There is no hell like “new phone” hell.
No, it wasn’t a Christmas present. (This year Widdle and I gave each other the heart-warming gift of granite countertops.)
Here’s what happened: I keep a Yeti tumbler of water and my iPhone 6 on my bedside table. I tend to flop around a lot during sleep, like a seal on a hot rock. A few nights ago, doing flops, I knocked the tumbler over. When I woke up, the phone had been in a puddle for hours.
And yet — miraculously, it still worked! I dried it off and checked the news and email. It was fine. Thank you, God!
Then … I put it in the charger. (We have a Bose in the kitchen, which is great for blasting tunes while I pretend to cook.) When the phone hit the cradle, the screen lit up green, then went black. Like, death-by-apocalypse black.
A Google search on our desktop showed that, OF COURSE, the worst thing you can do to a wet phone is charge it. It fries the motherboard, or whatever.
After futile resuscitation attempts with raw rice and a blow-dryer, Widdle took the SIM card out of the dead phone and put it in an old iPhone of his that didn’t have a SIM card. (This is crucial info.)
“This way you can at least call 911,” he said.
The next day we trotted off to our service provider, which I’ll call Poorizon, because I was broke after our visit.
We had a 12 p.m. appointment, and the joint was jumping, packed with people buying phones. Eventually we were helped by the manager, a very smart, very savvy, very patient woman.
I gave her the rundown, and Widdle explained how he put my SIM card in his old phone, “which won’t hold a charge for more than 30 minutes, which is why work issued me a new phone,” he added, helpfully.
There we stood, clutching three phones between us, babbling about water, sleep flops and Widdle’s job.
The manager took a deep breath and dove in. She tried, for 40 minutes, to figure out my user name and password for my dead phone, so she could turn off the “find my phone feature” so she could accept it in trade so I could get a $650 discount on the phone I wanted.
I’ve been buying Apple products for 20 years and thus have several combinations of usernames and passwords … none of which worked that day.
“Remember, the SIM card isn’t in your phone, it’s in this old phone,” Widdle kept saying as we juggled phones. I cannot tell you how confusing this was.
That sweet woman worked with us for more than 45 minutes. Finally I said, “Let it go, forget the discount,” which I’m certain caused my father to somersault in his grave.
The manager then explained the features of the model I wanted, with me standing there and saying “Huh?” at 15-second intervals. Afterwards, she vanished into the stock room for about 15 minutes. “She’s probably taking a drink,” I told Widdle, who nodded sagely. (He always nods sagely.)
Then the manager returned, triumphantly waving the phone I wanted.
My head is still splitting from the stress, but now I have a phone with massive storage, a good camera, all kinds of bells and whistles. It’s lightning fast and holds a charge for up to 16 hours.
For what it cost me, I plan to keep it until I die. But I won’t keep it on my bedside table.
Julie R. Smith, whose contacts didn’t transfer to the new phone, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.
