Thank You, Find My iPhone
Having yet to remove the dog-proofing covers draped over every square inch of my car’s interior after picking up my boys post-vacation, I shifted my wallet/phone/keys triple stack to my left hand and pulled the first sheet from the driver’s seat with my right.
I’m right-handed – and my right wrist is sprained due to some overzealous gym time in an attempt to get ahead of the aforementioned vaca (who doesn’t eat too much at a wedding?) – so I know when I say that I then flipped the triple stack onto the driver’s seat and went to work on the dog-proofing’s remainder, it’s true.
Because it smarted.
That simple little action actually hurt.
I may have winced; I absolutely swore.
And that’s probably why I didn’t witness my iPhone impersonating a SuperBall aided by the trampoline masquerading as the driver’s seat.
It’s absolutely how I don’t know the particulars that make this little story an absolute truth.
Thinking that I’d simply dropped it in my house, garage or car – and that the phone had met its ravenous demise in the jaws of my if-it’s-Daddy’s-and-it’s-plastic-I’m-eating-it American Bulldog, Tonka – I attempted to bribe my Facebook and Twitter families with virtual hugs in exchange for incessant calling and texting.
I fully expected my quadruped’s belly to vibrate, based on 2+ years of tornado-like destruction on his ever-evolving rap sheet.
And whilst my online fam may have burned out the local AT&T cell tower with their eager assistance, no audible dice.
My old iPhone immediately sounded the “I’m right here!” alarm message.
The actual one that I use?
It appeared in the search window as a little blue dot – on U.S. Route 27.
Thinking that the technology couldn’t possibly be that specific – and having popped in at the gas station just down the road from the little blue dot – I returned to what I expected to be the scene of my brain-farting crime.
Though I did have a rather amusing encounter with some locals whose gawking led me to believe that they thought I was from another universe, my laptop open on the checkout counter and my feigned expertise regarding the science behind the little blue dot on the screen before them on display.
So how accurate is the tech?
I’m no mass whiz, but the little blue dot was almost exactly halfway between the gas station and the interstate overpass. Now, the distance between my house and the gas station is only a few miles. Speed limits vary from 25 to 55 miles per hour. The path is marked by country turns both sleepy and sweeping.
And I did drop my wallet in the parking lot at Walmart just a few weeks back.
Drive about 100 yards.
Engage hazard lights.
Stalk blacktop sidelines.
Punctuate exasperation with jazz hands; stomp like bratty child.
And taking in the last few rays of another scorching Kentucky evening on the side of U.S. Route 27 like a black bikini-clad beach babe?
My barely-even-scuffed iPhone.
The damn thing even seems like it’s working better now.
- by AWSC
- posted at 1:27 pm
- August 2, 2012