This is why I don’t have nice things. I lost my iPhone 4 over the weekend when my geeky self decided to see what it’s like to leave the safety of my apartment and venture into the outside world. San Francisco is a busy city, after all. Tons of new food to try, tons of people to meet, tons of venues and activities to explore — I spend so much of my time both professionally and personally just curled up in front of my computer that I often forget what it’s like to socialize with real people outside of a glowing, backlit monitor.

Which is why when I actually do decide to get away from home, my cellphone becomes sort of that “portable computer” that I use to get my tech fix during travel. … If you can consider bus-rides back and forth through a 7×7-miles-wide city to be “travel”.

As bad as this probably sounds — though I’m sure many of you can relate — my cellphone was basically my main connection to the outside world. It’s one of the only mediums for me to hear the real voices of my friends, set up weekend plans and schedule last-minute meet ups when I suddenly find myself out of things to do. Now that I don’t have my phone, it’s like, what else do I have? Email? Twitter? Facebook? Social media is fantastic for socializing, yes, but dude. Being without a phone has been really freaking tough.

How I actually lost my phone.

Okay, so this is a long story.
Get ready.

In my previous entry, I mentioned that my roomies had invited me out to go drinking with them. And because I’m usually something of an anti-social workaholic hermit, I agreed. I can’t be a pasty albino do-nothing forever, right? So I get all dolled up, throw on the cutest outfit ever, and leave my apartment with this idea in my head that I’m going to actually try and socialize, be nice to people, and possibly even dance without complaining that guys at bars are sleazy and disgusting.

We get to this club called Infusion Lounge after I cough up $25 for a parking spot since I’m the only fucking person with money around here. Which is fine. Whatever. I never spend my shit anyway, and it’s the least I can do since I never contribute to kitchen chores (even though I never use the fucking kitchen, so why are people complaining? — I GrubHub everything).

We make it through the Guest List line, and it turns out that both of my roomies have no money to pay for the half-off cover charge. Great. I grit-smile my way through excuses that they’ll both pay me back later — which still hasn’t happened, by the way — and cough up another $30 to get us all in. Fantastic.

I order myself a shot of Patron Silver shaken with lime and salt, and the bartender hands me a chilled shot of tequila. I’m like, dude. I said shaken. He’s like, listen, it’s cold.

I. Fucking. Hate. When. Bartenders. Fucking. Do that. I’m paying for the drink, so that means I’m supposed to get it the way I want it. Fuck everyone who disagrees.

IDGAF if you think I’m just being picky — there is a difference between a shaken shot and a chilled shot. And the difference is, shaken shots have little flecks of chipped ice throughout them and go down much smoother than simply “cold” alcohol. Seriously, it’s true. Ask for one next time and you will wonder why you never got your shots shaken before, and realize just how fucking lazy some bartenders really are.

But whatever.
That’s why people like me have blogs to complain in. If we complained in real life, we’d make people feel like ass-hats since we use this thing during arguments called “common sense”. So again, whatever.

I’m a nice person, so I tipped him anyway, ordered a Vodka Redbull to sip on, tipped him again since I obey the unwritten dollar-tip-per-drink rule, licked my hand, shook the damn salt on it, licked the salt off, downed my shot, clenched the lime in my teeth and took off to enjoy my damn night.

Fortunately, it gets more interesting.

The first thing that happens is one of my roomies starts complaining that her shoes suck and her feet hurt. Which is fine — I’m not knocking her for that. I’ve totally been there. So I steer her into a less-populated area of the venue where we can just drink, kinda wiggle our butts as if we’re dancing, and chill. I remark that everyone seems rather well-dressed, but that I haven’t seen any cute guys yet. She points off into the distance, saying that she sees a few cuties. And because I’m blind and near-sighted, I have no idea who the hell she’s talking about.

As if being summoned, the cute guys come our way.
The one with the huge muscles — you know I love muscles — starts talking to me, and I’m basically like, not hearing a word he’s saying because I asked him if I could squeeze his bicep, and when he said yes I was like, holy shit. This thing is fucking rock-solid and huge. And I’m like, “You have to feel this!” Making my roomie grab it, at which point we’re all laughing and the alcohol is kicking in, and we all move to the dance floor to just have a good time and get crazy.

