Wednesday, February 23, 2011

A Disaster on the Cellular Level

My iPhone has been broken for a while now, and I've been more than okay with it.  Yes, I've missed playing Words With Friends with my worthy-opponent-mother, but other than that, I haven't felt too alone without it.

Until my other ipod broke.  It just died.  No explanation, no fritz, no sparks, just death. A blank screen and no hope of a battery recharge or a system reset.

I don't do well without music.

In the absence of my iphone, I had been using my mother's old Nokia flip phone.
The phone she formerly professed her undying love to was sitting on a shelf in her utility room, gathering dust.  So, she bequeathed it to me in an effort for my husband and I to save money and avoid repairs on my iPhone. In the mean time, I ordered a replacement screen for my iPhone (still intending to use the flip and avoid data charges, but strictly in an effort to retrieve my musical repertoire.)

That is, until the flip phone died.  Now, it still has a little life left in it, but only enough to let you get a glimpse of the screen before it shuts off again. It is utterly useless. (And I outta know something about utters being useful.)

So I retired the flip phone. I am now resigned to the solution of using my iPhone because it is actually cheaper to pay for a data plan for the remainder of our cell phone contract than to try and purchase a new phone.

The timing of all these events, however, is the real kicker to this story.  You see, this all happened last Thursday around 6:00pm. In case you aren't aware of the context, this was about 9 hours before we loaded the bus for...

(a youth group weekend in Gatlinburg where I was in charge!....and thus in DESPERATE need of a cell phone!!!!)

So, Nathan was at work and I was car-less, and even if I hadn't been, it was too late to go to the only close Apple store on the North side of town (still a 45 minute drive).  So I dug around for a while and finally found a solid case that could cover the shattered screen on my iPhone. It worked...mostly. The shattered glass was held in place under a thick layer of hard plastic. But, besides the occasional shards of glass that would slip out from under the plastic and slice my hand, the shatter was directly over the button for the phone, hence I could not make calls.

(Do you sense the frustration building?)

So, I decided to check the mail, on the off chance that my replacement screen had come in a week early.

Much to my disbelief, there was a package in the mail containing a replacement tool kit and a new, pretty glass screen for my iPhone.

So I commenced the replacement process.

I opened the package to find it contained NO instructions, so I Googled a "how to" video tutorial, found one that looked legitimate, and got the process underway.

After 2 1/2 hours of unsuccessful screw removal (those screws are no bigger than a piece of pepper, I swear), I was just about to my wits end.  I had already Facebooked my husband to tell him that my phone wasn't working, so I decided to Facebook my dear friend Elizabeth and ask for her help (she's an engineer. If anybody could get this thing working, it was her). 

Neither one of us having yet packed for the oncoming weekend extravaganza, and the clock now pushing 9pm, Elizabeth and I sat around my coffee table (her eyeglass screwdriver in hand) attempting to disassemble and reassemble my poor, poor phone.  After another couple of hours, we were on the upswing and were about to re-insert the new screen.  As she popped the screen into place, there was a tab left sticking out at the top of the iPhone, but the phone worked! I assumed this tab was merely an extra, meant to help you hold onto the glass as you inserted it, and so, without hesitation, I snipped it off.

After that epic scissor snip, I then realized that what I had clipped was a ribbon cable, not an extra piece of plastic.

Bad Kacey, BAD.

The phone still works, mind you, but the touch sensor does not. I clipped the single most important component to the iPhone, and now I can't even turn it off, because even that requires a touch slide to do so.

At this point, I was hysterical. I cried and I yelled and I'm pretty sure I scared Elizabeth (even though I felt like DIRT for wasting two hours of her night with my stupidity).  I told her to just go home and pack because there was nothing else we could do...I'd just have to manage the weekend phone-less.

A couple of hours later, my husband arrived home to see my tears and hear my sad sob story. 

He chuckled a little bit, and then said, "well why don't you just use my old Tilt phone?" (The phone he had before I'd gotten him a Blackberry for work last year.)

He went upstairs, got the phone out of a secret desk drawer, charged it up, inserted my sim card, and had managed to solve all of my problems in a time-span of about 3 minutes.

I'm ordering another replacement screen for my iPhone, because I still don't have music.

This time, I'm letting Nathan hold the scissors.

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Nuclear Explosions & Other Things My Kid Can Sleep Through

It pretty much takes a train wreck to wake up my daughter.

