Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery






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Wednesday, June 13, 2007


Dast Ist Crazy-Making

There are a number of people who are already of the opinion that I'm not well in the head. But I came very close to actually losing my mind today. Seriously, I thought I might very well go utterly mad.

I was limping around the apartment (had that ingrown toenail problem taken care of yesterday, so my feets is a mite achey) and I picked my phone up off the coffee table to check if I'd gotten any messages. I hadn't, because who the fuck calls me ever, but I noticed that the phone could use some charging.

So I walk from the living room to the kitchen, I move some stuff out of the way on the counter, I plug the charger into the outlet--at which time I bump a plastic bottle that falls loudly into the sink--I go to plug my phone in and I find that the battery cover has fallen off my phone.

Now, I realize that there's nothing all that necessarily crazy about the battery cover falling off one's phone. Otherwise, our psychiatric institutions would be about 9000% fuller. But here's where it starts to get vaguely Serling-esque.

I figure that, since the phone was whole when I picked it up off the coffee table, the back has got to be in the immediate vicinity. Somewhere between the living room and kitchen, my logic went, was where the battery cover had to be.

I know how to troubleshoot, so I worked the problem logically. There was a clatter of sorts when I bumped the plastic bottle, so the battery cover most likely came off at that point and was in the sink. So I cleared the dishes and silverware out of the sink. Nothing. I took the plates, plastic containers, utensils and cheese doodles off of the dish-drying rack and put them away. No battery cover. I looked on the floor all around the sink. Found a bunch of dog hair and some peach skin with dog hair on it. But no battery cover, with or without dog hair.

So okay. It has to be in the living room. On the couch. Under the couch. Between the cushions. Under the coffee table. Under the stack of papers on the coffee table. In my shoe. On the coat rack in the ski parka I haven't worn since 2004. No. No to all the above.

Then I'm thinking that maybe I remembered the sequence of events wrong. Maybe I put the phone in my pocket on the way to the kitchen instead of carrying it in my hand. So I look in my pockets, but turn up nothing except for some lint. I look in my pockets again in case the batter cover was maybe hiding behind my Listerine breath strips. Uh-uh. But I'm out of breath strips.

Having now looked every place the batter cover could conceivably be--from the starting point of my living room to kitchen trek to the end and all points in between--I look in the same places again. And again. And again, each time a little more desperate.

It had to be there. Logic dictates that things don't just disappear, so either it was someplace I'd looked and I'd just stupidly managed to overlook it or I was hallucinating in the first place and my phone never had a battery cover. And you throw into this frustration the added pressure that I can't afford to buy another phone at this moment. I felt like I was losing my grip on reality. Which was relatively tenuous to begin with, let's be honest here.

After putting the dishes back in the sink and then taking them back out again and then literally crawling the entire route from coffee table to sink on my hands and knees with my face at carpet level, I decided to just go into the bedroom, sit down at the computer and try to find out how much Verizon is charging for replacement battery covers. I was figuring such a think would probably run me about $875.

Just as I'm about to sit down, I look on the floor by the computer and I spot the battery cover. Which you'd think would be just a huge, huge relief. Except that I swear the cover was on the phone when I picked it up in the living room.

Now my working theory is that my dog slipped me a Mickey, pried the battery cover off my phone, dropped it in the bedroom and then helped himself to a bowl of kibble before I woke up. It's the only explanation that fits.

A psychologically challenged girl scout once put my t.v. remote in the refrigerator.
She came back a week later and put my car keys in my sock drawer.

I really need to stop letting her in the house.
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