I wish that Apple would make their phone better as a phone. Calling my wife on her iPhone is a goddamn catastrophe, because she has never once in her life hear

I wish that Apple would make their phone better as a phone. Calling my wife on her iPhone is a goddamn catastrophe, because she has never once in her life heard it ring, because its ring volume is roughly the volume of a very polite British salesperson saying, "Excuse me, ma'am," and its vibration is apparently made with the first concern being that it could be placed on delicate spun-sugar constructions without worrying that the harsh vibrational waves would cause a dessert collapse. And I know, I know, it's so second-millennium of me to actually want to call my wife, but she doesn't hear the text notifications either, and sometimes I need to figure out whether we already have cinnamon[1] before I buy yet another container of it. [1] We do. We now have about six hundred containers of cinnamon, a spice that we use roughly once a year. This appears to be a failure mode of my brain.