since deteriorated and rendered itself useless:
 |
| Taken with 2 megapixel iPhone First Gen. |
Naturally that wasn't my initial take on the matter.
For a solid week, I bitched. I moaned. I groaned. I complained. I whined. I compulsively searched the web for iPhone 5 release dates. Never mind that I could still check my email and play Words with Friends and waste time on Facebook and surf online and take Hipstamatic pictures and listen to podcasts and make notes for myself and remind myself of tasks via voice memo and text. Oh, I could also still you know, talk on the phone. But did I mention how SLOW it is? It's really slow.
Me, to The Geek: OhmiGod this phone is so slow.
The Geek: Well, go out and buy another phone. It's fine. Just insure it this time.
Later:
Me: I can't even use the Stitcher Radio app! The first gen doesn't support it. ARGH!
The Geek (reading, not looking up): Yeah, babe. I'm sorry.
Later:
Me: My photo transfer app isn't supported by this archaic piece of crap either! ARGH!!
The Geek (completely ignoring me): Uh, huh.
Later:
Me: OhmiGOD. Have I mentioned how fucking SLOW this phone is???
The Geek, thoroughly done with my angst: Then go out and buy another phone. I don't care. Just insure it this time.
Fast forward 13 days from the day my phone was stolen and one week from my daily my-life-sucks-I'm-forced-to-use-a-first-generation-iPhone-because-some-bastard-stole-my-superior-iPhone rants.
I got called to work. I get there and start trolling the parking lot for a reasonable place to park. Naturally there are none close to where I need to be. This greatly irritates me. I'm running late and I need to get in the building and on the unit that requested my presence. The answering service has already called me to warn the unit is looking for me and am I close to arrival? Clearly the world, and more specifically my place of employment, owes me a parking spot right next to the door I need for entry so I don't have to traipse a third of mile in heels and be later than I already am.
I make another loop around the lot and then I see them. Five unused parking places right in a row reserved for expectant mothers.
 |
I suppose this is a new trend. I certainly don't remember there being special parking places reserved just for me and my belly back when I was pregnant. When I was pregnant I had to hoof it across ten miles of parking spaces all the way to the mall and sometimes it was 121 degrees outside. And why should expectant mothers get their own parking place anyway? They got themselves in that condition after all. It's surely not MY fault they're all big and round and retaining water and miserable in their current state.
My mind was churning. I was late. I needed to make an appearance quickly. There were five unused parking spaces close to the door and I'm a woman who is still (technically) in her birthing years. No one was going to ask if I was actually pregnant because that would just be rude. I doubted anyone was even paying attention. Besides, I was pregnant not once but twice and as I said, I had to hoof it across 15 miles of asphalt in 128 degree temperatures and never did a parking lot offer me my own space. Ever.
Screw it.
I wasn't pregnant and I didn't care. I parked in one of those spots and I was being so defiant about it that despite my hurry, I fished out my first generation iPhone with a 2 megapixel camera, lifted my arm high and took aim at that stupid, exclusive sign. I was going to post it to Facebook, by God, and brag about how I was sticking it to The Man....
Say you: Weren't you technically sticking it to your pregnant sisters?
Say me: That's when I dropped the phone.
Face down.
On the cement.
The sound was gut-wrenching.
When I picked it up and turned it over, I was greeted with this:
 |
| Click for a larger, more horrifying view. |
Oh, but it gets better! Because not only did I destroy the protective glass over the screen, I damaged the actual screen. Take a gander:
 |
| You know you want this phone. |
See all those gray lines going across it? Turns out iFrank doesn't take too kindly to being dropped on really hard surfaces.
I think it's fair to say I got bitch-slapped by karma. ->
2 comments:
I like the new clean look, but you really should rethink the size of the teeny text. Why would you want to make reading your blog uncomfortable for anybody?
Glad you finally got your new phone - pretty classy
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