Disturbingly, this is not the first time I've found myself wrist deep in toilet water to make an emergency rescue. I don't know what the heck it is about me and dropping things in the john; but rest assured, the only thing I ever kept afterward was my goldfish (I was six, the fish was slippery).
Some would say of this unhappy incident with my cell phone that it had only been a matter of time. As I may have mentioned before, I'm a big-time klutz, and distracted to boot: a dangerous combination to myself and my possessions.
More things have met a cruel end at my bumbling hands than I care to admit. I won't frighten you with details of past destruction. My husband did once suggest that we keep nothing but plastic dishes in our kitchen. I didn't care for that suggestion--what is this, playschool? Unfortunately, it is true that anything not forged of titanium that enters our home is ultimately doomed.
As for what I've done to myself, sometimes I marvel that I'm still walking this earth in one piece. Under my picture in the high school yearbook could have been printed: "Most likely to accidentally die at her own hand (and probably in a ridiculous manner)." I once meat cleavered my finger when I was eight, helping my mom chop water chestnuts, singing at the top of my lungs, and not paying attention. Thank god I'd been a wimp and there hadn't been much power behind the chop. When I was ten, I was glancing back while racing out of an old bomb shelter I'd been exploring, and faced forward just in time for my face to collide with the low concrete entrance. Actually knocked myself out for a second; woke up on the ground with one hell of a sore head. I'm also just a tad too familiar with what burning hair smells like, and I've since learned not to lean so close to the stove, no matter how cold I am. The list goes on.
An unsettling update. My cell phone, damn its sturdy design, seems to have recovered from the shock of dirty wet circuitry--this much I deduced with a bit of prodding behind a nice shield of tissue paper (I'm not a freak; the phone is coated in dried toilet water, for god's sake.) So what the heck do I do? Do I waste a perfectly good cell phone and get a new one, thereby also breaking my phone contract? Or do I think of some way to clean the darn thing so that I can actually bring myself to touch it without a desire for rubber gloves? I am more inclined toward option number one.
I must say that this present phone is sporting some severe battle scars, having endured my less-than-graceful handling, and perhaps it is time to get a new one that I will promise to take better care of, one which perhaps has a better digital camera...?