Humble piPod

Quiz: Describe iPod, Blackberry, Napster, Blue Tooth, and ear buds. Time's up! Did you get three or more? Well, goodie gumdrops for you, Smarty Pants.

But if you guessed fruit, sleep, stained dentures or earlobe growths - gimmee five, dude! And in my world, an iPod is a clutch of self-absorbed whales.

The techno-trauma began back when The Lone Ranger yielded prime time to The Jetsons. Everyone nibbles humble pie at times, but many cyber-challenged souls have been pigging out on it. No wonder this nation is fat!

Item: Computer. I was clacking away at work when…BZZZZ! Hmm. More typing. BZZZZ! Ignore, ignore. BZZZZ! (Note: Herein lies a slick editorial move to WE. If I write this article in the plural, WE feel less stupid!)

So we systematically pulled plugs to isolate the source. Was it the speakers? No. Ink-jet printer? No. Dot matrix printer? Scanner, keyboard, mouse, or monitor? Nonononono. For forty minutes we crouched under our desk with cords tangled 'round us like drunken octopi.

Still, BZZZZ! "Excuse me," blurted a customer. We crawled out, cobwebs in our hair and spider husks on our sleeves. He pointed to a shelf. "There's a pager vibrating up there."

What? Oh, of course, hahaha. Pass the pie, will ya?

Item: Cell phone. Eight years into this century we caved in and got a pay-as-you-go for emergencies. Activation was a delight. While a robot woman sang out small talk, we squinted at serial numbers. Dang, they're tiny!

By the time we found our glasses, she'd hung up. Tried again, but we dallied on the buttons, and the broad cut us off. At last, a live human! He asked which plan I wanted. Huh? Plan? Ah, yes. The fine print. More pie, anyone?

Love them coffee shops. While sipping strong, pricey decaf, we can now brandish our cell, stare at the pretty display (oooooh!) and check for non-existent messages. Oh, how wicked phat are we!

The new cell never rings. You see, phone calls squander precious minutes saved for that "emergency" - stalling at the downtown rhino crossing or flailing in the quicksand behind Starbucks. So we don't give out the number. But our cockiness dimmed when a friend said cells can't ring unless they're on!! Alrighty. Any pie left?

Magnifying glass in hand, we added minutes to the account. The same cheery voice mocked our efforts and dumped us into a second menu. Then the little tart had the ballybells to declare that our passcode was wrong. Hey, it came with the phone!

Four more tries, yadda yadda. We hopped online. Blah blah blah. A new passcode would be issued via text messaging. Text what??

Plunging headlong down the deep well of avoidance, we monogrammed all our underwear, cleaned the oven knobs with a needle, and scraped mint flavor off a roll of dental floss. Finally, we gave texting a whirl and, Lo!! Three new messages, three different passcodes.

Already bloated on humble pie, we shlepped back to the store for another helping. The techie tossed aside her comic book and stabbed glitter nails at the phone while pout-flirting with a boy in line. In the time it took to imagine kicking her butt in Latin verb conjugations, she murmured, "Done."

Okay, everyone out of the pool! What is going on? Yes, increasing hordes of aging cerebral neurons may indeed be going AWOL from my firing range.

Or perhaps, the Mouska-eared aura of many a Boomer actually castrates the ionic pentameter, thus reducing the family joules to limp neuterons. Then again, could Boomer Feng Shui be compromised by…(gasp)?? Yes!! The rampant proliferation of elevated toilet seats!

Anyway, I bought a universal remote the size of a skateboard, with buttons as big as CDs and a voice that praises me for bypassing American Gladiators. Hopefully I can delete the Greek subtitles displayed since my cat sat on the old remote - last summer.

Got pie?

Copyright © 2008 Mary Tompsett