In fact, if a train carrying nuclear missiles exploded right in the middle of a 3-ring-circus, I'm still not sure it would wake her up.

Unless, of course, you touched her....


We were laying in bed, quietly drifting off to sleep, when all of a sudden we heard "uuullllckckckckah, uuullllckckckckah, uuullllckckckckah, blllleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeccccccccchhhhhhhhhh".

Lovely, right?

With a "HOLY CRUDBUCKETS DOG", my dear husband jumped out of bed, to the rescue of our carpet, and ran the puppy into the bathroom.

Rocco was sick. Not just once, but 16 times. Nathan would get up, each time yelling some sort of perturbed exclamation, clean up, put the dog up, then get back in bed just in time to hear "uuulllckckckckah, uuullllckckckckah, uuullllckckckckah, blllleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeccccccccchhhhhhhhhh" all over again. Like I said, 16 times. He finally upchucked something metal that we're pretty sure was the cause of all the hacking. Through all of this noise, Mayah stayed asleep.

(Yes mother, I am well aware that this is why you don't have dogs. We get it.)

So, in the midst of all the puking, Mayah and I are laying there in bed, her little head asleep on my arm and me feeling really guilty that I wasn't helping my dear husband clean up.  I kept asking him if he needed help, but he kept demanding that he would only be angrier if we had an awake baby to deal with once the puking finally stopped. So I stayed in bed....and she stayed asleep.

A little while later Nathan finally decided that he was going to take Rocco downstairs so I could at least get some sleep. I objected and rapidly sat up in bed, forgetting the sleeping baby next to me. He objected to my objection and pointed out that Mayah was STILL asleep, even after I had jumped so hard, so I'd better lay back down and get some sleep or he was going to be mad at me too.

So he left. Before he hit the bottom of the stairs I heard "ROCCO YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FREAKING KIDDING ME!!!!!", and I knew the puking was nowhere near the end of its run.  So I went to lay back down, very thankful for a husband who understands the importance of my sleep.

Now I must emphasize that Mayah has slept through teenage girl slumber parties, youth group lock-ins, a countless number of movies (including several at the theaters), a superbowl party, fighting dogs, Sunday morning singing, and worst of all, my dad.

(I would also like to take this moment to point out that even as I sit here typing this, Mayah is asleep on my lap and I just had the most violent set of sneezes my body could muster. I'm pretty sure I'd put a dwarf to shame with those. Yet, she is still out cold.)

I never suspected that one tiny little movement would be the end of peace as I knew it.

I moved her arm. Shame on me. I should have known better, but I did it anyway. I moved it half an inch so I could lay back down, and with the tiny movement came a less than tiny scream.

Nobody got anymore sleep that night.

I'm choosing to look at the bright side of this. It's times like these when I'm extremely glad my husband doesn't have boobs. Otherwise I would have been cleaning up a lot of doggie puke.

Thursday, February 03, 2011

The Complexities of Cornflowers


Recently, my husband has developed an obsession for distinguishing colors. If you read the recent debacle, then you know we had a dispute over the specific variations of the colors orange and tangerine. Based on his clear and unshakable stance on the side of the latter, I have come to the conclusion that Nathan needs to leave the color distinguishing up to me.

My mother and I frequently make up our own Crayola Crayon colors.  Ever since I was a kid, we would point out a color and make up a new name for it; such as: Zesty Blue (named after a favorite shirt of mine), Granny Apple Guacamole (a.k.a. the color of mom’s office walls), Hazelnut Latte (the color of the Drury Inn off exit 4 in Paducah), Mushroom Gray, Baby Puke Green, & the ever so creative Horse Poo Brown (I think that one might have been created out of a bad situation when dad let a horse loose in the front yard…).

Since Nathan is fully aware that I have a knack for putting a name to very oddly specific color variations, He frequently asks me to name colors for him, and I oblige because, let’s face it, I’m only creative in a linguistic capacity.
So the other day we were walking through the store and he pointed out a very specific shade of blue.  “What would you call that?” he asked.  “Well, that’s just plain ole’ Cornflower Blue” I said.  

“CORNFLOWER?!? What the heck is cornflower?!?”  “Well,” I went on to tell him, “Cornflowers are actual flowers, and that’s what color they are.  It was a very popular color for living room wallpaper in 1972.”

“Who in the world names colors after REAL THINGS?” he exclaimed!


I paused for a moment, slowly turned away from my shopping cart, looked him dead in the eyes and said “TANGERINE”!