Today I did something unpleasant that I’d been putting off for a long time—maybe two years. I put it off because there are few experiences more painful for me to have to go through, and there was always the chance I could get hit by a bus before having to endure this awful procedure again. No, it wasn’t a colonoscopy, which would be enjoyable by comparison. No, it wasn’t a root canal, which would be a piece of cake. What was this dreaded ordeal, you may ask? I had to get a new cell phone.

Seriously, is there anything more excruciating than replacing a cell phone? This is why I put up with my old, barely functional phone for as long as humanly possible. It refused to answer calls, refused to open any apps, and more than once randomly dialed someone in North Korea. But I simply had to bite the bullet and get the ordeal over with.

To make matters worse (because we all know matters can ALWAYS get worse) Younger Son had just ordered a new cell phone. His old one had gotten wet, and the questionable phone repair shop just outside his post at Fort Novosel took a lot of his money but failed to fix the phone. (Did I mention we had insurance on his old phone, which, of course, can’t be applied because Younger Son didn’t take the old phone to a Verizon store?) We told Younger Son in no uncertain terms NOT to open his new phone until he came home and we could take it to the Verizon store, along with his old phone—for which we might be able to get a trade-in.
But Younger Son does what Younger Son always does. He didn’t listen, because, after all, what do WE know? He let someone in the dorm who “once worked for Verizon,” tinker with both phones.

I thought we had indeed hit the jackpot when we walked into the Verizon store to find THREE salesmen, zero other customers. Our luck was short-lived, however, when Younger Son approached the closest person and presented him with his old phone—in pieces. Not surprisingly, insurance won’t cover any of the mess other people made of the phone, nor will they give him any trade-in. And—bonus! Nor are they able to transfer any data, which means he’s pretty much up a creek and has to start over.

Well, at least MY upgrade seemed straightforward. Verizon could transfer MY data. Or so I thought. One of the salesmen was training a new guy, so I figured I was in capable hands. But no. Verizon’s “system” refused to process my sale, claiming it conflicted with another promotion on our plan. Which would be understandable except that my el-cheapo phone had no promotion. That brought in the third salesman who had to call someone in India to resolve the problem. After about a half-hour, talking to several people in India, and repeatedly telling them that he either needed for them to push the order through or cancel it, he finally was able to move forward. Yay!

Except my data wouldn’t transfer unless he deleted my Walmart app for some reason. (Why? No one knows except that’s what the “system” told him to do.) Then the “system” required my Google password (why?), which, naturally, I don’t remember. The sweet salesman, who by now was probably questioning his career choices and was wishing he’d never gotten stuck with me, was finally able to make things happen without my Google password. (In all fairness, I explained up front to the poor man that technology is out to get me, hence all the problems did not surprise me.) He promised to re-install my Walmart app, but Walmart, being ever vigilant, required me to wait six hours for an email with a special code to do so. (Sure, like I know how to do THAT!)

So, two hours later, I finally emerged from the Verizon Store—battle worn, but victorious, clutching my new phone that I don’t know how to use. (Well, actually, it was still in the box because with my luck, I would drop it on the way to my car.) If you don’t hear from me for a while, you’ll know why.