This is slightly dated, but still very true:
I have a hard life. The 21st century is a wonderland of technological wizardry, gadgets and sophistication - and I am technically impaired. The closest I get to the Age of Technology is measuring my attention span in nanoseconds. Technology is supposed to make my life easier – ha!
The modern telephone has rendered me an object of derision in my own home. My children laugh at me because I cannot operate one. Take call waiting. Please. At least half the time somebody – usually me – gets disconnected. It’s not always a bad thing, though. Like when my brother calls hassling me for not returning the compressor I borrowed and I get another call. My technical impairment kicks into action and just like that - my brother is talking to a telemarketer and I’m off the phone!
I try and cover my abject telephonic failure with good manners. My mother taught me it’s impolite to carry on two conversations at once. You can imagine how far that gets me. Mom says she remembers teaching me it’s bad manners to hang up on people. Sorry Mom, I’ve got another call…
Letting the answering machine screen my calls avoids the unpleasantness altogether. But should someone actually leave me a message, I have no idea how to retrieve it. Oddly enough, I don’t get many messages. That might be because instead of hearing “Hi, leave your number at the tone”, my callers hear “what’s this stupid red light for? Why is it blinking? Pause. Honey? How do I know if it’s recording? What? The blinking red light? Shoot! Pause. Hon-ey? How do I turn this idiotic thing off? Honey?”
Nor is my problem limited only to incoming calls. For starters, I can’t remember – does the phone turn on automatically when you pick up? I either pick it up, punch the talk button and hang up on whoever called, or I pick it up, punch the talk button and start dialing into a dead phone.
The only way I know I’ve dialed all the digits of the number is to listen to the little beeps. But holding the phone close enough to my ear to hear the little beeps keeps me from seeing the numbers. Pushing a number and quickly moving the phone to my ear to verify the beep usually results in a poke in the eye with the antenna. My wife means well - she put the emergency room on speed dial. For all the good that does me. To me, speed dial means that wrong number in half the time, a chance to bypass bewilderment and go straight to frustration. I’ve overcome with a very sophisticated voice-activated calling system: I yell to my kids, “Come over here and call your grandmother”!
And what is the deal with remote controls – were they planted here by aliens? I’m capable of learning to operate one in the same way I’m capable of being an Olympic sprinter. Just because I can doesn’t mean I will. My girls could make money selling their friends tickets to watch me change the channel. Step right up, folks – hand the Goofball the remote and watch the fun begin…
For starters, all the darn buttons are jammed so close together my big fat fingers always push at least three at a time. I never get the channel I want. Let’s say I’m going to watch some hockey on channel 14. Here’s how it works:
Mean to push “1”; instead hit 1,2 and 3 together. Nothing happens.
Push “4”; look up at TV to see only the 4 on screen. What?
Start over. Push “1”, get channel 41. Push “4”, look up and see channel 41. Huh? Shoot!
TV jumps to channel 4 (last channel I pushed). What’s going on? Start over.
Push “1”, fat finger the 4& 5 and get channel 15. Shoot! C’mon!
S-t-a-r-t o-v-e-r.
Wait – I’m on channel 15. I’ll just push the down channel arrow to get to 14. Volume decreases. Oops, wrong arrow! Push the other channel arrow. Nothing happens. What is the deal? Slap remote against palm.
Garage door opens. Arrrrrg! Throw remote at wall. Help!
Charming and Delightful arrives, smiles sweetly, and switches to Home and Garden channel. Shoot.
Asks me where I’m going.
Nowhere fast. I have to go try and make a phone call…
No comments:
Post a Comment