Wrong Number

There’s a new love in my life. I’m not afraid to admit it. She’s sexy, hip, never argues, and answers all my calls. I can’t live without her. I take her everywhere I go.

“Are you taking your iPhone to the bathroom again?” my wife asked.

“I have to write the shopping list. This is the only time the kids will leave me alone.”

A couple of minutes later, small fingers appeared under the bathroom door.

“Daddy?”

Giggling ensued.

“Go away; I’m making a shopping list.”

“No, you’re not. You’re playing games. I can hear you, Daddy. I’m telling Mommy.”

My daughter ran away to tell my wife.  Meanwhile, I finished my game and checked my e-mail. Eventually, I wrote the shopping list (after checking my e-mail two more times and playing my iPhone’s mini piano). However, it’s clear I have a problem. Aside from needing my own bathroom –and a life—I’m addicted to my iPhone.

For example, one morning, I found myself drinking coffee, while using the bathroom, and checking my fantasy baseball team on my iPhone. If there was an app that allowed me to use my iPhone while taking a shower, I would have done that, too. I’m unsure if this is cool or disturbing.

I also use my iPhone at work, at the mall, at the beach, at the gym, in the car, on the subway and to avoid conversation with annoying people.

Shoot, there’s Bob from accounting.  I’ll pretend I’m writing an important email. Oops, I pressed the fart machine app. Dam, pressed it again.  

The iPhone has other important uses as well, such as avoiding responsibility.

“Hon, can you take out the garbage?” my wife asks.

“Excuse me, I’m on the phone.”

The iPhone is also a great conversation starter, which is not disturbing.

“Is that the iPhone? That’s cool.”

Suddenly, I’m ultra-hip. “Yeah, it’s great. I can listen to music, go on the Internet, watch TV, download podcasts, send text messages…”

Little do they know but it takes my clumsy fingers about an hour just to send one text message. But I’m a wiz with the fart machine.

Another nice thing—and sometimes not so nice thing–is that it’s all touch so the kids can use the phone, too. I’ve downloaded numerous games for them which they love to play. Therefore, when we’re on long car rides, I can take out my iPhone and tell my wife I brought it for the kids.

“Can’t we just talk? Do you always have to be on that phone?”

I could pretend she’s Bob from accounting but that would make matters worse. “Uh, I’m downloading games for the kids.”

“Why won’t you have a conversation with me?”

Is there an app that will converse with my wife while I surf the Internet? That stinking Apple commercial said there’s an app for everything. Regardless, I keep this thought to myself.

“Did I just say something aloud?”

“No.”

 “Is this considered conversation?” Before she can reach across and strangle me, I add, “Just kidding.”

For the next few minutes, we have a great conversation about the vacations we want to take and our dream home. During our brief respite from reality, I never once think about using my iPhone. Unfortunately in the back of the minivan, reality is rearing its ugly head as the kids are waking up.

Within a minute or two, someone slapped someone else over a Nintendo DS and both kids are now crying. I wait to see how my wife reacts—my first mistake.

“Are you going to handle this?”

“Do you want me to unbuckle my seatbelt and go back there?”

“I’m driving. Just give one of them your iPhone so they both have something to play with. Don’t worry guys. Daddy just downloaded some new games,” my wife reassures the kids.

“I didn’t actually download any games for the kids.” Mistake number two.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” My wife is livid.

“Just two minutes ago we were talking about our plans and our dream home. What happened to our dream home?”

My dream home is that beautiful house we drove by last week with the built-in pool. Yours—is on your iPhone.”

Copyright © 2009, Brad Manzo