Aging Broads and Droids

Hello, fellow techno-boobs. This aging broad succumbed to a wild impulse last week--brought on most likely severe light deprivation over this ghastly winter, and possibly a lack of fine red wine--and bought a Droid Veizon phone. What WAS I thinking of? I only do a few measly texts per week to my "kids", and usually send them off half-baked with wandering letters scattered across the pages, so that they have to call me and gently ask, "What DID you mean, Mom?" So to have this vibrating hunk of electronic gadgetry in my hand that speaks to me in a Martian voice--"DROID"--when I turn it on (hell, that's enough to make me have to use the bathroom and go back for a third cup of rich coffee..), and then offers so many possible apps and functions that it makes my mind wobble.

For example: trying to text my son who is in L.I. visiting his girlfriend, I sent a text saying I'd meet him at the bus station tomorrow after three. Somehow my pronged finger touched the wrong button, or pressed too hard on the right button, and my poor offspring continued to receive the same text ad nauseum. Over and over and over. Did I know how to stop it? No, indeedy do, I did not. I had to turn off the Droid and go fan my face, trying to assemble some semblance of sanity. Perhaps some progesterone would help.

Then I turned it on again and checked into the News and Weather section. An old "Berenstein Bears" book came to mind, when Mama bear (in her oh-so-cute androgynous flowered blue hat) decided the family was watching too much T.V., so they would turn it off for a week. Of course, the predictable ensued: Papa bear was found sneaking down at night for a T.V. hit, or lurking in the electronics section of the Mall, getting his TV fix. When asked how he would know about the weather, Mama pointedly opened the casement window and said, "Stick your hand out, baby," or something to that effect. Did I need to check the weather on my Droid when a quick glance out the window would have shown that it was snowing on the first day of Spring? No, I did not. But I did.

Then I went to the News Stories, containing enough bad news to send me straight for the Single Malt Scotch bottle: Libya in flames (I actually felt we should have gone in about two weeks earlier, but it was good to have the Arab League invite the U.N. in); Japan looking devastated; and more. I have to spread my shaking fingers about ten times on the teensy screen to get the print large enough for this aging broad's eyes, but finally I did it, enjoying reading about death and disaster as I sipped coffee and put off work, yet again.

Will this make me a better person? Probably not. Will my offspring call with barely concealed anger to tell me to stop sending them endless loops of texts from last year? Yes, they will. Will my darling husband patiently try to walk me through the various functions? Yes, he will. Then I will put down the tiny device which rattles me with its alien voice, open a book with pages that spread out, and probably light a candle somewhere. I secretly belong to the world of "Little House on the Prairie" (with, of course, indoor plumbing, advanced dentistry, antibiotics, and perhaps some percocet for joint replacements), and like the idea of reading aloud by candlelight. Only, those cold beds in the attic with the roofing nails tipped white with frost are not something I want to become acquainted with. With regret, I bid Laura goodbye, turn on my Droid again, and think about texting somebody far away who can't be angry with me when the same text appears over...and over....and over again.