Those of you keeping score at home know that lately I’ve been having even more trouble with technology since I had to get a new phone. It hasn’t really gotten any better.

This time however, I’m not whining about how I can’t answer my phone, or how I can’t do this or that with my phone, I’m whining because I frequently refuse to carry my phone, and it turns out that’s not great either.

Every Sunday, I leave my phone at home when we go to church. I consider it my one day of freedom from the electronic leash (plus, my ringer is set really loud, and I don’t think that a robocaller triggering “Slaughter on 10th Avenue in the middle of church would go over particularly well). Also, don’t even get me started on trying to figure out how to turn the volume down. I’ve got enough trouble.

Anyway, a couple Sundays ago, the lovely and talented Jess and I, along with our normal Sunday lunch buddies, Steve and Dot Bickerson, went to our customary Sunday lunch spot, a local diner (not to name names, but it’s got a large, wavy-haired, fat kid in front) where I proceeded to order my customary Sunday lunch – the pork tenderloin, no tomato, with fries and coleslaw. I can’t remember what anyone else had, but honestly it’s not really all that important.

It is commonly known in our small circle of friends (and after this story, our circle may contract even more), that although we really enjoy eating there, the fat boy’s food doesn’t always agree with either of us. It’s not his fault really, nothing we eat agrees with us. We both live in a constant state of digestive crisis. Fortunately, we do like to live dangerously.

On this particular occasion, the food hit me even faster and harder than normal. With no time to even excuse myself, I got up and walked as quickly as it’s possible to walk with your entire body clenched from the jaw down, praying the whole while that the bathroom would be empty.

My luck was in and the bathroom was deserted. I closed myself in the stall, and took care of business (and let me take a moment to mention my gratitude to the laws that mandate those safety bars in public bathrooms. Sometimes it’s good to be able to brace yourself). After the accompanying sigh/groan of relief and a moment of self-congratulation about having the fortitude and kung fu grip needed to make it to the facilities, I’ve got to say, I was feeling pretty good about things. Sadly, that good feeling was too good to last.

If I might digress a moment (and honestly, who’s gonna stop me?), I’d really like to know what jackass designs handicapped bathroom stalls. I mean, come on man, you’re designing this thing for people whose mobility and physical capabilities are already limited in some way. So why in the name of all that’s holy, would you put the toilet paper dispenser UNDER THE DAMNED GRAB BARS?!!!!! It’s not like the wall ABOVE the rails is so cluttered up with stuff that there’s no room for it.

Seriously, can you imagine having to lean over far enough to reach your hand up into a dispenser lower than your knees if your legs don’t work? It’s hard enough to do with more or less fully-functioning legs. It just ain’t right.

It’s also waaaaaay less right when you go through all that only to find out that there’s no toilet paper, which is what happened to me on this particular occasion. I’ve gotta say, the fat boy really lost some points with me that day.

So there I sat, my forehead still damp with a cold sweat, fruitlessly sliding the little door on the dispenser back and forth, as if a roll was hiding in there somewhere, or would magically appear if I really believed hard enough. It didn’t.

Still, I’m not one prone to panic. I know that I can’t be the only one who is adversely and drastically affected by the fat boy’s food. Sooner or later, I told myself, someone will come in whom I can ask for help, so I settled in to wait.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, somebody came in and bellied up to the urinal, just outside the stall. Being the considerate guy I am, I waited to try to get his attention until he got to that sweet spot between flushing and washing hands to say “Excuse me? Hey? Excuse me?!”

“You talking to me?”

Like there was anyone else in there. “Yeah, uh, I was wondering if you could do me a favor?”

“Maybe?” He sounded a little nervous (as one would, I suppose).

“There’s no toilet paper in here.” I waited for him to stop laughing, then said, “I was hoping you could tell one of the employees?”

“Yeah man, no problem,” and he left.

I waited. I waited some more. Then, for a change, I tried waiting. I was beginning to doubt that my new friend had actually told someone about it. As I sat there with my legs going numb, I could hear the sound of happy families enjoying their meals. I could even – and this part is absolutely true – hear the lovely and talented Jess laughing (she has a hearty laugh that really carries. It’s just one of the many things I love about her) as she and Steve and Dot visited. It sounded like they were having a really good time. It was also like she didn’t even know I was gone.

I thought that surely enough time had passed that she’d come to check on me, or at least send Steve. I was wrong. I actually started thinking about just yelling for help, but I was really hoping to get out of this with at least some dignity. I found myself wishing there were some sort of device, a personal communicator if you will, that I could carry in my pocket and would enable me to contact Jess and let her know of my predicament.

And then, I remembered – my phone! I could just call her – that is, if only it wasn’t sitting on the printer back at my house. Of course, there’s no guarantee that it would have worked anyway; the lovely and talented but frequently uncommunicative Jess is notorious for not answering her phone (at least when I call).

Still, I could at least have left a voicemail, or as a last resort, texted her. Those probably wouldn’t have worked either – She is just as technologically unsavvy as I am, and has no idea how to check either her voicemail or messages. Still, at least there would have been something with which to make her feel guilty about later (althought she doesn’t really do guilt, either).

At any rate, after sitting there for what seemed like hours, but was probably more like only 10-15 minutes, another guy came in, and I went through the previous exchange all over again. This guy however, actually went and got help, and a few minutes later, a roll of toilet paper slid into the stall. Thank God.

Ironically, as I was finally leaving the bathroom, I met Steve coming to check on me. We went back to the table where I told them about the whole ordeal. They laughed and laughed. Steve and Dot eventually stopped laughing, but Jess was still laughing all the way home.

I take some comfort in the fact that there are probably few husbands who make their wives laugh that hard or that often. She’s a lucky woman. Just the same, I’m going to start taking my phone to church from now on.

Stupid technology. Can’t live with it, and apparently can’t live without it either.