In the course of my life, I have lost several things: love, earrings, cell phones, trivia contests, lip gloss, foolish bets and, oh yeah- my innocense. Please note that until this evening, that list did not include a human being.

So, I’ve lost a friend. Don’t get me wrong – I have had friendships run their course and end. Those “lost” friends continued on their way and save 2 or 3 of them, I wish them the best. This isn’t one of those cases. Perhaps “misplaced” is a better term for the current predicament. D. flew in Thursday from Shanghai for our 10 year college reunion. Hadn’t seen her since way back when. We caught up, traded new stories, looked at pictures and recounted adventures from the mid-nineties. It was a long overdue slumber party.

Everyone met for lunch yesterday afternoon in Framingham before departing for campus where dorm rooms were reserved in our names. My accomodations were made, how you say, last minute – quite literally. I didn’t book in time to do it online and called Alumni Affairs at…. 4:55 PM on Friday. (blush) My room was in the same quad, but a different building.

There was the cocktail reception, class pictures, the always popular “Dance Under the Stars”. (It should technically be called “dance under the tent” now, but I guess that doesn’t flow.) It was weird being back. My last visit was for my oft overlooked 6 year reunion that about 20 of us living in Boston drove in to attend. ‘Crazy’ comes close to describing the events of the weekend. This time was different. The weather probably deterred a couple dozen folks within driving range from jumping off the fence. Either that or they’re too busy mating and having babies.

Last night’s main event started off a little shaky. 3 of the 4 public/social scenarios that tweak me out were present:

1. Waiting in lines – I don’t think I’m above them, but nevertheless – I get antsy. No double fisting drinks allowed and the beer truck lady was yelling at everyone to keep things moving. (FYI, being yelled at gets an honorable mention on my pet peeves list.)
2. Being stepped on. Everybody hates that except folks who have slightly alternative preferences.
3. Being spilled on. Insult meets injury when someone knocks into me, steps on my foot and causes me to spill a portion of MY beer ration down my blouse.

Luckily, there were plenty of restrooms so the set up wasn’t a complete wash. There’s a good chance the above conditions wouldn’t have registered if I hadn’t been so acutely aware that 95% of the people there were born in the (late) 1980s. You always know things are constantly changing but it’s strange to be in a setting that has changed little when life has moved much faster.

It only took two beers to chill me out and finding a few more familiar faces gave fun momentum. Midnight brunch ended it all. Finsy and I giggled/chatted before falling asleep at the reasonable time of 2:30/3:00 AM. Back in the day we’d have still been out, flirting with boys and getting the scoop on after party options as the bar staff pushed everyone out to the street. Even so, it was jarring to be woken at 10 AM for check out. Unfortunately, that is always the time we alums get the boot from our deluxe accomodations.

After I checked out, I went to the diner on Main to say my goodbyes. I made sure D. had a ride back to Boston and the keys to my place. Even having turned in “early” I was in need of several more winks, so I headed home to nap.

Now here’s where things get dicey: as I was about to nod off I got a call from the women’s retail store I work at 10-15 hours a week. (I’d say the name, but I’m pretty sure a smartly dressed flacker in corporate HQ would have no choice but to fill out a purchase order for a contract on my life. Plus- the discount is FAB and I can’t jeopardize that) People were sick and they needed someone to cover last minute. I went in for 3 hours to help out.

My friend does not have a cell phone, and I know I should’ve left a note. Between rushing to get out the door and the residual exhaustion, it slipped my mind. According to my roommate, D. was in the house as of 5 PM and said she was going to go walk around the neighborhood. Around 10:30 PM, I began to worry and called our mutual friend. No word there. In college it wasn’t unusual from D. to disappear for days or weeks at a time. She’d always surface with an interesting story of what she had been up to. Part of her charm is that she’s a wild card. Benevolent, free spirited drifting is her specialty elevated to an art form – covering many continents and all whilest remaining in one piece.

Even though I know this, I worry. At 11 PM, I drove around Davis and Porter Squares. My thinking was that a striking 6′ asian woman with hair all the way down her back would be easy to spot if she were outside a bar having a smoke. No luck. So, I dropped my car in the driveway and stuck my head into all the establishments still open within a 4 block radius. No luck. I even asked some random people on the front porch of the house next store if someone fitting her description had crashed the party. Not out of the question; she makes friends wherever she goes. (BTW- They hadn’t.) What if she doesn’t have my phone number… or address… and took the T somewhere but didn’t know how ungodly early it shuts down???

Every noise in the stairwell sets of my spidey sense. Can you issue an amber alert for someone over the age of 30? I’m seriously considering checking in with the police and it hasn’t even been 12 hours since her last citing. If she doesn’t show by sunrise, her pretty little picture is going to be on a milk carton. Yeah- when I have kids I’m gonna be a bundle of tangled nerves. So, if you see my girl – please tell her to come home… Momma’s worried. :-S

Tags: Boston, cell phones, cellular telephone, Porter, retail store, Shanghai

I excel at losing and breaking cell phones. It’s artful, actually. Every time is a slightly different scenario. One was left behind at the Bryant Park Grille, another – the back of a cab. There’re a few more, but I won’t bore you with the amateur stuff. My crowning achievement, by far, mostly likely happened after falling into a 3′ curbside exhaust-saturated snowdrift. Yeah- that was special.

