The Missing iPhone

(I originally posted this blog nearly three years ago under the title "The Kindness of Strangers". I am happy to share it again, with some minor edits)

They say that opposites attract, and when it comes to my husband Bob, that old adage certainly rings true.  He loves to watch zombie movies, while I choose romantic comedies.  He enjoys the independence of working from home, while I thrive on human interaction.  His first stop in the book store is the History or Biography section, while I’m content to read Harry Potter for the millionth time.  He is a horrible driver, while I am….well, let’s just say I think my skills behind the wheel are perfectly fine.  

My husband begs to differ.

Bob considers himself a “good”, bad driver, while referring to me as a “bad”, good driver.  I follow the rules at all times.  He decides when and where rules might apply.  I think he’s too aggressive, he things I’m too cautious.  It doesn’t matter if we are driving to the corner store or across several state lines, Bob refuses to sit in the passenger seat when I am behind the wheel unless he is bleeding from every orifice or has slipped into a coma.  That’s why I found it incredibly surprising when, on the way home from a family visit in upstate New York, Bob pulled over and actually asked me to drive.

I settled comfortably into the seat, readjusted the mirrors, and we continued happily down the New York State Thruway.  My daughter Melissa, 14 at the time, sat curled under a blanket in the back, her iPod placed securely on her lap, earphones blocking her parents' mindless chatter.  Bob watched the road for a few minutes, cautiously making sure that his decision to relinquish the wheel would not result in an untimely death for all three of us.   Eventually, he succumbed to exhaustion and drifted off to sleep.

Ahh…..serenity.

I would have gladly steered the car all the way through New York, onto the New Jersey turnpike and into our welcoming driveway, had my bladder not had other plans.  So after about two hours, I turned off the highway into a rest stop, found a place to park, and shut off the engine.

Bob’s snores began to cease as he sensed that the car had come to a stop.  He sat up and prepared to open the door when I noticed that the strap from my pocketbook, which I had carelessly tossed onto the passenger seat floor, had somehow wrapped itself around his ankle.

In the magic of movies, emotional, heart-stopping moments are played out in slow motion so the viewer understands the full dramatic impact of the unfolding scene. In this instance, movie magic special effects were not necessary while I watched, in mind numbing slow motion, as my husband, unaware of the strap that anchored him to the car, fell tragically to the ground.

Melissa, who had exited the car on the driver’s side, did not bear witness to the accident.  I called out to her, struggling to get my seat belt off so I could jump out and rescue my husband.  

“MELISSA, DADDY FELL!” I screamed, making no effort to hide my panic.

I imagined him lying broken on the ground, bleeding, crying out for help.  I imagined my family spending the rest of the day, and perhaps more, in the local emergency room.  I imagined the absolute, very, very worst…..and in the few seconds it took to break free from the seat belt and run around to the other side of the car, I imagined living the rest of my life without him.   

Devastation, panic, horror, and unbridled fear all gripped my heart as I realized just how much I loved this man. 

I rushed to the other side of the car, only to find that a stranger had reached my husband first, an older woman who had kindly extended her hand to help him to his feet.  He assured me all was well, no bumps, bruises, or broken bones.  Perhaps a bit of damage to his ego, but thankfully, nothing more.  He brushed himself off and together, the three of us walked into the rest stop, Melissa shaking her head in embarrassment, convinced that her parents overreacted at the stupidest things.

We took care of business and wearily made our way back to the car.  Suddenly, Bob reached for his shirt pocket, where he always keeps his iPhone.  

It had disappeared.

We deduced the iPhone must have escaped the confines of the shirt pocket when he fell, and a search of the grounds immediately ensued.  The three of us combed the parking lot on hands and knees to no avail.  The iPhone, the expensive iPhone, complete with internet access, email contacts, and a host of apps, could not be found.

Although disappointed, we took stock of the situation.  Bob had survived unscathed from a scary fall.  His health was all the mattered, the iPhone could be replaced.

As we got back in the car, I glanced at the vehicle parked behind us.  There, positioned in the center of the windshield, sat an iPhone, which, upon closer examination, proved indeed, to belong to Bob.  Seems that someone had discovered the missing iPhone and placed it on the windshield, assuming it had been returned to its owner.

We climbed back into the car.

Bob took his rightful spot behind his wheel.

The iPhone took its rightful spot in Bob's pocket.

And we continued on our way home.

