Entries in phone (5)



I read an article this week which said to leave 2016 behind and move positively into 2017, it’s important to get rid of the past.   To remove things that might hold us back from having a great year next year.  To throw things out.  To declutter.  To make room for the new.

These words spoke to me.  Any article about decluttering always does.  I read the articles, nod in agreement and vow to make changes.  Then the thought of actually throwing things away starts to make me feel a little anxious.  Where to start?  What about landfill?  How will I get rid of all my ‘unwanted stuff’?  I’m a What If Girl.  What If I need the things I’m being told to throw out?

I’m desperate to make 2017 one of my best years yet.  God knows that 2016 has been so exhausting for most of us, anything will be better.   I want to go into it with a clear head, a happy heart and the passion to do things that feed my soul.  If that means a bit of decluttering, off I go.

The article made a new and interesting point –  that we should also be getting rid of old text messages, emails and photos that are clogging up our phones and computers.   We need to delete them in order to clear space for new and better things to come along.   Okay, I can do that.

I looked at my phone and scrolled through my text messages.   The oldest ones were  from 2013 when I first got my phone.  Surely I don’t need three year old texts any more.  I methodically looked at each recipient and the number of messages we’d swapped … then hit the Delete All Button on the ones I didn’t want.  The first one was hard.  Then it became easy.  Almost therapeutic. 

There were 200 messages from Paddle Pop Lion.  They started off sweet and sexy with the early days of flirting and seduction.  As I scanned through the feed, it showed our history.   Getting to know each other – being more suggestive – making plans to catch up – missing each other.  The good times of us being together.  Then it turned.  He became jealous – I started to pull away – my Aunty passed away – he tried to be there for me – I wasn’t interested.   Finally, the text messages after our break up – and him reaching out to me for friendship.   Delete.  Delete.  Delete.  That part of my life gone.  I felt a little sad.  I also felt free.

Various work text messages from old work colleagues took up over 100 spaces.  Fun notes back and forth on what we’d done, congratulating them on success, and the occasional mishaps.  I’m proud of what we’ve achieved but I have new things to create next year.   Delete. 

A portfolio of my dating life screamed volumes about what I’ve been doing for three years.   Chris the Cyclist texted me briefly before our first date at the Opera House Bar, then thanked me afterwards.  We lamented that three bottles of red probably wasn’t necessary but the pashing on the way home was fun.   He disappeared after that.  No real loss.   Delete. 

Messages from Mark the Aussie (one date).  Deleted.   Messages from Adam the weirdo who found love with an old friend (no date).  Deleted.  Brad the boring super short date that talked about cauliflower and supermarkets.  Delete.  Matt the Cowboy who was sweet and funny but locations kept us apart.  Delete. The aggressive irrational ranting from the psycho who called me Granny Pussy.  Delete.  Delete.  Delete.  What a f *ckwit.  Thank God it made a good blog.

It was harder to remove the texts from old friends.   People that had meant so much to me over the years.  Ones that I thought would be in my life forever.  I re-read our funny banter one last time and recalled the fun times we’d had.   But there’s little point on holding onto those times and people when they’re gone and serve no purpose.   Thank you – I’ll miss you (sort of) – delete. 

I deleted around 500 text messages.   Some were hard to let go of and I felt a little sad.  Others needed to disappear.   I am not that person anymore.  That’s not my life.   I have no need for silly notes about cauliflower, dance parties and random dumb questions from someone trying to get to know me.  Delete. 

Although I removed a lot, there are still a few messages that will be harder to lose.   The magical back and forth of late ‘goodnights’ from the Policeman during the world’s shortest romance  – funny notes about me not being able to use my phone with my beloved friend Richard – the texts from my real best friends, the ones who are still here.   I’m happy to declutter, but some things are still precious.  I might just sit with those for a while longer.  

Tomorrow I’m going to start on the 4,826 photos and downloads on my phone.   Watch out 2017, I’m ready. 


Your phone is trying to kill you 

I have an injury that I’m a little embarrassed about.  I know you’re going to judge me.  I’m ashamed but I need to share my experience with you so you don’t end up like me. Shattered – physically and emotionally. I am here to deliver a cautionary tale. 

It’s called De Quervain's Tenosynovitis – and it hurts like hell.  (It’s also hard to pronounce). 

I’ve had a sore arm and wrist for four weeks.  It started when I went to India but I assumed it was the usual travel pains you acquire from long flights, weird beds and lugging suitcases up and down stairs.   When I returned home, the pain in my arm continued.  Some nights it would ache so badly, it would wake me up from my sleep.

My osteo massaged my arm for me, telling me it was probably from the new fitness plan I’d embarked on.  I had been doing lots of weights and push-ups so it would make sense that my arms would ache.

I took some anti inflammatories and massaged my forearms as advised.  The pain increased.  It was getting harder to do basic things without aggravating my arm and wrist.  When I’d wake in the mornings, my thumb would click in and out of its socket.  I’ve dislocated my thumb, I self diagnosed.  No hitch hiking or ‘thumbs up’ for me for a while.

