Smarter than

Once you go smart, you never go back.

I had no idea how much I'd love having a smartphone. It doesn't even matter that it's a hand-me-down.

Does your family do this? Chloe bought a used iPhone from a friend. Nate had an Android we got for a deal that didn't require a contract. Sophie and MathMan have newish unlocked phones. I was using the mobile phone equivalent of one of those black metal phones with the metal thing you clack up and down while saying the operator's name. I was fine with it, too. I could make calls, text and take grainy photos.

Another friend of Chloe's got a new iPhone and gave Chloe her newer used iPhone. Nate took Chloe's first iPhone and, feeling full of first iPhone magnanimity, bequeathed his Android to me. He then spent an exasperating hour trying to show me how to use it.

A couple of weeks later, a friend spilled something on Nate's iPhone leaving the screen unreadable. He gently suggested he'd like his Android back.

I'd be more likely to give him one of my kidneys, a cornea and my entire set of Leif Garrett collectible lip gloss tins.

I may not be an early adopter, but I know love when I feel it. This phone and I are just into our honeymoon phase. I don't even mind that the phone is the Alpha in this relationship. I consider it a mark of my maturity that I appreciate its intelligence and versatility.

Despite my affection for the phone, the learning curve has been steep. On my old phone with real buttons, I zipped out messages using my fingernails. On the smartphone, I have to press my fingerpads to the glass screen. Unless, I'm drinking, it's a slow, laborious process peppered with uttered oaths and localized sweating. Add alcohol and I'm texting with my thumbs like any sixteen-year-old with a pressing need to communicate.

I can't always turn to alcohol to facilitate the process, so when I'm in a hurry and alone, I use the voice-recognition feature. I talk into the phone and it types the text. To me, it's space age magic.

The system isn't infallible. Proofreading is required. I say, "Hello, baby" and it types Ruby Dee. Every time I say me it types Maine. I didn't realize this the first time it happened which explains why MathMan received a text from me reading "Ruby Dee, I am on my way. If you're going to go late, text Maine."

The good news - if I speak like Siri, the voice recognition works better. The bad news - talking dirty in a Siri voice sounds more antiseptic than sexy. It's the subway voice instructing you to take off your clothes instead of warning you to stay clear of the doors.

No matter how I say boobs, in my own weird accent or deadpan as Siri, the voice recognition refuses to type boobs. It offers other suggestions. Power. Nice, but no. Good. Sure, but still no.

If I want to dirty text my husband and have the described action include my boobs, I have to use the proper anatomical term. Knockers.

If you're scandalized by my behavior, my defense is simple. MathMan started it. He texts me when he's peeing. That was the gauntlet hitting the floor. Things escalated because I'm not about to be outdone by potty humor.

Besides, the sexting keeps things interesting. Why pay a marriage counselor? We've got the love thing nailed down. It's the excitement that needs constant nurturing. Sexting beats the hell out of those Furry costumes. They're stifling in the summer heat.

There are other phone features about which I know nothing. I try not to mess with them for fear that I'll end up ordering a delivery of fried shrimp for the International Space Station or launching an app that will download Celine Dion music without my knowledge.

Apps. I don't even know where to begin. I love Instagram and I blame Averil for that. My attempt to use the virtual assistant ended in cat fight. She refused to let me swap her out for the chap with the British accent. I called her a joyless clerk and threatened to fire her. She said I'm dreadful harpy and intimated that she'd sue for discrimination. When she threatened to send my next sexting dispatch to my entire list of contacts, I relented.

I'm still learning how to use the vast array of apps available, but I am comfortable with the standards - Facebook and Twitter. I've even checked in a time or two, but don't feel it necessary to bore everyone with my visits to CVS, IHop and The Pink Pony.

I do feel like I've finally joined the rest of the world by being able to check my email in the bathroom at the office. I can check email, Twitter and Facebook, read my news subscriptions, visit your blogs and even write my own posts on the Android.

Which means that by the time most of you are using the iPhone 8, I'll be discovering Angry Birds and Words with Friends.

30 Day Photography Challenge - Technology

UPDATED: Summer exposes the Mirror of Erised.

There's no question that I am a fan.

I love it that I can Skype with my friend in France or that we can join in the family holidays even when they're in Chicago and we're in Georgia.

I love that I can watch live music remotely.

It's wonderful that people who would have died not so long ago can now live because of science and technology.

An aside - don't you love it when people use technology to proclaim a disdain for science? Silly humans.

I'm glad that when a hurricane or a tornado or a blizzard is heading our way, we can now prepare for it.

