Can it be? Has yet another year come and gone? Each year I feel more like Sisyphus, the mythical King of Ephyra who, for his sins against the gods, was condemned to roll a huge boulder to the top of a towering hill. Each time he made it to the summit, the boulder would roll back down to the bottom of the hill and he had to begin his eternal task again.
Today things move so fast that, like Sisyphus, I feel as if I’m constantly trying to keep up. As soon as I think I’ve grasped a novel concept it’s replaced with a new, improved version that I must learn, so my eternal task continues.
It’s vital that I do this for the sake of our 14-year-old grandson, the Briteen, who’s in tune to everything new around him. It would be easier if I didn’t have to drag my husband, the Brit, along with me. This man has never understood technology and is frequently out of step with change. That’s not to say he doesn’t try, and that’s the scary part.
We recently acquired new smartphones, which meant paying for a shared data plan. The Brit discovered that he could play all his favorite Dire Straits tunes on his phone and went nuts, using up scads of data in a matter of hours. The Briteen is no less frightening, having used the remainder of the data by watching videos on YouTube. This meant a new lesson for both boys on the meaning of (data) sharing.
Speaking of phones—I still have my 1970s Trimline rotary-dial phone in burnt orange that I had to dial with a pencil to protect my manicure from chipping. This is now part of my “antique” collection, which doesn’t seem fair as it was quite novel and new when I first got it.
Then some guy came up with the clever idea of installing telephones in cars. These new devices were attached with a cord to the car so they really were only “mobile phones” when the car was actually moving.
But wait! Some other guy figured out how to detach the phone from the car so one could walk around with it. The thing was the size of a combat unit walkie-talkie and looked ridiculous clipped to men’s belts or stuffed into women’s handbags.
Then along came the flip-phone. Hello, Capt. James T. Kirk! I loved my little flip-phone and miss it. I still have it, tucked into a drawer and every now and then I take it out and pretend I’m on the Starship Enterprise. Uh oh, my husband wants something. Beam me up, Scottie! Please!
Now I have a smartphone and that’s no misnomer! This little device does practically everything for me, including giving a mini-massage when it’s on vibrate. It has a calendar, navigator, calculator, address and phone book, photo album, videos, games, songs, and more.
And that’s not all! I can now talk to people through my car! Hello, KITT and Knight Rider! Using a techno-voice called Siri, which sounds like some snooty secretary, I tell my car who to call and it does. I then drive along as I chat with them as if they were sitting next to me in the car. (This was terrific until my husband figured out how to use it.)
I remember, not so long ago, how essential it was to keep ample quarters in the cup holder of my car for parking meters and phone calls. I’ll never forget stalling out on the I-10 freeway in Los Angeles during rush hour and having to run uphill at an exit to a convenience store, where I frantically got change to call a tow truck from a telephone booth.
I now can’t remember the last time I saw a phone booth or pay phone. I can’t say I miss them. They were cramped and dirty, and frequently the phone was out of service. I’ve also noticed that those blue emergency call phones have begun to disappear from the sides of our freeways. And yes, I have used those things, too.
One function of my smartphone that I reject out of hand is texting. I write enough emails at home, and phones are for talking. I prefer to speak and interact with people. Besides, I’m not very adept at typing on that tiny screen because I have large hands. Furthermore, my writer’s sensibility means that I type out entire words and punctuated sentences, as I do here on this page. I simply can’t bring myself to send a message that reads: “Where R U?”
Not only can we speak with our families and friends worldwide any time, anywhere, we can now see them and they can see us! My husband loves this, but Briteen has to constantly remind him to sit back from the screen. I can’t tell you how many times I have been on unwanted explorations of the inside of this man’s schnoz through FaceTime.
This brings me to the new techno-terminology. Smartphones and other such modern devices have generated their own vocabulary that once held different meanings.
“Downloading” used to pertain to moving out of a dorm room or upstairs studio apartment. Some things could only be removed through a window!
“Skype” was a prank creature you sent fraternity pledges to hunt for—or was that snipe?
“Bluetooth” used to require a visit to the dentist.
“Texting” was not even a word and “sexting” was a guy in England who looked after a church and its adjacent graveyard. Wait—maybe that was the sexton.
“FaceTime” used to be what I got after 11 p.m. when Mom had a bone to pick about where I had been and why I arrived home so late.
“Hands-free” was what the nuns required of us at all my high school dances, unless we wanted some serious FaceTime!
And a “selfie” was something you did alone in your room. Hint—it was definitely not hands-free!
I’ll admit that the touch screen on my new phone looks very cool, feels so smooth, and is much easier on my nails. However, I refuse to let go of our landline. Some traditions must fiercely be clung to, like Trimline telephones that require a pencil for dialing, not “texting!”
Ariel Waterman will not text you back! You may rotary-dial her via her editor, Shelly Cone, at scone@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Jan 7-14, 2016.
