Tag Archives: iPhone

I Once Chewed My Bubble Gum-scented Eraser

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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.

Love to Hate You

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I have always been a creature of habit.  I like things the same way, all the time.  White bread with butter and strawberry jam is the same breakfast I have loved since the age of three.   As an adult, after years of resistance, I finally caved and bought a Filofax, only to find streets full of Palm Pilots.  And I still long for the days when Manchester, England, ruled the clubbing scene.  You are probably racking your brain trying to remember when that was – and I urge you to stop, simply because it was a REALLY long time ago.

Nevertheless, when an iPhone showed up miraculously in my hand, I fell in love recklessly.  I tossed out all loyalty to the trusty Filofax, to the once ingenious MP3 player that had turned me into a runner, and to my adored Swatch which had left a permanent love line on my wrist.  The phone was an awakening of sorts that led me to consider that I might transform in other ways. Perhaps I could one day be carefree, adventurous, fond of sports, and ready for orange marmalade.  This step led to the birth of other cohorts, namely l’il MacBook and ole iPad; but iPhone and I were always inseparable.

It is now nearly a decade later, and I am mulling over my relationship with technology.  As a victim of severe clutter phobia, it is gratifying to know my life is contained in one device.  Nothing of importance is on the countertops, or tacked on the wall, or in the nether regions of my purse with last year’s gum.  However, my neurotic nature means there is always something to research, confirm, respond to, and get ahead of.  It has been far too easy to review my meeting schedule, text on the current Jen-Ben marriage status, and check on the dog’s GPS location, while he naps two feet from me – all while “relaxing” and reading the newspaper on my screen.

Years of this, and I am worn out.  There must be another way.  Something less complicated.  Something that isn’t constantly nagging me with notifications of what I have forgotten to do.  Or flashing regular reminders comparing me with other, better users who delight in using technology to its full potential.  And who said this iPhone is so perfect anyway?  It certainly doesn’t look as good as when we first met.  And the ringer never functions properly, but have I ever complained?

I’ll admit, I have started leaving it at home when I walk to buy coffee.  And it has felt good.  Sometimes I even turn it off completely. Then I feel guilty, and turn it back on when I remember how much of my life is held in it.  I don’t know exactly what I am doing.  It’s a dangerous path I am starting on, I know.  But at this age, I owe it to myself to see where it will take me.

Third-world problems, first-world Monday

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“Passengers: we are holding behind another train, and expect shhhhgrrrtttshhh.  At this time, geeeeshhhhhhhtttttt.  Thank you.”

I look up, as if squinting fiercely at the Metro handrails will help me better understand the train’s speaker system.  No, still no idea what was said.  I stick my hand into my oversize purse and start feeling around: old, slightly soft apple, tube of lip gloss, electricity bill, assorted dog hairs, and finally, mobile phone.  “Team – train delayed,” is how my email starts, until I realize we are between stations, and there isn’t any phone service.  I hit “send” anyway, hoping for another secret tech deal between Apple and frenemy Google, that will allow this email to be delivered.

Nothing to do now, but wait.  Maybe I can get caught up on the industry news, which is my euphemism for reading my horoscope and the advice column.  But I quickly realize that without my phone, I am disconnected from The New York Times, AdAge, and Oprah.com.  I think the electric bill had some inserts on saving energy, which would surely be interesting reading.

By the time, the train pulls into my station, I have missed my bus.  But I am not frazzled, for in America, there are always taxis.  And of course, there is a mandatory Whole Foods across the street, watching over all of us.

But today, there aren’t any taxis.  Because it is snowing.   And when it’s snowing in Washington, D.C., people morph into helpless one-year olds, incapable of navigating the streets on foot or driving themselves.  It’s a good business day for taxis.

I pace on the sidewalk; I hate being late to the office, even if all I will do upon arrival is forage for coffee.  Thankfully, a black taxi pulls up, with a gold emblem on its side.  It looks strangely familiar.  I open the door exactly as I realize my suspicion is true.