I am still a little amazed that I can walk around with a roomful of milk crates jammed full with record albums and audio books in my pocket.

It's pretty damn cool that my kids can watch movies and TV shows and read books on these little devices they hold in their hands.

I like that when I talk to my mother, I share with her the Rising Sun gossip and goings on because I'm on Facebook and she's not.

I will never regret the worlds I've tapped into because of this infernal typing machine. (Love you guys!)

I love it that when my kids need me that they can reach me. And I'm pleased that they've done a good job of figuring out when it's really important to call. Or text. They text when they don't want a lecture.

I don't exactly love it that MathMan can text me every time he pees, but it still makes me laugh.

The daily essentials.

A gratuitously edited shot.

My old friend. I miss you. And all the content that died with you.

I love that I can take a million photos and keep the best.

But all this comes at a price doesn't it?

Technology is changing us.

And I'm not even talking about the ridiculous bitching that goes on when Facebook changes something or that people tweet about what they're eating (me included!) or reality television or spammers who fill our inboxes with penis enlargement emails or that haters can more easily spread their hate and scammers can expand their reach or that I'm struggling to keep up - Google+, Facebook, Twitter, StumbleUpon, Blogger, Wordpress, Klout, iTunes, Amazon, Goodreads, Pinterest, and who knows what else I'm forgetting or that when something doesn't work right, people (read: me) lose their shit in the most appalling displays of crybaby hysterics or that we're seriously fucking up the environment and all this technology won't be able to save us from ourselves.

No, I'm talking about the fact that this technology creep, this influx of stuff is turning me into a charger hoarder.

Summer at Phoenix Berries is someone I know only through blogging, but over the years, I feel like I've gotten to know this incredibly intelligent, talented, and spiritual young woman. One of the beautiful things she shares with her readers is her children. I've watched Summer's little family grow from three to four and it's been a delight to see how she's raising her young children in this changing world. Yesterday she told the story of how Pip got his name.

Randal gets very artsy and angers his muse.

Geoffrey reaches out and touches somebody.

Love/hate technology? Let us count the ways in comments.

The Gentle Hum of Anxiety

The last couple of days were an involuntary internet blackout. Round about noon on Friday, there was a din of WTFs, Sonofabitches, Goddamnits, Dagnabbits, Mommy! and Fuck me's! coming from West end of Cartersville, Georgia, as thousands of AT&T customers tried to surf the web and got stiff-armed by the Broadband Not Available message.

I, myself, had just performed several happy pirouettes around the deck after having just posted for the first time in two years at PoliTits navigating Blogger's new format while my heart pounded at the possibility of being reunited with my stupidly deleted blog. I returned to my seat to post my elation at having my old blog back, I saw that a couple of friends emailed me about something called Google+ and when I tried to open the first email.....nothing. Loading, loading, loading. I tried another tab. Statcounter. Nothing. Another. Nothing. Another. Broadband link error.

About that same time, MathMan threw open the bedroom window and hollered "What's up with the internet?" I could hear commotion coming from the living room. Grumbling, I went inside, remembering to reach up and snag the leaping cat who desperately wants to return to her feral roots or at least track down the squirrel who licks the deck every morning to ask him why in the hell he does that. She started to claw me, but saw the expression on my face and thought better of it, jumping with one swift motion to the floor and disappearing behind the sofa.

Nathan charged up the basement stairs, his XBox controller in his hand. "What's wrong with the internet? I was in the middle of a game!"

Sophie, who was awake during the day so that she could attend a party at 1pm, shook her iPod Touch. "I was watching Roseanne, but Netflix just went out. Did you cancel Netflix?"

Chloe was alternately packing for a camping trip and checking her email for an important message. "What the hell?" And then more words I won't repeat here because she shouldn't be using those words in front of her parents.

A sound from outside drew my attention. I tugged open the humidity-sticky front door and was met with a wailing sound made up of the collective epithets, oaths, threats and smart remarks from all those disappointed ATandT customers who couldn't check their bank statements, water their Farmville farms or upload photos of their privates. One neighbor wearing two oven mitts and a pair of her kid's swim goggles, wielded a pair of kitchen sheers on the metal stump housing the Comcast cable hub.

"What are you doing?"

"I was in the middle of searching for a recipe when the stupid internet pooped out! I'm dumping AT&T for Comcast. Right now," she said, blowing her hair out of her face. "Listen, watch for the cops. They patrol around the neighborhood at about this time every day." We stay at home parents and involuntarily and voluntarily retired people know things like this. I looked over my shoulder checking for the Black and White.

