SPLISH, SPLASH, IT WAS TAKIN' a BATH...

So the New Year started off with a bang -or more like a "plop" - as I lifted the toilet lid and my cell phone unexpectedly slipped from my pocket into the bowl. (Yes, if you must know, it was clean water, so stop saying ewwwww!)

The phone was only in the drink for literally one second, but apparently that's all it takes to fry its innards. After swiftly retrieving it, I tried all of the Urban Legend remedies (removing the battery; sucking out the moisture with a hair dryer; putting it in a bag of rice to absorb any microfibers of water; praying to St. Thomas Electrus, the patron of essential technological devices) with no success and then reluctantly trudged off to the nearest Sprint retailer (which, of course, was far, far away). 

The Sprint store gave off the vibe of a medical office, with a receptionist who briskly took my information and ordered me to take a seat. I sat silently, along with all the other idiots who somehow destroyed their cell phones, shifting nervously in cheap chairs and looking blankly at a television on the wall. As people's names were called, they were guided to a "private" nook, where a technician softly broke the news: "We did everything in our power, but I'm afraid your phone is gone, along with all your vital personal information that you have no other record of; videos of your children's birth; and text messages from your ex that you definitely needed for your next court appearance - I am so sorry."

Everyone in the waiting area pretended not to hear the prognosis and stealthily avoided eye contact. You could practically feel the solemnity in the room - it was like a run-down ER, without the pharmaceuticals.   

As I waited my turn, I contemplated whether to admit how my phone met its fate. Should I fib when the technician asked me why it suddenly stopped working ("No, doctor, I only drink sherry on snow days and national holidays") or fess up to my mishap ("Yes, nurse, I sprained my ankle because my nephew bet that I couldn't do a skateboard wheelie on a cement sidewalk")?

When I broke down and told the Sprint guy the truth, he dismantled my phone and sighed as if he were reviewing a CT scan of a nail lodged in my cerebral cortex.

Ultimately, my outcome was grim: My beloved phone was a goner and I needed to purchase another phone.

As I selected an iPhone to be just like all the cool kids, I feared that bidding adieu to my beloved Blackberry - gee, wasn't it only yesterday when I proudly took that device home? - would cause me volumes of grief. I was right. It was a struggle to master simple tasks, like how to retrieve emails or select a ringer that didn't sound like the Sistine Chapel on speed (my apologies for ruining your shavasana, fellow yoga classmates).

Ultimately, I must also learn how to shield my powerful new phone from any unfortunate human error mishaps.

I sure as hell hope there's an App for that.