Reasons I Am a Moron #1

Petstarr recently lost her phone. There is a lot of pessimism surrounding the loss of such a trinket, usually because everyone believes that when someone picks up a phone that isn’t theirs, they immediately begin ringing phone sex lines in Sweden.

Because, you know… there are no decent human beings left on the planet anymore, and we only want free dirty-talk and smut.

However, I must regale you with a story that is a shining beacon among the mire of stories regarding lost telecommunications-slash-techno-savvy-icon. Also, it is a chance for me to outline how fucking daft I am.

A couple months ago, I decided that I would go for a drive through the Adelaide Hills. No reason, other than I just wanted to go for a trip around the area I grew up.

Just near Mount Torrens, a lovely little town with little discerning features, the car started playing up a little. I’ll spare you the mechanical details, but it involved me pulling over to have a quick check. No major problems with the car (it was a small hiccup), so I continued on my way.

I get home, and realise that I cannot find my phone. I recently got myself one of those spiffy Motorola Razr’s, and I berated myself for losing my spanking new “item-that-obviously-speaks-volumes-for-my-importance-slash-coolness”.

I spent the entire evening walking around the house, ringing my mobile number from the landline, to no avail.

I quickly get on the phone to Telstra to bar all outgoing calls and SMS’s.

I search my car high and low, calling it from the cordless phone. I begin to get distraught. The clouds had rolled in, and a steady rain was falling. I have an awful feeling that it fell out of my pocket when I got out of the car near Mount Torrens.

I decide to not drive out there to look for the truant ring-tone-dispenser. It was dark, it was late, and I was heading that way the following day anyway.

I awoke the next day, after enduring dreams that derived pleasure from highlighting just how stupid I was (my brain likes to torture itself – I think it’s a sadist). I hopped into the car and drove for the forty odd minutes to the location I had pulled over the previous day.

And there, on the side of the road, totally intact, but a little wet and muddy, was my phone. I would probably even say that it looked a little forlorn, and a little incensed at being left behind. Phones can do that, you know. Hell, they can do everything else these days.

The battery was dead, obviously from me ringing it incessantly the night before. The screen was intact, and there were no signs of water seepage. There was a little grit in the hinge, but otherwise it was okay.

After returning home, I took to the hinge and USB slot with a toothbrush, and let it dry. After I was sure it was moisture-free, I apprehensively plugged in the charger.

I expected to hear a pop and sizzle. I await for any sign that I’ve ruined my new phone, and will need to visit my insurance company to lodge the relevant “I’m A Moron” form.

Nothing.

Then the battery icon flashes intermittently as a sign that the phone is charging. Every now and then, it beeps with the sound of a couple missed SMS’s. The phone appears to be working fine.

And looking at it today, you wouldn’t believe that I’m a phone neglecting, abusive, unfit-for-parenting-monster.

Some people would say that I’m incredibly lucky to not have had my phone ruined, stolen or run over by a passing rig. However, I simply cannot help but think that had I put the phone the pocket I usually do, the whole thing could’ve been avoided.

Moral to the story? Don’t change what isn’t broken. And if you’re abusive to something, cover your tracks.