Another neighbor was squirting lighter fluid on a pile of kindling on his front lawn. "Jerry, are you going to send smoke signals?"

"Yeah, right. Smoke signals. No, this is for lighting our torches so we can make a show of force." Assorted other neighbors assembled on his lawn, scuffing their feet in the gravel along the curb, trying not to trample the impatiens or tip his bird bath. They carried iPhones, Androids, and pitchforks. The neighbor one house over was dismantling his ratty old picket fence while his wife stood next to him tearing sheets.

"We can use these for torches, Jer! I'm sick of painting it anyway," he shouted over the crowd.

Oh, sure now they're ready to take to the streets. I wasn't going to waste this opportunity. If people were whipped up enough to protest, let them at least spend their on things that would help the greater good. "Listen, while you're at it, would you mind protesting Georgia's disgusting new immigration law, the Republicans who never mention the deficit when they're running it up, two and a half wars, our corrupt governor, and corporate welfare in a time of high unemployment and record profits?"

My neighbor shook his can of lighter fluid at me. "You're one of those commie pinkos, aren't you? I told Sue to keep an eye on you when you started hanging your laundry out to dry and you guys replaced your lawn mower with one of those push mowers. Real Americans ride their lawnmowers!"

Yeah, this was going nowhere. "Enjoy your mob, Jerry, and don't forget that AT&T doesn't support net neutrality. Add that to your protest, okay?"

"Net what?"

"Nevermind." I slammed the front door, glad to block out the racket.

"Well, the TV still works," MathMan said holding out the dvd of Social Network we'd gotten in the mail from Netflix. "Want to watch a movie after we take Sophie to her party?"

Later MathMan, Nate and I ate popcorn, drank root beer and watched the movie about how Facebook came about. Occasionally, one of us would reach into a vibrating pocket and pull out our phone to read a text.

"I know there's some message here about modern life," I said.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, while we're sitting here watching a movie about how Facebook was invented, most of my texts are from Facebook."

Full circle.

**************************

Just for laughs: First World Problems.

Tis the Season...

This turns out to be the season of change. Or perhaps, more accurately, the season of going back to the start...

Our gifts have been of an incredibly practical nature. We put up a tree for the first time in probably ten years. (Thank you Target staffer who pointed out the display tree was 75% off. $7.50 for a tree? Why not?)

There are no more markers of having little kids in the house - it's more like when MathMan and I first started sharing a life. Although Sophia is ten going on twenty-five and still a child, of course, there is a distinct lack of things that need assembling. There were no stickers to stick on Barbie things, nothing that needed to be cut out of packaging using the Jaws of Life.

Christmas Eve started what, I hope, will become a new tradition. This year, we used the wonders of technology and the Spirits of Skype to converge on MathMan's oldest brother's house for carols played by the Golden Family Concert Band. There we were, us in our Georgia living room and MathMan's youngest brother and his family in their house in New Jersey, enjoying the sights and sounds of Christmas Eve, just like the old days. It was quite nice, actually.

We put out our own version of a holiday spread and will probably just eat leftovers all day and save the turkey roll (hey, there are only five of us) dinner for another time when the food is running low and we've got more month than money (The joys of a once a month paycheck for teachers. Ask any educator you know, they'll tell you that January seems to stretch on forever, especially when even the Ramen Noodles have run out.)

The point is, we've fussed more than usual with the busyness of the holidays, but the fussing has been in ways that have been more rewarding and less frustrating. I keep telling myself - write it down, this is what the holidays are about - being with the ones you love, being good to them and yourself, spreading the cheer where you can and having some fun that doesn't feel squeezed from the last little bit you have to give.

Okay, so now I've written it. The trick is to remember it, right? Right.

From all of us here at Golden Manor, may you and yours have a very happy holiday season. Thank you for sharing yourself and your thoughts here. I'm honored that you come here to read and be a part of this happy madness.

Love,

Lisa

Here's a little sampling of the music from Christmas Eve (with special guest, MathMan's sister)

Our Christmas scrapbook.

Penalty Box

First. Thanks to all who have responded positively to removing word verification. It makes commenting so much easier, I really appreciate it. There will be more on this later. (Also - D, the commenter, can you tell me the name of your blog? I can't find it on your blogger profile. Thanks!)

Of course, nothing is perfect. In no time flat, one of my blogpals got an spam comment from that hideous football character who's been hitting a bunch of blogs in this corner of the blogosphere. Sorry about that DED.

Second. No, I'm not dead. MathMan hasn't finally smothered me in my sleep, though many of you understand if he did. Sadly, I've been busy moving offices and wiping out computer files to make a switch to another laptop and that's just the paid work stuff.

