So I’m still mulling over the complex human relationship with technology. Not a big surprise if you have been even a sporadic reader of this blog. Some topics are heavy enough to stay on my mind for several months. I’ve also had a rather busy summer, which has expanded my number of experiences and given me more to fret about than usual.

For example, I’ve had to research a fair amount of hotel rooms in the past few months. I still haven’t divorced iPhone, so I have kept trying to use its special features.  That usually goes something like this: I open my mouth, put on my best Ohio accent, hold down the home button and state confidently “Search the internet for hotels in Montreal, Canada.”

What I get back: “I’m sorry. I couldn’t find any Mine Anthrax in New York City; did you mean Men’s Summer Thongs, Best Of?”

Did Tim Cook sit through months of iPhone production all-nighters, and suddenly step out of the room for a snack when the team got to the Siri part? Not to mention that all of America can somehow understand Sofia Vergara, and yet there I am staring at a screen of muscled men’s bottoms. Grrrrrrr.

I picture my holiday spiraling down from a dirty smoky hotel room, to a food poisoning attack while still eating, only to get mugged and kicked in the very stomach that is reeling from the effects of Canadian fries gone bad.

To stem the stress that is now paralyzing my upper back, I search for the hand-held massager I once bought and rarely use.  First, I make sure to distinguish the sleek handle bit from the sleek massaging bit. Then, I twist my arm behind my head to try to reach the part of my back that is becoming hard as a rock.  I swing the massager and keep missing the spot. I attempt it with the other arm, which is even less flexible. I opt to place the massager on the ground, still running, and try to lie on it strategically and immediately roll of it and land with a thud on the hardwood floor. Of course my needs are in the upper central part of my back, the one area humans can’t actually reach with their own arms. And neither can this twenty-first century two hundred-dollar massager.

I am mad.   If I have to lose pretty leather embossed journals, bubble gum-scented pink erasers, and Post-its in the shape of pizza slices, then I want the shiny expensive alternatives to work perfectly – at all times. No excuses. And the fact that they don’t is infuriating.

However, I don’t have any choice but to try to navigate the imperfections now.   For the Travel section in my bookstore shrinks daily. And my bookstore is one of two left standing for miles. A massage, though, could be arranged the old-fashioned way: with a human. I call to schedule an appointment. The voicemail tells me to go online for bookings. And they will confirm with a text message. Grrrrr indeed.