My iPhone, which I purchased last summer, has done nothing but give me trouble. Sometimes I wonder if they sold me a repurposed one and didn't tell me. They probably giggled when I walked out. The latest issue is that (a) it wouldn't charge back up and (2) it kept telling me I had no storage left. I didn't even put my EASTER decorations in there, much less Christmas. I was thinking of storing all my not-needed-now black work slacks in my iPhone, but I guess not.
The point is, I spent a good hour on the horn, my quickly dying horn, with Apple Care last night, and they determined (a) the power cord I have is no longer good, which is hilarious because I used to have dangerous wirey-hanging cords constantly when I had Roger, as he enjoyed chomping him some cable, and yet the cords continued to work. Now these cats care not a whit about this plug and it died, unchomped, anyway and (2) my whole phone needed resetting or something. Again. I've done 256 hard resets on that damn phone in less than a year. That phone has done some hard time.
After Apple Care and I yakked endlessly on my losing-power mobile, while we laid on the floor with our feet up and bottles of Pepsi with straws in then, I had NO phone, and no way to get ahold of Ned to tell him I was on my way to his place and please let me up in the labyrinth that is his gated apartment complex which apparently houses Prince, so tough is it to get into. I won't bore you with the details (as opposed to all the details I've left out so far) but eventually we got it worked out and I used Ned's cable, so to speak, to recharge my phone.
And after all that I left my phone at his house.
No. I never WILL get over using the Price is Right losing horn for dramatic effect. And I like how the most fancy, protected, needs-a-gate person I could think of is Prince.
Anyway, I did eventually get up with Ned last night, and we decided to pop over to this tavern near his house, which was my suggestion that had nothing to do with said tavern's spicy jalapeno hushpuppies, and hello WW points. When we walked in, some guy was setting up a speaker.
"Oh, this isn't good," we both said, being old and detesting bands when we're just trying to consume fried balls of bread.
But it wasn't some stupid local Captain Dick and the Portholes or anything like it. It was a trivia contest, and one of my young hot Alex coworkers was there with her husband. "Would you like to play trivia?" asked the guy with the speaker. "Oh, no--" "It's free!"
And that is how Ned and I ended up with a pen and trivia form, even though neither one of us remembered reading glasses, and please see above reference to being old.
"Pablo Picasso was questioned when WHAT was stolen in Paris in 1911?" said the guy with the speaker.
"The Mona Lisa?" Ned looked at me, the person who wishes she'd majored in art history but instead got that super-practical English degree and look at me now.
I looked at Ned in a way that a...certain female relative of mine, I won't say who because I don't wanna HEAR it from her, looks at me. The...certain relative can sometimes act as though she knows absolutely everything, and gets a very superior tone, even if she's saying, "Liberace loved him the ladies."
"The Mona Lisa was never stolen," I said, sounding distinctly like my...relative. "Put down that a Monet was stolen. That's my best guess."
"The Statue of Liberty has how many prongs in her crown. Five? Seven? No prongs?"
Ned looked at me once again. He'd answered all kinds of basketball and political Qs without even glancing my way, which, pfft. Has he not met my vast array of knowledge?
"Five," I said. Getting The Tone again.
The trivia guy took our ballet, which we'd named Team Henry & June. We loved ourselves.
Ned got all of the basketball Qs right, and it turns out the Mona Lisa was stolen in 1911. And? The Statue of Liberty has seven damn prongs.
"GOD, JUNE!" said Ned, getting his flared-nostril look.
"In first place is Team Lentil!" said the trivia guy. "In second place is Team People Making Out at the Bar! ...And in 397th place, Team Henry & June!"
"WHY DIDN'T YOU LET ME PUT DOWN THE MONA LISA? GOD." Ned pushed our form away disgustedly.
"I knew about Madeleine Albright!" I said. The reason I knew Madeleine Albright was the first female Secretary of State was because once, my ex-best friend and I were paging through Victoria's Secret catalog at my mother's kitchen table, discussing the subtle nuances of Stephanie Seymour and Linda Evangelista.
"You two, who is the Secretary of State?" asked my mother, in what may or may not have been kind of a superior tone. So my ex-friend and I looked it up and went back to discussing Stephanie Seymour, who by the way still looks good. Does Madeleine Albright? So there you go.
"Wow. I've never played a game with you before. Turns out I hate it. Are you always this competitive?" I asked Ned, who was eyeing up the Lentil team to see if he could date one of those brainiacs.
"OF COURSE I'M COMPETITIVE, WHAT DO YOU THINK?"
And that's when I remembered Ned is sportsy and probably enjoys winning, even if all we're winning is the glory of a Wednesday-night trivia contest at a place that sells Jäger on tap.
Trivially,
June.
