Weird Al, Motorcycle Maintenance, and My Cell Phone

Because of my children, I know the lyrics to Weird Al songs.  They're in my head and what's more, I can identify with some of them.  Like this from "Amish Paradise".

But we ain't really quaint, so please don't point and stare
We're just technologically impaired

I am technologically impaired.

I purposefully have the simplest cell phone I could find.  And it is a complete mystery to me.  It does what it wants and I have to just hope for the best.

The other night we were at the Village Theater, enjoying a great production of Lost in Yonkers.  Since our kids were home alone (can I tell you how much better my life has become since I have a live in babysitter?), I had my cell phone on in case they needed us.  It was on silent mode in my jacket pocket.  I get fidgety and as I was recrossing my legs and leaning on Adam's shoulder (because why wouldn't I?) I accidentally bumped my phone.

It started talking to me.  "Say a voice command..."  My voice command is,  "Be quiet, phone."

I handed the phone to Adam and he made it behave and handed it back to me but I was wary.  

My phone has a mind of its own.

I was considering my technological impairment and it reminded me of the book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.  I read it in college, when I was home for the summer.  I remember reading it on my parents front porch in the blessed dry heat of a Nevada summer.  I remember thinking I might be going slightly insane while I read it because it's kind of a rambling crazy book.  I remember one part that resonated with me though.

Something about technology being dehumanizing and downright scary.  (I can't remember exactly what the book said, maybe it was the lazy heat, maybe I really was going crazy.)

But technology.

I don't really get it.

I have a tenuous relationship with my computer.

I can blog, I can check my email, I can do google searches, I can put books on hold at the library, I can navigate our school curriculum that is online, I can place Amazon.com orders.

And that's it.

If something goes wrong, I have no recourse but to turn to Adam.  He tries to explain it to me...to teach a girl to fish... and my hands fly over my ears so I can't hear him and my eyes glaze over.

More than once, in frustration, when Adam's explained things to me over and over he'll say, "You're as smart as I am."  In other words, figure it out already.

Well, first of all, I'm NOT as smart as him.  Kicking his trash at Boggle doesn't mean much.

Secondly, I don't want to know.  There's the real problem.

My cell phone sometimes goes to speaker mode because I accidentally push something.  (or just because it wants to)  The other day I was tossing my phone in my bag and it took a picture of my hand.  I have no idea what I did to make it take a picture.  Sometimes I can make it take pictures...if Mark shows me how.

I am dazzled by people that can text on their phones.  It's one thing when teenagers text.  They can also play Mario Kart; they're superstars.  But there are a whole lot of other people that can text too (like every other person in America).

Just not me.

My phone came with a user's manual.

It's still in the plastic cover.

Because I don't want to know.

And because it's bigger than the phone.

Also it may or may not be in Spanish.  I don't know.  Because I haven't opened it.

I am not proud (or convenienced) by any of this but I take a little comfort that it's not my fault, really.

(I love it when I can blame something else...like genes...for my failings.)

My dad who built the house I grew up in, creates art every day of his life, can fix anything and will build a tool if he needs to, is staggered by computers too.

And he calls me for tech support sometimes which is at once a heady and frightening feeling.

And Marianne.  Marianne my wonder sister who can pretty much do everything in the world and do it with panache may or may not know how to work a DVD player.

I feel OK in this kind of company.

And happily, Emma did not inherit my flaw.

For her birthday she got an ipod.

I told her (obviously) we'd wait for Dad to get home before we opened the package and put songs on it and whatever other voodoo is required for music.

Emma gave me a strange look and read the owner's manual and before long had it charged up and full of songs and pumping music into her little ears.

Every mother's dream is to raise a daughter better than herself.