“Hi, it’s lovely to see you again,” the voice inside gushes.

“You still don’t take credit cards, right?”  I stammer.

I step back onto the curb, and close the door, as the color drains from my face.   How is it possible, in the land of plenty, to run into the exact same taxi driver who hit on you a few days earlier?  The one who found my people to be “so smart, so good, so beautiful, and so many software engineers.”

More importantly, is the question of the train system’s performance.  Why does the train get to sit on the platform several times a week – while I would receive an official warning from Human Resources if I decided to stop moving in the hallway, a few feet from my desk?

I quickly slide into the backseat of the yellow cab that pulls in a few minutes later.  Within ten minutes, I have arrived at the heavy glass doors of my office building.  Considering how the morning has started, proper nutrition suddenly seems important.  I stop into my office for the last packet of oatmeal from my snack cabinet, and head into the company kitchen.

Bowl, water, oatmeal.  I open the microwave with my left hand, and proceed to topple all three items onto my right hand.  The liquid starts overflowing onto the counter top.  Happy Monday!

 

Berlusconi v. Rabies

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Linoleum floors.  Stiff chairs.  Minuscule windows.  This is jury duty.  More specifically, this is the waiting lounge for jury duty.  I had eagerly anticipated this day for weeks.  You might imagine me as a Law & Order-crazed citizen, longing to put my stamp on the American justice system.  In reality, I just looked forward to sitting on my rear and doing nothing for eight hours, bound by law to do so.

I left my house that morning with a fat book that had been sitting on the shelf for a few years.  My first attempt to read it was less than successful.  So, I had given myself license to set it aside forever.  But after recently enjoying a series of movies I had not expected to like, I reconsidered.  Life is sometimes about timing, and revisiting the book during a distraction-free period could prove fruitful.  And yes, pleasurable.

The mounted television in the waiting lounge is a surprise.  But it is muted and set to CNN – where Wolf Blitzer and his cohorts will struggle every twenty minutes to find new ways to announce that our politicians can’t work together.  I had already read my dose of today’s news on the train ride in, so I could blatantly disregard the screen.

The book isn’t half bad, I decide by page four, as the prior adverse reaction gently fades.  The story is set in Barcelona, and my imagination drifts off to cobblestone streets and mid-20th century modesty.  Suddenly, I become fixated on a word that has little meaning to the story line, esdrújula.  By the way, the book is in Spanish.  What is esdrújula in French, I wonder?  I must have learned it, but I can’t drudge it up from my college French grammar remnants.  What are the French rules for accents, and most importantly, for those syllables ending in vowels?

And just like that, I can’t let the thought go.  My eyes keep moving on the page, but my brain is busy scanning the green Grammaire of my youth.  Frustrated, I close the real book in my hands and decide to take a few minutes to focus solely on testing my memory.  I don’t want to lose my place in the book, and I remember the jury instruction sheets could make good bookmarks.  I grab one of them from the floor and skim quickly, just in case there is something critical.  Parking is not compensated, take public transport; don’t disappear from the courthouse because you feel like it; juror compensation will not cover your small drip coffee bill from the courthouse cafeteria, and so on.

Hark!  Apparently there is Wi-Fi in this room.  And I have a smartphone sitting idly in my purse.  Do I really care about the French rationale for the accent on the third to last syllable?

How do you say “jury duty” in Italian?  Whatever happened to Silvio Berlusconi’s seventeen year-old Moroccan girlfriend?  Did I add couscous to my grocery list?  Oops, I think the vet sent me an appointment reminder.  Now, which pet, and which ailment am I preventing?  Must stay calm; breathe, breathe.  Why can’t I find that darn Tidbits from the Dalai Lama app?!

Contributing to the American justice system is exhausting.  But we must all do our part.  Just another seven hours and three minutes.