Home and deranged
A Techie Tirade
Technology: My generation is so conditioned to it that I’m convinced they could launch a hovercraft with an invisibility shield and our only question would be where the power button was.
We don’t care how it works; we just want to know how to use it.
I was at the breakfast table with my mother this week when the technological generation gap became glaringly apparent. I was sitting on my laptop, perusing my favorite blogs and conducting modern day Facebook espionage when she suddenly scowled and demanded to know if I was on the Internet.
Before I could even devise a response she continued, "If you are, you had better get off because I need to use it.”
We, like every American family since dial-up became obsolete, have wireless. My mother, however, views our household Internet connection as a zero sum game; if I’m online, there’s less Internet for her.
My battle with technology continued this morning when my well-loved iPod armband finally broke. I wasn’t overly dismayed until I realized that my fat little Nano is now shunned by the iPod accessory industry; they’re only manufacturing bands for the newer, skinnier model. Typical.
As much trouble as my various technologies and pocket electronics can sometimes be, I can’t imagine my life without my Crackberry or BBM (BlackBerry Messenger, for you iPhone devotees). I even realized recently that although the ease of modern communication can sometimes drag relationships out unnecessarily (drunk dials can now be drunk texts and tweets, and it’s far too easy to stay abreast of exes’ social activity), I still use it to gage the phases of my various flirtations.
For example, I know I’m over a guy when his name disappears from my Gchat list. I don’t know what algorithm Google uses to discern when someone is no longer one of my “favorites,” but it’s startlingly accurate.
And when I’m in the throes of incipient infatuation, I can count on compulsively, if unintentionally, counting to five, waiting for my Crackberry to emit the red blink that indicates he’s bbm-ing.
It even works for new girl crushes and colleagues. When I upgrade someone’s contact info from their first name and some distinguishing characteristic (“Rachel Hair” or “Charles Gay?”) to their full name, it signifies we’ve forged a real bond.
My high tech relationship gauge indicates I have room for improvements. I was recently scouring my memory for how I knew a Mark Harley before I realized he was filed less conventionally under method of transportation.
But even if my address book is peppered with oddities and my Gchat is in flux, I have high hopes for the future.
Or at least the weekend.