I'm still not-so-cleverly waging the war against filth and clutter. I considered writing a whole post about what I found wedged between the sofa cushions today, but decided that it would be best to save that for another day when the only answer is empty Gogurt tubes and pretzel sticks. Goodness knows The Spawn can do better than that.

Anyway, I was telling you about my busyness. With the changes at work, there are a lot of details to be dealt with before I can get to the real work. Our tech guy came in to add some software to my laptop, but there were a few snags. It looks like I'm going to have to swap out computers after all. As a result, part of Thursday and much of Friday were spent moving files to the shared server, cleaning up things to put on my flash drive and generally weeding out crap like multiple versions of the same document.

I have some pretty bad computer file maintenance and usage habits.

My boss J was out all of last week and returned yesterday. As is his wont, we played catch up on work and life in general. I mentioned that I'd decided to swap computers and was taking the steps necessary to remove all the files from the laptop I've been using. There followed a question and answer period:

J: Okay. Good. Did you remove all the porn, too?
Me: Yes. I deleted most of it, but I moved the clown and midget porn to the shared drive because I know those are a couple of your fetish faves.
J: Okay. Don't forget the large lady porn or that already gone?
Me: I didn't realize you were into that, too.

So where else was I? Well, last night we discovered that we had no internet service at Golden Manor because Hughes Net put us in the penalty box. Again.

We have a limited amount of bandwidth we're allowed to use each twenty-four hour period. If we exceed that amount, we are essentially cut off from service. Oh sure, the provider's website says that you can still do some things, if you're willing to suffer some serious slowing down of the connection, but last night we were completely booted off.

When this happens, the recriminations and finger pointing start. Nevermind that we pay $69.99 per month for this shitty, limited service. Forget the fact that we had to pay $700 for the satellite to bring in the "high speed" service in the first place. Instead of being angry at the poor excuse for broadband access in this country or Hughes Net who knows they've got us most unpleasantly by the short hairs, we find it far more convenient and gratifying to blame the other members of the household.

Was it MathMan looking at Bugs Bunny cartoons on YouTube? Did The Actor surreptitiously use XBox Live? Who knows? All I do know is that I couldn't get online to save my life last night. You'd have thought someone told me that I was dreaming last November and Republicans had actually won the elections, hoodies had gone out of fashion, and the world's supply of chocolate had been filched by aliens from outer space.

I was despondent. I'd watched all day as my number of unread rss feeds grew more obscene by the hour and I could nothing about it. I ranted. I raved. I threatened to cut MathMan off from foot rubs and back hair waxes if he didn't make it better now. It was for naught.

So I got busy writing a piece of fiction that's been swirling around in my head. I actually finished the first part - the opening. It felt so good that I went to bed happy and satisfied with having accomplished that one little thing. Now I'm going to have to keep pushing through on this writing because I'm determined to finish it. I want this story to be complete.

And now, in addition to this fiction piece, my boss J is urging me to get off my butt and write an outline for a sort of humor/autobiographical piece about what our family is going through with moving, foreclosure, bankruptcy, job changes, sending a kid off to college, trying to keep the other two from flying off into the ether and holding together a marriage that has had its rough patches lately.

And J doesn't even know the half of it.

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" I asked him, trying to decide if I should be worried. He'd already had to tell one staff person that it was time to look. Was he now pushing me out the door?

He shook his head. He knew what I was thinking. "No. I just know that this is the time for you to write that book. You've got it in you."

I thought this over for a minute. Maybe he really was urging me to find a new job. Maybe he was mad at me for what I'd said earlier. I'd mentioned to him that I thought he should consider titty twisters and noogies as viable volunteer management tools. Kind of like mooning as a childrearing method. "I wish I were as sure as you," I huffed. I'm not so confident that I have the attention span to write anything longer than a blog post. "You're trying to get rid of me, I think."

"Seriously, I'm not. I think you're very Rosanne-ish, but not so blue collar. You could really go places with this thing and, if you do, please make sure my character on the t.v. pilot is reasonably good looking." He stood up to go.

Rosanne-ish? But I want to be a female Philip Roth!!!

"Will you provide me with a good reference?" I pushed harder.

He stopped and turned around. "Look. Stop it. I don't want you to go. I want you to be successful here and wherever things take you," he paused, thought for a minute and shook his head. He started to walk away and then stopped again. "Besides who else can I employ who would search out clown and midget porn like you do?"

Good point. There just are some things that make you indespensible, I guess.