The World Has Become Too Complicated for Me
I do not like my new cell phone. I plan to either take it back to Target or put it under the wheel of the car before I back out.
I can remember when no one had to learn how to use a telephone. You’d pick up the receiver and dial a number, pulling the dial to the right and letting it go. You’re four when you see your big brother do that, and you instantly catch on. Later, when dials were replaced by buttons with numbers on them, the learning curve wasn’t too steep for me. I caught on to that right away.
Now, the whole world is changing faster than it took that rotary dial to fall back into place. And the smarter my phone gets, the more my brain cells deteriorate. There is a direct correlation between the birth of new electronic devices and the death of synapse connections in my central nervous system.
I liked the cell phone that I laundered last night. It had buttons that push. I could press left and right and up and down and feel the tactile response. I could text with my thumbs almost a quarter as fast as my granddaughter, and I never type u for you. This new one has no tactile feedback. It wants me to slide my fingers across a screen.
I also liked the cell phone that I laundered before I laundered this one, but that was months ago and I am no longer mourning it. See, I can move on, when practicality requires it.
The second time I left a cell phone in my pocket and ran it through the laundry (no, not this time, this is the third) I bought a tiny sd card, put all my contact info on it, and thought I was ensuring that I would not have this aggravation again. I put the sd card safely away, and I even remembered where I put it. It turns out the sd card is not something that I can slide into the new cell phone and lo and behold, there are all my people. No, the contact info is on the sd card, but either my new phone does not know how to sort it back into usable data or I don’t.
So if you, gentle reader, are one of the people inadvertently washed away, you might send me a text with your name included, and I will start to rebuild my data.
If the world continues to change at this pace, I won’t even know how to get up on the right side of the bed by next winter. Because there will actually be a wrong side. Or maybe there already is.
We all do that? Really?
.
Oh Jeez we’ve done it again.
See previous post here.
Last night it was Vincenzo’s. The spinach ravioli there is wonderful, and the music is not too loud for conversation. A very pleasant and comfortable place for dinner. We’ve just returned from about two weeks in Florida (eating in restaurants for two weeks, so naturally we came home and had to eat out again). This time it was a neighborhood (sort of) Italian locally-owned restaurant.
So when we made our unhappy discovery, I went to Richard, the impeccably dressed owner, and said, I hope you remember us. He smiled and said yes, of course. And that we’ve been coming here for 20 years … He nodded, yes … And we live close by … He didn’t know that I’m sure but he smiled and nodded … and my husband left his wallet at home, and I never carry a purse, or almost never …
He laughed, said no problem, we all do that. Richard is always gracious.
We offered to come back before they close at midnight, and he said that would be fine, or we could just call in a credit card when we get home. That’s what we did.
We were too embarrassed to ask for our senior discount, so we just said add a 20% tip for the waitress.
Someone, I forget who, said Old age ain’t for sissies. If I were younger, I would remember who said that.
Florida Freeways
..
They stand, patient sentinels, dressed to pass muster
Never stepping out of line (unless forced by some disaster)
Miles and miles of unbroken lines unnaturally arranged in rows
Tall they stand, never leaning over to scratch an ankle or rest a foot
Surely bored by the unceasing sight of cars all day and all night,
All going in the same direction, year after year.
Proud they stand, but they’re never heard to say, We were here first.
In Florida storms, they lean into one another over I-95 and whisper
Perhaps repeating the tales of their ancestors, cut by the Spaniards to make bayonets.
Tears in Palm Beach
In West Palm Beach, the morning is warm.
Too warm, some say.
I walk around the lake and fall painfully in love with the Muscovy ducks.
Four Muscovies rest under a bottle brush tree.
In the shallows of the shore, a red-faced Muscovy swims with seven black chicks trimmed in yellow
and one yellow chick trimmed in black.
An egret stands apparently on the water.
But with my cynical nature I suspect there is a rock just under the surface.
Or a stump. A stump would do.
The chicks scamper around their mother on the shore
while someone’s grandchild tosses pinches of white bread into the water.
There are tears. There are tears.
.
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