A Misfit and Her Phone

by Priscilla on September 15, 2012

I laid the mangled piece of black and silver metal down on the Formica topped table with a sigh.  The dogs ate my cell phone, I explained to the young man at the cell phone store.  The teeth marks backed up my far fetched story.  Can you save anything?  My memory?  My info?  My sims card whatever that is?

 He just kept staring at the former telecommunications device in his hand disbelief registering on his face.

 I know.  I know.  I prattled on feeling I had to explain my pets.  They have never done anything like this.  They are good dogs.  A bit barky, but good.  They are mad at me for something and wanted to get back at me, but I don’t know what.  I can’t believe they did this.

 The poor kids was probably thinking, Look Chatty Cathy, I’m not the Dog Whisperer, and I don’t care about the temperament of your dog.  I’m just working here at the cell phone store so I can get the IPhone at 30% discount so would you please just shut your flap trap.  But he was kind and didn’t express his opinions out loud.

 Let me see what I can do. 

 He tried everything, but nothing, no information, no memory card; nothing could be extracted from my phone.  I handed over the credit card for a new phone, drove home where I shamefully confessed my predicament to all my friends and family in an email asking them for all their info again. 

 Did you get insurance this time?  my husband asked.

 No, I saw an expert on a morning show say that was a waste of money.

 Okay, he sighed knowing who he was married to and what messes she was capable of making for herself.

 That was six months ago.  This past Wednesday I dragged my kids back to the same store, sat at the same table and explained to the very professional young lady sporting a fabulous scarf in her hair (Hey, I notice the important things!), I can’t get the charger plugged into the phone.  I don’t know if it’s the cable or the phone itself.  Can you help me?

 She took one glance at the phone, and an odd look covered her face.  I’d seen that look before, and I knew my credit card was going to get involved here pretty soon.

 Umm, it’s definitely the phone.  It looks like a piece of wood is jammed in there, and I have no idea how to get it out.

 Oh, now I know what happened.  Yes, it all makes sense. Yesterday I was working out in my yard digging and mulching and moving plants around, and I had the phone in the pocket of my overalls because I was expecting a few calls.  I guess I left the flap over the plug-in and some mulch got in there.

 She just looked at me.  It was a nice look.  Kind of a sympathetic lady, you are one heckofa mess, but I like you look.

 Once again nothing could be done.  I loaded the kids back into the car, drove home, left a message for my husband and ordered another phone online.  That afternoon emails started coming in with the phone numbers of friends and family.  Our home phone rang.

 Mulch, huh?  My husband.  He wasn’t angry.  He wasn’t frustrated.  He just was.  Thirteen years of marriage to a misfit tends to teach one the habit of longsuffering.  Did you get insurance this time.


 Honey, get the insurance.  It’s not a waste of money for you.

 Alright,” I sighed, but the expert said…

 Priscilla, the experts have no idea what you are capable of doing to your phones.

 He’s right.  Experts never figure in the misfit factor.

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