I’d never really thought of myself as a technophobe until my friends started trying to suck me into their digital world.
Here, borrow this movie.
I don’t have a DVD player.
Text me your address.
I don’t text.
Be my friend on MySpace and Facebook. Join my network on LinkedIn.
I don’t use those sites.
I’ve had enough of these conversations in the last two months to make me wonder. I’d never consciously avoided technology. (With the exception of the DVD player. I can’t get one of those because my brother told me I had to. Don’t ask.) I just never prioritized it. And with the advent of the new frugal Kelly a few years back, a lot of these things just seemed like expenses I could live without. Then I met Maggie.
Back in July Maggie bet me $10 that I’d be “texting like a fiend” before we left Georgia. I cracked eleven days later. Not long after that she invited me to join her professional network on LinkedIn. It didn’t seem intelligent to turn down an opportunity to make more business connections. Then she sent me an invitation to be her friend on Facebook. How can you say no to being someone’s friend?
And that’s how they get you. I spent a large portion of yesterday waiting for a guy to come set up high-speed internet in my apartment . . . a first for me. Of course, since the internet people are connected to the cable people, he didn’t show up when he was supposed to. For one brief moment I thought maybe I should just cancel the whole thing. Then I realized that my Facebook profile really needs some work and I found myself demanding that they come as soon as possible.
I’m not quite positive how this all happened, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to blame Maggie. If you have any other ideas, feel free to text me.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Bunker Life
Someone has it in for me. Actually, not someone, but rather something, an entity, a group larger than mere people. It’s the network. And no one can hear me now.
Now that I’m back in Georgia and exploring the local peoples and customs, I’ve discovered one thing I hate: my apartment. Now, normally this would send me into all sorts of emotional upheaval, but the greatest joy of my current life is my newfound mantra: it’s only for six months. (Make that less than five now, but who’s counting?) The apartment itself isn’t all bad. Not necessarily what I would design, and there’s no window over the kitchen sink, but I’ve lived in worse. There is, however, one major problem with it: location.
Here’s the deal. In my mind, a first-floor apartment means the apartment is on the same level as the parking lot. a.k.a. no stairs. Apparently, this definition is not universal. I discovered on moving day that to reach my first-floor apartment, I must go down a flight of stairs. Where I come from they call that a basement, but the clever marketers that leased me this place probably know that no one ever opts for a basement apartment. The building is on a hillside, so for anyone entering from the woods, my floor is the first. But, if all goes according to plan, no one is coming in from the woods.
The location isn’t necessarily a problem in and of itself; I really don’t care if I have to climb stairs to leave. What I do mind are the sorts of things that live in basements. Mainly things they eat on Fear Factor. I thought I was pretty much over my bug-o-phobia, but alas I had not been truly tested in quite some time. At least they haven’t carried me off in my sleep.
And, as if the bugs weren’t bad enough, I have no cell service. I take that back. I have found one spot that I can sit in, and, as long as I don’t move my head at all, I can get a call out. A call that will have horrible reception. A call that will be lost within no more than 30 minutes. I’d never realized how much I walk around, or even move my head, while I’m on the phone. I dare you to try to sit perfectly still the next time you’re on the phone. Go ahead: try it. Makes you cranky, doesn’t it?
So, for everyone who thinks I’m ignoring their calls: I am. I make as many calls as I can while I’m not at home. I’ve had quite a few conversations in my parked car. But the joy of talking on the phone is (temporarily) gone. I’m going to call my cell provider today. I don’t have much hope that they can help, but I’ve got to try. I just have to make sure to get the call out before I go home.
Now that I’m back in Georgia and exploring the local peoples and customs, I’ve discovered one thing I hate: my apartment. Now, normally this would send me into all sorts of emotional upheaval, but the greatest joy of my current life is my newfound mantra: it’s only for six months. (Make that less than five now, but who’s counting?) The apartment itself isn’t all bad. Not necessarily what I would design, and there’s no window over the kitchen sink, but I’ve lived in worse. There is, however, one major problem with it: location.
Here’s the deal. In my mind, a first-floor apartment means the apartment is on the same level as the parking lot. a.k.a. no stairs. Apparently, this definition is not universal. I discovered on moving day that to reach my first-floor apartment, I must go down a flight of stairs. Where I come from they call that a basement, but the clever marketers that leased me this place probably know that no one ever opts for a basement apartment. The building is on a hillside, so for anyone entering from the woods, my floor is the first. But, if all goes according to plan, no one is coming in from the woods.
The location isn’t necessarily a problem in and of itself; I really don’t care if I have to climb stairs to leave. What I do mind are the sorts of things that live in basements. Mainly things they eat on Fear Factor. I thought I was pretty much over my bug-o-phobia, but alas I had not been truly tested in quite some time. At least they haven’t carried me off in my sleep.
And, as if the bugs weren’t bad enough, I have no cell service. I take that back. I have found one spot that I can sit in, and, as long as I don’t move my head at all, I can get a call out. A call that will have horrible reception. A call that will be lost within no more than 30 minutes. I’d never realized how much I walk around, or even move my head, while I’m on the phone. I dare you to try to sit perfectly still the next time you’re on the phone. Go ahead: try it. Makes you cranky, doesn’t it?
So, for everyone who thinks I’m ignoring their calls: I am. I make as many calls as I can while I’m not at home. I’ve had quite a few conversations in my parked car. But the joy of talking on the phone is (temporarily) gone. I’m going to call my cell provider today. I don’t have much hope that they can help, but I’ve got to try. I just have to make sure to get the call out before I go home.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)