Where's the phone?

Earl and I planned a return trip to the zoo with Heidi, Sarah, and Kyle before the weather turned cold.  It had been three years since we all went with the four grandchildren.  At that time, I had used the zoo's motorized scooter and first got the idea of getting one for myself.*  I learned the hard way to take your own scooter or risk getting accosted (verbally or physically) by another disabled person.  There are many people out there who need assistive devices and they aren't always nice about the provided equipment.

When stripped of her basket (I remove extras when not at home), Skeeter doesn't provide carrying capacity.  Womens' apparel tends not to have deep pockets.  That day, I had no pockets and still wanted to carry my smartphone.  I have a great carrying case that doubles as my wallet, holding cards and cash.  The good news is that I only have one thing to transport.  The bad news is, a combined phone and wallet doesn't fit easily into many pockets.  Sticking it down my front with "the girls" was so reminiscent of Earl's Aunt Minnie as she aged.  I just couldn't go there–at least, not in public. I had never (not yet) dropped my phone, so I confidently stashed it in my pants waistband while viewing the animals. I know, I know...

I was also confident (perhaps overly so) in my ability to identify an appropriate handicapped access bathroom.  I usually don't venture in unless I see the reassuring symbol. Grab bars installed in an old, small bathroom don't necessarily mean good access.  A child's stepstool in a public restroom–seriously?  One woman, with toddlers in tow, asked me if I was done, oblivious to the fact that I hadn't even begun because I was stuck.  That should have also been a clue that I was in the wrong place.  Nice try at retrofitting a restroom to ADA regulations, but no.  It took Heidi and two moms to extract me.  Not one of my finer moments.

Heidi scouted out a stellar restroom near the zoo elephants.  It may have been symbolic, but it worked–spacious and vacant.  Two extremes at one venue–the best and worst of restrooms appropriate for the disabled.  It's embarrassing and hard to explain, when a space brings tears to your eyes.  To a person with disabilities, a great restroom is a thing of beauty.  As I stood up to transfer from Skeeter to the toilet, I heard the distinctive "plop" as my phone hit the water.  I couldn't believe I had done it, but realized that it's preferable to drop before than after.  I was certain my quick retrieval saved the day as I saw my familiar home screen come on.  Whew!  Handing my dry phone over to my purse–carrying daughter, we went on with the rest of the zoo visit without incident.

On the way home, I discovered that, although the phone appeared to be functional, it wasn't.  The home screen did indeed come on, but refused to respond to my reboot/tap/firm touch/shake/plea. I had to finally fess up to Earl, who managed not to laugh or use the word "stupid".  As soon as we got home, I desperately put the phone in a bag of white rice.  The internet said it was a worth a try remedy.  However, it didn't work for me.  I had to go to the store and replace the damn phone for more than I originally paid.  I can still see the saleskid's eyes glaze over as I started to explain.  "Dropped it in the toilet?  Lady, I can't tell you how many times I've heard that.  If you'd done that six months ago, the phone would be free."  Like I really needed to hear that.

So where do I put my phone?  In Skeeter's basket? A small travel case in Maui? In my pocket? In Earl's pocket? Down my front? Depending on the situation, the answer is: Yes, but hopefully not in the toilet.  I was thinking a shoulder holster might work.  How weird is that?  Hmm, is that weird?  I wonder if Amazon Prime sells it.

The lesson:  No matter how you carry your phone, secure it before sitting on a toilet.

*Previous post: Out of the Mouths of Babes