I had bitched for the past year or so about my smartphone's various inadequacies. It was becoming increasingly unsatisfactory for my Human 2.0 needs. Believe it or not, I have been using a so-called "smartphone" that CANNOT EVEN LOAD PICTURES OFF OF TWITTER RELIABLY. How can I be an effective social media maven without even that most basic of capabilities?! HOW CAN I SYNERGIZE?!?! HOW IN THE FUCK AM I GOING TO COME UP WITH A SOCIAL MEDIA STRATEGY FOR MY PERSONAL BRAND?!???!?
A brief discussion occurred between my wife and I wherein we discussed the purchase of cellular telephones for Christmas. We agreed that such a purchase was perhaps beyond our means due to having made the ridiculous decision to buy a home. Money is tight right now, and paying a few hundred dollars for a thing that is mostly excellent at taking and sharing (and enlarging) pictures of your dick is frivolous. And by the way, is it not insane that a three year old phone is considered a decrepit relic?
So, of course she buys me a new phone for Christmas, and of course, I don't do the same for her, because I thought we talked about this as a marital unit and came to a mutual accord. Setting aside the hurtful betrayal of the situation, I was overjoyed. At last, I could be an effective participant in the social armageddon wrought by smartphones!
I tinkered with it. Twitter worked its dark magic magnificently. I watched some of a wonderful collaborative Let's Play of Hammerwatch being done by Veriax, Pike, Ratbird Champion, and Malarky. See how many names I'm dropping? Look at how much pseudo-social digital interaction occurred right there! IN MY HAND.
This morning, I wanted to take it with me to work, but I realized that my wife couldn't reach me on it yet. I guess that's kind of important. So I left it on the coffee table in my living room amongst the carcass of our Christmas before rushing out the door.
This afternoon, the table was cleaned off, and the phone wasn't there. Katie must have just cleaned it up. We're going camping tomorrow, so we started packing, and going over all of the necessary implements: tent, sleeping bags, a Tiger hand-held game, perfunctory books, elk urine, food? Oh, a cell phone might be nice. Cell phone. Right. That was on the coffee table. Honey, did you grab the lovely new phone you purchased to celebrate to birth of our Savior? Is it perhaps cutely displayed on the tree? Oh, you didn't see it at all today? I suppose I could have been mistaken. Perhaps I left it in the bathroom. I do enjoy a good morning shit accompanied by the Internet in my hands. Given the choice, wouldn't you rather than not defecate with the entire fucking wealth of human knowledge in your hands?
Oh, it's not in the bathroom. It's not under the couch, in the cushions, in a kitchen drawer, on the dresser, in the fireplace... We are now transitioning from a curious situation to a felony. And then, a revelation: my wife left her keys in the side door last night. We live in a slightly dodgy neighborhood, which I actually love. It reminds me of the Portland I grew up in. My neighbors and I truly look out for each other, because we're in this shit together. Contrast this with that fucking miserable condo I lived in for three years where I can count on one hand the number of times I spoke with a neighbor. I think a neighbor might have saw me in my underwear once; I sure wouldn't talk to me after that, either.
But back to the point. The scenario began to unfold: a local ne'er-do-well may have espied the keys dangling from the door from the street after I had left at 5 AM (seriously, WTF) but before my wife awoke around 7. Having a heart three sizes to small, he or she could certainly have grinched their way through the door and into the living room, wrapping their fuzzy green fingers around my newfound key to digital success. The perfect crime. No forced entry, little noise, an easily-concealed and high-value item, easily pawned on Craigslist; in fact, the dull-witted owner surely just got it for Christmas, and wouldn't have a serial number to provide to the police.
I have been extremely anxious the past few months, seeing as how I'm basically the only breadwinner right now, my job is ridiculous, I'm exhausted, and I'm just predisposed to fretting anyways. The worst thought wasn't that my wife had allowed my phone to be stolen; what if they weren't looking for a mere phone? Now the muscles in my neck tense and my jaw clenches while we drive to work to see if somehow I managed to take it with me (I didn't.)
Every option has been exhausted. Even Sir Arthur Conan Doyle would have to agree: we have been burgled by one crafty devil. I consider the lecture I will deliver to my wife, trying to find the words to express not only my frustration, but also the abyssal depth of my fears, and how my intestines have practically braided themselves at the thought of what could have happened to her.
With money being tight, I didn't want to call a locksmith, but the local grocery store has no replacement lock cylinders. Really, what was I even thinking there? The house key was still on her chain. Only a fucking nerd would think "oh, surely our suspect has made an imprint of the key, and is having a copy made forthwith to further purloin our abode!"
We have to go to the redwoods tomorrow. I won't leave all of my things unsecure. Why would I want to go hug a tree while some asshole is stealing my television, my art, my custom kitchen knife, my computer, with all of my priceless let's play videos? Grumble grumble, I'm going to finish up the laundry.
The laundry. The blessed laundry.
The damned phone would have smiled at me from the bottom of the washer barrel if it could have. You stupid son of a bitch. You ALWAYS check the laundry first when you're looking for anything pocket-sized (take that as you will).
I just had to laugh. I didn't do it for theatrical effect, I just had no other bodily response that seemed appropriate.
She could hear me down there, probably figuring that I had finally broken. "What?"
"It was in the laundry."
"I thought you were mad at me."
"I can't believe this. It's just a fucking phone."
"I know."
"They could have taken so much more than the phone."