My husband Bob and me! Thankfully, his scary fall only resulted in a bruised ego, nothing more!

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My daughter Melissa (now 17) and I were reminiscing about this post, which first appeared in February, 2012. I am pleased to share it again!

Don’t Cry Over Spilled Milk on Monday

Take a typical carton of orange juice and leave it alone for at least 24 hours and you know what happens?  Thanks to the laws of gravity, the pulp sinks down and settles at the bottom.  That’s why every time my 14-year old daughter Melissa picks up a container of orange juice, she shakes it before pouring.

A creature of habit, Melissa has taken to shaking containers before opening no matter what liquid may lurk inside… milk, iced tea, fruit juice, it doesn’t matter. 

So why I am sharing this seemingly mundane information about my daughter?  Well, Melissa’s “shaking” habit sets the stage for our story, which begins innocently enough on a Monday morning.

The members of my household certainly don't embrace Monday mornings with glee. However, we do feel a bit more energized after a relaxing weekend, and we’re ready to tackle the challenges the week has to bring.  (This positive attitude is usually shattered by Tuesday, mind you.)

On Sunday night, lunches are made, clothes are ironed, and bedtime comes a bit earlier.  In the morning following my alarm clock's prodding, I throw off the warm covers, walk down the hall, enter Melissa's bedroom, and convince her to get out of bed.  Some mornings are quite productive, while others find her still fussing with her hair as the school bus makes its steady approach to our house. 

On a recent Monday morning, my daughter, determined to be on time, had awakened without protest, spent a limited amount of effort on her hair, and went down stairs for breakfast a staggering 20 minutes before her scheduled departure.  Looking forward to eating a leisurely meal, she happily poured a bowl of cereal.

My morning also went according to plan.  I had showered and dressed, and now stood in the bathroom, blow dryer in hand, trying to coax a curl out of my poker straight hair. 

Suddenly, a spine chilling scream rent the air, followed by the sounds of teenage feet pounding up the stairs!

Melissa burst into the bathroom, covered from head to toe in a silky white substance.

This photo is not Melissa! Had I taken a picture of her at the time, I'm quite sure
my life would have come to an abrupt end!

“SOMEBODY FORGOT TO TIGHTEN THE LID ON THE MILK!”

As I stared at my milk-covered Melissa, I opted not to remind her that she is the only person in the house who drinks the organic milk.  No need to hire a private detective to determine who had committed the crime of forgetting to tighten the lid.  

Instead, I surveyed the situation, thinking about the best way to remove every drop of milk in the five minutes that remained before the bus arrived, and trying, trying oh so hard with every ounce of my being, not to laugh!

I knew that if my mouth twisted upwards to indicate even the slightest smile, I might lose all of my limbs.

Ok, I needed to focus. Drawing on my powers of deduction, I concluded that the incident had a horrible, tragic effect on:

1. Her hair

2. Her fake Ugg boots (I will not spend $150 on boots when the fakes work just as well)
3. Did I mention her hair?

Priorities! 

We tackled the hair first.  I grabbed the blow dryer while she maneuvered the brush, and together we rid each strand of milk.  Panicked, she yelled and whined and fretted and cursed.  By this point, I promised to drive her to school since the bus had come and gone.  

Next challenge - the boots.  

Despite my best efforts, my rigorous scrubbing was met with no success.

Melissa had to choose between covering her feet with milk-stained boots or (egads!) sneakers. Either choice resulted in a middle-school fashion paux pas.  (She chose the sneakers)

By the time we climbed into the car, the evidence of the breakfast fiasco had all been wiped clean, and the foul mood that now gripped my offspring remained the only remnant of our eventful morning. 

Later that day, as we busied ourselves with the choreography of dinner, I observed my now calm, happy child. 

“Melissa,” I said quite timidly as I set the forks and knives on the table, “you have to admit, the incident this morning really was funny.”

“I actually got a lot of compliments on my hair today,” she said, laughing at the irony.  

The remainder of the week passed by without incident, with the exception of the extra effort made on both our parts to get out of bed and ready on time, lest another shaken container ruin another pair of fake Ugg boots.

The story will become one for the record books, not so much because of the humor, although that reason does rank quite high.  It will forever stay in my memory because when a carton of milk decided to let loose on my child, she ran up the stairs to that one person in the world who would have the answers.

She ran to the one person who would stay calm

She ran to the one person who would clean her up.

She ran to the one person who would make things right.  

She ran up the stairs…. to me.

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