The previous insurance claim earned me the cell phone replacement insurance “kiss-off” letter. In lieu of signing away my first born and extending my contract through infinity, I used my mom’s cast-off late nineties Motorola until the 2 year upgrade came through a mere 6 months later. The replacement? It was pure evil loosely disguised as a grey ergonomically designed handset. Example? It called an ex-boyfriend (the ex-bf). This is, by far, the most severe infraction of the sacred trust between a girl and her cell. Unintended phone calls are par for the course, but come on: only a mobile device working as Satan’s personal foot-soldier would place such a call on Valentine’s Day.

Needless to say, I was psyched to get a cute new phone. Don’t get me wrong: pink is great as an overall color, but less fitting as the selection criteria for a mobile phone. Seriously: who knew that color and sleek design don’t positively effect the functioning of electronic devices? All kidding aside: I’m not that girly. The bluetooth capability was my main interest. Life goes so much smoother when my cell and computer are able to have their bi-weekly gabfest.

iBook G4: “Did you know Kara’s 10 year college reunion is coming up? I think she’s going to go. What ever will she wear?”
RazR V3C: “Who knows? It’s a month and a half a way. We both know she’s gonna change her mind a kabillion times. That reminds me: did you know she recently got back in touch with some folks from the good ole days?”
iBook G4: “Uhm… DUH! Who do you think told you? Dang biatch, you gots to gimme my props.”
RazR V3C: My bad. I’m cute and pink: I read somewhere that’s grounds for extra slack.

Furthermore, due to popularity of the RazR my pragmatic side concluded that it would be too easy to accidentally trade phones, which BTW is a hassle with which I’ve had first hand experience. Simply by selecting a pink phone, I reduced the risk of phone switchage by approximately 50%. I asked around and the consensus is, even amongst technophiles, that most dudes would rather have a rotary dial cell phone than a pink one. Plus, there are three different pink RazRs (one for each carrier), bringing the risk of mix ups to some arbitrary low number. Yes- thoughtful preponderance of the facts… Anyone reading this must, by now, by impressed with my capacity for critical thinking.

When I received my new pink phone my heart went pitter patter. I was in deep, deep love. Like most romances, the honeymoon period was shortlived and things went down hill instead of remaining off the hook. The bluetooth feature which sold me on this particular model had been disabled by the folks at Verizon. Further investigation revealed that if I were a software engineer I could probably figure out how to unlock the data transfer feature. The helpful wiki I found was kind enough to explain that screwing this up would make the phone as unuseable as, say, one that met it’s end in an undisclosed snowbank within a three block radius of Memorial Drive. By some fluke, I managed to download my addressbook on there once. It wasn’t ideal, but there was nothing else to do. So, I lived with it. Pink didn’t sync, but there are worse problems to have.

Then the “*” button stopped working. I played it off like it was a mysterious malfunction, but in the back of my head I knew it probably had something to do with my having cried prolificly during a phone call where the situation called for me to lay the smack down to a “John Doh”. This particular conversation was the dating equivalent of an exit interview… but for the exception that I gave us/him another chance one month later in a misguided attempt to gain closure on unresolved residual negative feelings leftover from the initial traumatic debacle.

A snake may shed it’s skin, but a leopard does not change his spots. Obviously, there was more crying. Luckily the initial surprise that comes with betrayal was absent and within months I got that whole thing out of my system. It was more of a nagging feeling of unrest and less of a sobfest. The phone still didn’t sync, nor could I press the star key when prompted… but other than that, things were perfect.

Perfect, that is, until early March. I hit the pause button on dating, so I know the floodgates didn’t open over a stupid boy thing. Truth be told, I can’t remember what I got all worked up over. Nevertheless, Noah almost had to load up the ark. My waterworks display disable both the 4 and the 7 button on my pink phone. So now, it didn’t sync or dial *, 4 or 7. It’s also important to note that the 4 button is needed when texting anything using the letters g, h and i. (For the record, pushing 2 twice does compensate for this malfunction.) The 7 button is similarly helpful when you need to text any message containing p, q, r and s.

Just as a fun little exercise, why don’t you try to compose a message communicating something of meaning, importance or urgency. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

Got it? OK. Now, take that message and try to say the same thing, only this time you cannot use the letters g, h, i, p, q, r, s.

Not so easy, eh?

I asked the folks at Verizon for some help, but there was no love to be found. “Can you hear me now? Oh………… you can’t?”

So I put my tail between my legs and called in an insurance claim. Though I tried with all my might, my muscle didn’t have enough pull to get them to downgrade me to the previous Motorola bluetooth model. Also- no pink…

…but turns out this RAZR does sync. Verdict: gray can stay!

Don’t you just love a happy ending?

Tags: bluetooth, cell phone replacement insurance, cell phones, cellular telephone, electronic devices, insurance claim, Motorola, Motorola RAZR V3c Cell Phone, software engineer, Valentine's Day, Verizon