Foodie Friday will be in full effect next week, yo. But, as I am on vacation right now and unwilling to do anything that may qualify as actual "work" then you shall have to wait to hear of the glorious bounty I have ingested down here in California. I would feel guilty about my gluttonous ways were it not for the fact that my friend Curtis has had me at the gym every day exercising like Jillian Michaels on Thorazine. I'd kick his punk ass if I could move my legs. Meh. So, in the interim, this is what you get. . .
I am among the last people on the planet to get a Smart Phone, in large part because I myself am not a smart person. Things like apps and iTunes baffle me and it took the combined efforts of my ten-year-old children to teach me how to use the OnDemand feature on my TV. I had been content to use my ghetto Tracfone for years until my foray into the worlds of blogging and Twitter forced me to make the Great Leap Forward and get what my friend Jess referred to as a "Big Girl Phone". At first I was tentative, but gradually I grew to love my new iPhone. And by love, I mean adore. And by adore, I mean deify. And by deify I mean I would catch a grenade for it. . .throw my hand on a blade for it. . .I'd jump in front of a train for it. . .yeah, I would do anything for it. That is, however, until a few weeks ago when it suddenly turned against me. It started quietly enough, as most rebellions do; with a whisper, not a bang. It started with a cryptic text from Misty.
Wait. . .what? I scrolled through my message queue and reread our conversation from the night before. We discussed the hellacious heat back East, talked smack about our kids, she said good night, I said goodnight, aaaaaaaaannnnnnd scene! Nothing about cycles pointing in any direction.
I pondered this shit for over an hour. How can someone be sending texts from me that AREN'T me? Had there been some sort of iPhone identity theft, and if so, that begs the larger question of why in hell would anyone want to steal MY identity? Trust me, if you're looking to go all "Single White Female" on someone then here's a tip: don't choose the 41 year old dipshit with the crappy driving record and a student loan. I watched my iPhone with a wary eye; my trust slipping faster than Paula Deen on a greased Slip-n-Slide. The next 24 hours passed without incident, and then as I was tithing my offerings at the holy temple of Target I received a text from Misty that took me aback. I stared at it in confusion for about five minutes before tapping out a befuddled reply.
So, was it not just someone in MY phone? Was it a bizarre Misty/Jen hybrid stalker? I'd barely had time to formulate an adequate conspiracy theory when Misty posted the following query regarding the photo she'd posted of her husband singing karaoke.
The next few days were a similar series of unfortunate events. I received texts extolling the virtues of "stay-hard" cream from my friend Gina, a random series of letters and numbers from my friend Dana, and apparently my evil twin began speaking Klingon to Misty in the midst of our conversations. After three days of this skullfuckery I was ready to go all Naomi Campbell on a bitch and throw my phone at someone's head. The final straw came when I was sitting on the couch watching "Ghost Protocol" and received a text from my friend Max that was so confusing I was almost unable to focus on Jeremy Renner's forearms.*
*"Almost" being the operative word. I'm not made of stone, y'all.
The next morning I fired off a reply to Max.
Max's willful indiscretions notwithstanding, I was frustrated enough to actually break my vow of lethargy and drag my sorry ass to the AT&T store. After not one, not two, but three employees attempted to crack the daVinci Code that had infiltrated my phone, my Apl.d.Ap homeboy Gabriel uncovered the problem.*
*My AT&T store is the schizznit. Mad fist bumps, my people.
Gabriel handed my Barbie pink iPhone to me with great solemnity. "Your phone," he said gravely "has been compromised."
I was initially distressed by this news but the more I thought about the word "compromised" the cooler it sounded, like my iPhone was a member of the Avengers Initiative. Suddenly my suburban existence seemed all covert and James Bond-y.
"So," I said excitedly, "is it like a government conspiracy? Ooh! Was someone using my phone to tap into a Mafia syndicate or transfer messages to a drug cartel?"
Gabriel stared at me for a moment, then spoke to me as one does to a mentally-challenged toddler. "No. It means that sometimes 971 numbers experience interference from similar numbers. Very rarely does the CIA utilize civilian iPhones. . .especially pink ones with Nicki Minaj as their ringtone."
Touche, my good man. Anyhoo, whatever the problem may have been, Gabriel and the fine men and women of the Bridgeport AT&T store fixed my phone and it has been without incident ever since. But truthfully, the experience has left me a little paranoid and jaded. How much of what we email and text winds up out in the digital universe for all to see? I contacted Misty and told her that the problem should be rectified and asked if she'd received any other cryptic messages from my phone.
"No." she replied a little sadly "actually, I kind of miss them."
"Well," I replied consolingly, "maybe we should keep talking in spy code anyway. . .you know, just to be safe."
Misty grew stoic. "The eagle flies at midnight" she said with great solemnity. "I repeat: the eagle. Flies. At midnight."
"The owls have eyes" I replied. "the owls have eyes that only the snowman can see."
Childish? Perhaps. But I think that all of us need a little Mission Impossible in our lives.
This blog will self-destruct in three seconds. . .