A second visit to my osteo had me begging her to have another look.   She manipulated my wrist and wrote some notes.   I know what you have she said, “it’s called Mummy’s Hand”.

Well that’s pretty interesting given my ovaries dried up years ago and the only children I know are some of the people I work with.  How it is that a single woman who is about to give up dating (honest) could have something called Mummy’s Hand? I’m not holding anyone’s baby’s head – especially not my own.  She reverse translated it into technical terms for me:  De Quervain's Tenosynovitis.  A much better sounding injury for a workaholic, traveling multi tasker who doesn’t get enough sleep. 

I booked in to see a Hand Rehab Specialist.  Who knew that there were people who only treated hands and nothing else?  Obviously there’s a whole world of people suffering from DQT … and now I’m one of them.  I hope they have a support group.  I feel that I’m going to need a lot of help and advice on this rehab journey.  It’s not quite a Lindsay Lohen rehab road I’m traveling on, but it’s pretty close.  

The hand lady was sweet.  We discussed my injury, how long I’d suffered for and how it was limiting my life.  (I can’t seem to find a decent man I confessed but I’m not sure it’s my hand).  She encouraged me to describe the pain.  My hands went through mechanical test after test (two in total) – squeezing weird contraptions that looked like they’d come from Christian Grey’s playroom in 50 Shades of Grey.  I wish.

Handy lady looked me in the eye, patting my good hand sympathetically.  Your osteo was spot on.  You have De Quervain's Tenosynovitis.  We’re finding it quite common these days.  Basically you’ve been using your mobile phone too much and it’s put excess strain on your wrist and thumb.  Your tendons are inflamed and we’re going to have to give you a splint to stop movement in your thumb until it recovers.  You can expect to be out of action for up to 12 weeks.

My PHONE has given me this injury?!  WTF?  My emails, texting, scrolling through instagram photos of cute puppies, blogs, Facebook and Twitter feeds have made me disabled.  I have a first world tech injury.  I’m not sure if I’m embarrassed or proud.  Maybe a little of both.

Handy Lady told me that she has another patient that calls his Tinder Thumb from swiping left and right frantically.  Poor bastard.  What a great first date story though.

So here I am.  Writing this story on my Mac with a black and purple plastic splint separating my thumb from the rest of my body.  It’s hard to sleep with a roll of pipe on your arm, but that’s what happens when you have a severe injury.  You suffer and you suck it up.

If you’re reading this on your phone, be warned.  You too could fall prey to De Quervain's Tenosynovitis. Holding your device the wrong way, overuse of your thumb, intensive swiping and clutching your electronic lifeline could be leading you to a tsunami of pain.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.


RIP Phone 

My phone died while I was interstate.  Initially I thought it was the Universe getting back at me for checking work email, so I relaxed into the thought of freedom.  Then panic set in.  No one can get in touch with me.  I can’t reach out to anyone.

Other horrid thoughts flooded my brain.  How will I take photos of all the food I’m eating to share with my jealous friends?  I can’t write Insta-poetry (my new favourite pastime).  What if the guy I’m meant to be going on a date with this week texts me – and I don’t text back?  Will he think I’m not interested and our potentially amazing romance will die an early death?

My heart rate increased substantially to 118.  (Refer previous fit bit blog).

I’ve never been without my phone before.  I’ve been fortunate to never have even lost my mobile.  From the number of people who write messages on Facebook along the lines of “left my phone in a cab, DM me your number”, this is quite uncommon.

Our phones are now storage devices filled to the brim with content.  Mine has photos from all my fun nights out, my overseas trips and random shit I see and post to Instagram.  It has text messages that I just can’t erase as they take me to a happy time.  Oh and there are quite a few phone numbers I need.  

The slightly ironic thing is that I have a brand new Samsung S6 waiting for me at work when I return.  I received it two weeks ago with a new phone plan but didn’t want to switch over until I got back from holidays.  Just in case something happened.   Derr.

So now I’ll wait and attempt to switch to my new phone.  I'm a techno-phobe so God knows how I'm going to do that. I’m assuming I’ve lost everything off my dead phone.  I do recall doing a back up before I headed to New York.  That was six months ago.   Ohgod.  There goes my heart rate again.



I’ve become addicted to my phone.  I hate that. 

A few months ago I weaned myself off my phone and the need to be on it all the time. I trained myself to leave it in my bag when I was out.  I stopped taking photos of my food.  The need to share my life on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter subsided.  I had control. I was in the moment. As much as I loved my Samsung and all it’s cool features, it was just a phone.

Now, I’m checking my phone all the time.  Constantly.  Every few minutes.  When the blue light flashes my heart skips a little beat.  Someone wants to tell me something.  Talk to me.  Share things with me.  I am needed. Wanted.  I have friends.  I’m not alone.

If my phone is inactive for a while (three minutes) I touch the screen to bring it to life.  My heart lets out a deep sigh when I see there aren’t any icons alerting me to something.  Anything.  I put it down and try to go back to whatever I am doing, hoping that soon, something will pop up to engage me. 

Finally I hear that familiar noise.  It’s like my favourite song on high rotation on the radio.  Smiling, I glide my fingers over my phone. 

