Not So Smart[Phone]

I could sit here and tell you how I've slept an equivalent of ten hours since Wednesday night and feel as tired as a sloth on sleeping pills of the most potent variety. Or how every single night I said I wouldn't go out drinking I ended up doing just the opposite.

How I actually made it to a 5k walk for breast cancer and crawled my way to the finish line without dying, emerging victorious in spite of my killer hangover and desire to make love to my bed. How I sang karaoke for the very first time and finally figured out there's nothing to be scared of, as the likelihood of anyone paying attention to you in their drunken stupor is low. How I fell asleep on top of a small table at a bar and some guy across the room sent me a tequila shot to "revive my spirits." How I mumbled a Thank you then went back to sleep, only to find my friend went home with him an hour later.

I could... I could... I certainly could...

But I won't. For today is the day where I'll talk about my latest nemesis: my phone. This trusty device is clearly beginning to obliterate the small remnants of sanity I like to cling to on weekdays, and I'm fairly certain it's all a plot to bring about my demise (not a chance).

Previously, I mentioned how much I adore my Blackberry and what a poor excuse for a human being I crumble into if I ever missplace or forget it. Last month, my lovely baby died on me and when I went back to replace it, the attendant said it'd cost $300.00.

My mobile company offered me a "new and super cool smart phone" for a hundred bucks. They called it, "The Sidekick." If you're anything like me, you're leery of new mobile devices. What I mean is, once I've committed to a brand (Tampax for tampons and Betty Crocker for instant mashed potatoes) I find change terrifying. With that said, spending that much money on a phone seemed ridiculous and I embraced the future. Having a sidekick couldn't be that bad, could it?

So I got the phone. I fucked with the buttons. I read the manual and felt like an imbecile. I gave it another try and things fell into place. Two weeks came and went and I soon began to learn my way around uncharted territory. The "sidekick" was a faster ninja version of my old buddy, with better moves and cooler punches. I bought it a nice outfit. It fit perfectly.

Times were happy and I decided change was a beautiful thing. So what if I couldn't figure out how to text message my friends?! Baby steps, mon cheri.

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There's a big elephant in the room as it relates to writing a non-anonymous blog centering solely on my life:

If I write about someone of the opposite sex, they immediately think I'm in love with them or batshit crazy. I think that it's time to clear the air.

I am the master chess player in this game and the gentlemen in question are just pawns on my board. And I know this is going to come back to bite me in the ass later (guaranteed), but come on, guys... It's not that serious. At the end of the day it's just a blog, not the front page of The New York Times.

Last Wednesday, I went on a date with a delicious specimen of a boy I've been eyeing for a few months. His work has him at a hotel a bit of a drive from Miami. He asks if I'd like to drive up for dinner and a movie. I initially hesitate but then figure it'll be a good time so I brave the drive and head on up. I get lost and arrive two hours later in a panic. We have a sweet time. His face betrays his thoughts when I speak. There's a likelihood he thinks I'm weird but that's a chance one must take when unskilled at the art of mincing words. He's sarcastic, but not in an obnoxious manner. His blue eyes widen when he has something important to say. He's honest about most things and I mentally add brownie points to his virtual platter for it.

Once the movie is over it's almost two in the morning. I'm scared to drive for an hour and get lost again, so he offers for me to stay in his hotel (there's an extra bed so it's not creepy or anything). Much to my surprise Kellan is a true gentleman, and after a drink and some conversation on the balcony we both fall asleep in our respective beds. Chalk it up to the board of nice dates and at six a.m. I abscond into darkness and head on home while he sleeps.

Fast forward to Friday night.

Kellan is out of town and I'm booked to capacity on the social front. I go to my friend's place for a slumber party since we're all doing the cancer walk together when I receive a text from a guy I've coined as Mr. Good Kisser. He's an intelligent sort of guy. Knows about art and history. Quick on the draw. Sometimes intriguing and others incredibly sexy. The nature of our relationship is casual... In essence, not easily disposable.

I lay on Jenni's couch with a drink in hand, texting furiously with Olivia who's in Sweden for work and bored in her hotel room, when I receive the following from Mr. Good Kisser:

Him: Hey, want to meet us up for drinks?

Me: I'm walking a 5k tomorrow. No going out for me.

Him: Just one drink.

Me: There is never in the history of evers, just one drink between you and I.

Him: Your point being?

Me: I'm not even in Miami. Thanks for the invite and have fun tonight.

I go back to texting Olivia, when the inevitable question pops up.

Olivia: You never told me how your date went with Kellan. Spill it!

Me: Ahhhh. He was adorable. But a shitty kisser. Meh.

Of course I didn't mean that, but I was bored and wanted to see what she'd say. When she doesn't reply five minutes later I become annoyed and then! Who do you think received that last message?

I quickly go into full effect damage control.

Me: Oh my God. Not for you. I meant to send that to Olivia.

No reply.

Me: I'm sorry. I feel like such a shit.

No reply.

Me: And on that note... I will wish you a very good weekend and a Happy New Year. Um, maybe we can do drinks before I leave to Puerto Rico?

Yeah... No reply.

The next morning I woke up at four for the walk to a text from him that simply read, "You're a ridiculous, hilarious mess. I'll see you Wednesday night."

"He really likes you," Lola gushes over dinner when I tell her the story.

"He really likes what's in your pants," says Ryan. The guy to his right nods vigorously and laughs.

My cynical half is inclined to believe the latter. The other is secretly saving for a new phone.