Eventually the guy is like, “Do you have a boyfriend?”
I’m all, “No, of course not.”
“Good.” He says, smiling at me and trying to get closer.
“Do you?” I ask, kind of jokingly because hello, of course he doesn’t.
He hesitates, then, “… Yeah.” Suddenly looking seriously ashamed.
Wowwww. “You’re kidding, right?” I’m standing there in disbelief while he shakes his head, confirming that he does, indeed have a significant other. “Why are you even talking to me?” I ask.

He then goes onto state very sincerely that he finds me so attractive, and blah-dee-blah, and that he had no intention of meeting anyone while he was out, but that he couldn’t help himself when he saw me and ugggh — whatever. I’d like to pretend that I’m the hottest girl on the planet or something and that I somehow just magically attract guys that have girlfriends to me for some reason, but the truth is, most guys are just scumbags.

But again, I’m a nice person, so I thank him politely for the dance, tell him it was nice meeting him, then whisper into my roomie’s ear that I need to get away from this dude. We take off together.

She excuses herself to the restroom and I’m making my way back towards coat check when some shy-looking and hunched over Asian guy (read: not my type at all) stops me by putting a hand gently on my arm.

“Yeah?” I smile at him.
“Would you like a drink?” He asks quietly, and as if ready for rejection.

Take one for the team.

I debate for a minute in my head because, meh. I’m not really in the mood at this point and he’s not really my type. But then I realize he has a VIP table, my roomie’s feet are hurting, and that if I get a drink from this dude, I can probably get her a place to sit down. Bingo. Again, I’m a nice person. Let’s all document me taking one for the team. … Although frankly, the dude was decently dressed, humble, and was offering me a free drink at a VIP table, so I guess it wasn’t that bad.

“Yeah, sure.” I say, letting him mix up some Vodka/Orange/Grey Goose thing for me. So I’m sipping on that and when my roomie comes back, I’m like, “Dude! Sit down, sit down.” And so we’re all sitting, drinking, laughing, and the guy is introducing us to his friends and blah-dee-blah — same old boring club bullshit. You know the drill.

Eventually he’s like, “You need to dance with me.” And in my head I’m thinking, yeah, that sounds fair. He did get me a drink and he seems nice enough. So I agree, and while we’re making our way to the dance floor, he puts my arms around his stomach (I’m behind him) and I’m like … Holy shit? This guy has an 8 pack. Like, I’m not even kidding. Fucking ripped. I would know because I was totally groping his abdomen at this point trying to decide if what I was feeling was real, or if I was just wasted.

I admit that I freaked. I geek out for muscles like I geek out for new social media tools or fun video games or shit that’s sparkly and pink. I have never seen or felt an eight-pack (probably not even spelling that right) in person in my life. Like, my boyfriends have always been pretty fit guys, but dude. This was insane. Who knew mild-mannered Asian dudes could have such hot freaking bods?!

** Note: Before you go thinking that I’m some shallow bitch who only likes guys with muscles and doesn’t dig Asian dudes or something, let me just say that fuck you, I’m allowed to be attracted to who I want, and that I’ve dated plenty of less-attractive people in my day. And also, my first boyfriend was a shy Asian dude who was way-too-reserved for his own good and told me he loved me within a week of going out with me. Uhh … No. From that point on, I stopped liking Asian guys. **

Anyway, my mood picks up at this point and we’re on the floor dancing. My roomie pops up and we’re just being silly, having fun, drinking, blahblah. And after a while I’m like, okay, that was fun, I’m gonna go now. And he’s like, wait wait, let me get your number. So I’m like, let me just take yours, and I’m feeling through my purse for my phone and …

Well.
You guessed it.
It’s gone.

And this is why I should never leave my apartment and have a life. Because seriously, how many times is this in the span of a year, now? That’s like, three or four times that I’ve lost important valuables. Wow.

Yes, you may make fun of me, you fucking assholes. I know you want to.

