My Phone and the art of self-sabotage

My closest friends, lovers, people on trams, anyone who brushes up against me using one  whilst ordering a coffee in an already cramped Brunswick coffee shop on a Friday morning letting me and everyone else know that he’s ‘…already got bread, you just need to get those tomatoes, but not the ones from Coles cause they’re imported from El Salvador, oh and yeah, I can’t believe I made it through a whole gram either last night, crazy’….or at least has heard/ read my manifesto on  my almost pathological disdain of iPhone’s. I’ve made no attempts to hide this, but I have admitted that if I get lost in the desert and die, the result of not having a GPS tracking device or ‘Don’t die in the desert app’, then yes, I would have learnt my lesson.

 

The thing is, I’m not against iPhone’s as such – they do seem incredibly convenient but I fear they’re making us, well specifically – my friends socially retarded. Over Christmas and having barely seen anyone for a month I got together with 2 of my friends, now proud iPhone users, I mean they couldn’t have been prouder had they birthed the damn things, eaten the placenta it came in and named it after their father’s father. As you can imagine, much like sitting opposite new parents/ the newly engaged/ new home owners, it was a riveting catch up.

 

‘No, I had no idea there was an app that  added up the accumulative effect of sodium on potato chips after the rain fall – yes, you are right, you have a responsibility to Twitter that right now.’

 

‘Someone pointed out there is no difference between a latte and a flat white????!!!!! – yeah, that’s a defo re-tweet’.

 

‘Stephen Fry’s following you…sure, I’d ask, like I’m sure he’d do your open mic room, can’t see why not.’

 

I left after 30 minutes, explaining I was bleeding internally from a broken heart – I felt like a woman trapped in a loveless marriage, who for the last 20 years only knew the feel of her own palm pressed against herself – but they didn’t need to know that, no one did.

 

The problem is of course, because I refuse to be upgraded to an iPhone, I am the less than pleased owner of a plastic phone that would retail at say around the price of a skinless frankfurter sausage and a plastic McDonald’s sundae spoon. As of yesterday, before getting on stage to do a show I dropped it for the 16th time in a month and I fear, much like dropping a baby on it’s head after one too many Tia Maria’s, it has affected it’s already stunted performance.

 

It has the battery capacity of a car who has had it’s motor, battery and leather interior stripped and exists on bricks just off a highway near Dandenong. It also likes to store numbers and names that have no correlation to each other, other than the fact that every time I’m dating someone it magically makes it possible for me to send illicit text messages to my father/ their father/ or someone I already have a restraining order against – pretty much everyone except the intended recipient. And then last night it surprised me by sending all 5 messages I wrote last night to the one person – there really is only so many times you can wish someone well on their opening night without it beginning to appear token and inconsiderate, oh and yes, I’ll admit I had a few too many beers, but I’m smart enough to know that’s not something you text to someone you still hope finds you sexy – no, that message was intended for a mate in Sydney who was bemoaning I never let loose – well I let loose and then went home and ate cornflakes – happy now?!
 
But my phones greatest feature by far is that it currently decides what ‘sent’ messages it will keep or not keep and it does this I imagine by feeling my pulse as I text a message, noting that perhaps my heart beats at a faster rate, thus perhaps making it an important message and then once I send it, deleting it, revelling in the now compounded stress that will engulf me for a few hours as I try and figure out who got that message and whether or not just because I sent it to the wrong person, well that doesn’t mean I have to follow through on my promise of doing something with the word ‘lather’ in it to them – or do I? Is a text as good a verbal agreement no matter who the intended recipient is?

 

A few weeks ago my phone did this to great affect. In a playful mood I sent my current manfriend a message, one of the ‘choose your own adventure’ kinds. It was such a good suggestion that I assumed it would get a response of at least ‘I’ll see what’s in the vegie keeper’ within the next couple of hours. However, after about 6 hours and with me now sitting having coffee with a friend I told her about the message and the lack of interest I’d received after sending it. As I scrolled threw my phone to show it to her, hoping she wouldn’t slide off her chair after reading it, an almost expected side affect – I realised it wasn’t in my sent folder – a message sent to my mother earlier that day about and 7.30 Report was there, but not this message.

 

I now only had one option – I’d face this head on – I texted him again to see if he got the message, given I was concerned I’d sent it to someone else and as any one knows who chases someone up with ‘did you get my last message???? It went really well – the fact is that  that simple text escalated to a series of phone calls ending in ‘are you checking up on me? I was asleep…’’ (him) to ‘you’re a f**k wit’ (me)    -showing just how much my phone hated me. I couldn’t help but thing this was the universes (or at least Apple’s) way of forcing my into getting an iPhone. But my phone underestimated my resolve, perhaps it’s only weakness – yes, I’d rather sabotage a burgeoning romance than get an iPhone – I’d rather enjoy the touch of my own hand, than that of my new man and after all, he has two iPhone’s…he’s on shakey ground anyway.

 

And then came opening night of comedy festival. Tired and sleepy after 2 back-to-back shows and staggering out of a cab after midnight on a Wednesday I didn’t notice my phone drop out of my bag. I just managed to make it to bed, decide not to put my sheets on properly, or take my eye make-up with a conviniently located make-up removal wipe by my bed (because I’m a bigger fan of washing pillow cases) and watched episodes of Red Dwarf until my wired brain caught up with my tired eyes and the whole time I didn’t notice my missing phone.

 

In the morning though I noticed it was gone. I cursed myself, realising I’d have to buy a doppelganger that day – cause yes, I’d buy the same phone – I come from a family that buys the same dog after one dies – old habits die hard. However, just as I was leaving the house, I noticed out of the corner of my eye my phone, perched tauntingly on top of my letter box – surely it should be dead right now, or at least stolen – but really, even I had to admit the likely hood of someone stealing a prepaid plastic phone who’s ‘send picture’ feature is an old pixilated drawing of a birthday cake, probably wouldn’t fetch much on the open market.

 

But hey, how much harm could my phone has done, left out in the cold late at night? …let me tell you – it can call a man I’m not seeing at 3.30am, a man next listed next to the guy I am seeing  and give this other guy the idea that I was calling him at 3.30 in the morning for, well you figure it out….mind you I’m not sure how hot the sound of someone parking, or the bins being picked up really can be, but hey different stokes rule the world.

 

At the conclusion of this story I have now decided to buy an iPhone…that’s really where I was going with this.

 

and oh, if you want to se a show:

http://www.comedyfestival.com.au/2010/season/shows/lou-sanz-please-don-t-use-my-flannel-for-that-a-memoir

 

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