Massive anti climax.  There’s no text message waiting for me.  It’s not even a Facebook or Twitter alert.   It’s an app update.  Annoying.  No, I don’t want to download the new version of Flipboard. I hardly ever use it. Stop using up my valuable battery power. 

My demise into the world of phone addiction started off as a joyous experience.  It began innocently, swapping texts with a great guy I met online.  We moved quickly from long essays on email to funny text messages.  Every time my phone beeped, I’d smile, knowing he had sent me an sms.  He was thinking of me.  Wanting to reach out to me.  He was into me.

He’d text me every morning when he woke up.  We had private jokes.  Hashtags were added to funny messages.  We’d swap weird photos of cats and sloths.  All day long, we’d text back and forth.  At night, he’d text me before he fell asleep.  My phone became a connection to another human being.  Someone that made me happy.

I became a living version of Pavlov’s Dog.  My phone would beep, I’d feel joy. 

After a heavenly two weeks of perfect dates, he ended it. Without warning.  I didn’t see it coming.  I’m still a little shocked.  And yes, he did it via text.

Now my phone lies dormant.  It sits silent. Mocking me.  No flashing.  No beeping. No public displays of affection from a hottie.  A useless piece of metal and plastic that makes me feel bad.

I pick it up.  I swipe my hands across the screen.  The cursor flashes at me requesting my passcode.  I punch it in quickly.  My phone comes alive.  It has nothing to say.

I put it back on the table.  Three minutes later I check it again.  Still, there is nothing.  I am tempted to scroll through old messages.  This is a bad idea.  I talk myself out of it like an alcoholic on the verge of a whiskey shot.  Don’t do it.  It will just make you feel bad.

It’s not my phone’s fault.  It did nothing wrong. It just got caught in the crossfire of my short lived romance and a guy who (I thought) was totally into me – and then he wasn’t.  I need to make peace with my S4.  I want us to be friends.  Life is better when it’s around.  Like all good things, I just need to learn to enjoy it in moderation. 

Which is why you will find my Facebook feed flooded with motivational posts.   Instagram has become a picture book of each and every meal I eat.  Twitter is filled with non stop crap as I tweet constantly about the nothing in my life.  Spare moments are spent texting friends to say hello and find out what’s going on. My phone is busier than before.  In fact, my phone bill just arrived.  720 texts in four weeks.

It’s fine.  I’ve got my addiction totally under control.  #totally


Instant Textification 


I need to stop my text obsession according to my friend Twin Kat.   I had apologised for not messaging her back straight away after she asked how I was after a big week at work.  “Mate, texting back straight away is for urgent questions and emergencies, not general chit chat.  This bullshit idea of people catching up over text is ridiculous, Call if you wanna talk to someone, otherwise return their text whenever you want.  If it was urgent, you’d pick up the phone.  Texts don’t have to be replied to straight away.”  

She has a point.  I am guilty of two things when it comes to texting:  1.  Texting someone  back straight away so I don’t keep them waiting – and 2.  Getting upset / depressed when someone (usually a man) doesn’t text me back within a certain amount of time.

We’ve all been there.  You send an SMS to someone you’re keen on, and if they don’t text you back after say, 30 minutes, the mind games start.  He’s just not that into me.   He’s with his girlfriend.   He’s with his wife.   He’s read the message, rolled his eyes and put his phone away as there’s no way he’s replying to your stupid semi flirty text.  Silly girl. 

If hours go by with no reply the following scenarios may also pop into your head:  He’s had an accident.  His battery is flat.  Your message didn’t go through (check phone immediately).  The network is down.  His wife found your message and is currently throwing his clothes into the street.

Let me just point out that you didn’t know he had a wife.   You’re not a cheating mole, you’ve  been hoodwinked by a married man who doesn’t know how to delete your messages.  Or return them.

Twin Kat’s comments made me think about the way most men text as opposed to women.   Men write short messages with basic info and abbreviations.   Women are chatty and add all the niceties you’d expect in a phone call.

Girl Text:  Hey hon, how are you?  It’s a beautiful day! Thought we could go to the Smith Hotel for a few drinks.  Invited Rach and Jase too.  How is 2pm for you?  Let me know. Ta! Xxx

Boy Text:  Wanna grab a beer?  Smith Hotel – 2pm?

The word efficiency of men texting is akin to the word count on Twitter.  Once you work this out, you’ll avoid being upset when he sends you a super short message and you misread it as him being abrupt and therefore disinterested.  He just doesn’t want to press more buttons than he has to.

Most men also don’t feel the need to reply to a text straight away.  When Sports Buddy and I would spend days together on the couch (watching sport), his phone would beep all the time with messages.  I wanted to jump up straight away and see who it was and what they wanted, but he’d stay planted on the couch, only getting up to check them if he needed a toilet stop or another drink.  I now know that when I text him, he’s not going to reply for a few hours – maybe even the next day.  Do I like that?  No, not really, but at least now I don’t freak out when I don’t hear back from him (or other boys) straight away.  And when we do finally catch up, it’s all fine.     

 Actually, it’s been three days since I sent him a text.  If that bastard’s married, there’ll be hell to pay.