The bad part about losing my phone

I think of all the numbers I’ve lost and all of the people I won’t be able to get ahold of now that I have no cellphone. I think of how my mom is probably freaking out because she can’t reach me, or how various phone-meetings I’ve already set up will now be written off or dismissed due to the fact that my number is out of service. I think about that cute guy I’ve been wanting to text, and how I don’t have his number saved anywhere else and really just have no way of getting in touch with him because we promised each other we wouldn’t add one another on Facebook — Blaargh!

And what about Foursquare? I can’t check into every new venue I visit. How will I ever pass up Ben Parr of Mashable?! Arrgh! And Twitter, Facebook, etc — the idea of being unable to update the Universe of where I am during every second of my day just sounds ridiculous. Not to mention, I have no idea where anything is anymore because I don’t have some handy little portable device to point out where I am on a map.

Just last night, I was supposed to meet up with someone at this park that I’ve never been to. Because I had no cellphone, I ended up Google Mapping the directions and sort of psyching myself out because, hello — it’s a park in the middle of the night in an area I’m not familiar with, and without mobile GPS, I have no way to tell if I’m in the right spot or even if I’m going to be arriving at that place at the right time, or even if I’m going to get kidnapped and raped because I’m in the middle of freaking nowhere and some caveman can club me on the head and throw me over his shoulder, run off with me and ahhhhh!!

I ended up leaving a bunch of information with a girlfriend of mine (thanks Rachel Lara) just in case I never resurfaced again. My parents would be proud. The years of sheltering they’ve put me through has made me sufficiently paranoid.

The positives of cellphone loss

On the upside, there were several people in my phone who I really just didn’t have the heart to tell off, and now that I’ve lost my mobile, it’s like … Well. In the words of Aaron Karo, “Phase out complete.” Now I don’t have to worry about being nice to that guy who I really wasn’t into, but was still politely texting because I didn’t want him to feel bad. Eep.

Also, I’ve noticed that I’ve become surprisingly better at memorizing maps and street names. In fact, without a cellphone, I’m actually paying attention to my surroundings rather than watching the little blue dot slowly creep across my Google Maps GPS. I can definitely tell you when the N Judah reaches 9th and Irving Street, for example — not that anyone ever actually hangs out at 9th and Irving in San Francisco, but hey. That takes skill.

Then there’s the fact that I’m not constantly feeling the urge to check my phone every two seconds. It’s like a stress has been lifted that I didn’t even know existed. Plus, now I’ll never have the urge to drunkenly text that guy I’ve been meaning to avoid, or post ridiculous things on Twitter while I’m out making a fool of myself with my friends.

All of these are fantastic things.

Sigh.

All in all, I’m not too upset that I’ve lost my phone. I kinda like being disconnected from people, apart from the fact that I’ve missed several important phone calls and have been receiving distressed emails and messages from those trying to get ahold of me. Also, whatever — this gives me an excuse to pick up the new iPhone 4S, right?

In fact, I may even change my number. I’ve sort of had the same one since I was like, 16 or something. It’ll be nice to lose all the stalkers who hit me up on the daily, or those annoying texts from “friends” back in Stockton who all sell drugs and have me on some mass-message texting list for “potential buyers” or something. Ugh.

So before I leave, let me first address some of the things you might be thinking … No, I don’t normally go out and feel up the muscles of strangers or dance with random guys. In fact, this is all just my attempt to try and get out of my apartment more, do things with my life, and stop lazing around my room doing nothing but work and keep to myself all day.

Also, if you still think I’m shallow, fuck you — if some hot dude with muscles started hitting on you, you’d probably ask to feel his biceps too. And for the dudes out there, if you were out with your friends trying to have a good time and some chick with huge tits let you feel her boobs, you would also probably be down. … Unless you’re gay. Or have a girlfriend. Or are boring. Or haven’t had enough to drink yet. So get over it.

And uh …
Yeah.
I’m exhausted right now. And probably coming off really aggressive, but … Man! I just really want my phone again.

Off to do things,
XOXO Cheri XOXO

PS. I forgot to mention that before entering Infusion Lounge that night, these style scouts from Charlotte Russe stopped me to freak out over my outfit and photograph basically everything I was wearing. Needless to say, I am one stylish bitch.