Pressing Matters

Last weekend I was sick. As nature dictates when a crisis occurs, the dryer broke, the dishwasher turned sulky, and the oven raced from 0 to 5000 degrees like it was on the appliance Autobahn. I should have expected it. Nothing in the house is the same when the Mama is out of sorts.

I realize now that I should have taken time to explain to the appliances that I was planning on taking sick leave, but who knew? That sort of thing is not built into the job description, and besides, appliances are too sensitive these days anyway. Who can deal with a microwave that flings its turntable across the kitchen like a Frisbee when you push the wrong button?

When I was a kid, Mama’s washing machine could jog around the back porch with a load of delicates like it was the pajama marathon and be ready to take on sheets and towels without even stopping to empty the lint trap. On the other hand, my washing machine is very particular about how things are packed and when and where extracurricular items like, say, laundry detergent or fabric softener are added. And don’t even think about taking it for a spin unless you’ve distributed your blouses carefully in a crisscross design. One shoulder pad out of place and you’re unbalanced. Then the thing buzzes in an insulting manner like the wrong answer signal on Jeopardy.

I can remember back in the precomputerzoic era, Mama peacefully ironing basketfuls of clothes while we watched Password together on our black and white television set. Our clothes were fresh and clean back then, hanging neatly pressed in rows in our closets. These days I can Twitter on my cell phone and catch up with movie reviews on my laptop while I yank the clothes out of the dryer and toss them at the kids to put away.

But just now I’m huddled in front of a screen full of static showing on my television that needs a digital converter, my computer won’t load You Tube because my dial up connection is flaky, and I’m wearing my last clean pair of jeans because even with special delivery, the part I bought on e-Bay to fix my dryer won’t arrive until tomorrow. My damp, wrinkled clothes are hanging like monkeys in a rain forest from shower curtain rods, unused televsion antennae, and taller family members.

I wish Mom were here. She could show me how to turn on the iron.

Social Networking for Dummies--Just Kidding

Recently I decided to reach out and embrace the infinite possibilities offered by the information superhighway that gathers the whole world into one unified neighborhood.

I now have no friends on five different social networking sites.

I find that if you’re socially inept on one site, it’s not a stretch to frighten away potential buddies on all the others. Sort of an example in the “learn by doing” school of thought. I’m a Twit on Twitter and I’m more of a Plucker than a Plurker.

One problem could be that the Help functions are written for people that understand, well, written instructions. I’m more of a seek and destroy kind of gal.

With diligence and great effort, I managed to create five different passwords known only in a foreign country by someone named Achmed, and post an e-mail to a foreign government stating my intentions to become their comrade. That one could explain the unmarked helicopter that’s been circling my house for the past few days.

Since no one sporting a uniform and badge showed up at my door to halt my efforts, I decided to try again.

I was slaving away over a hot FaceBook, trying to figure out whether I could import and export without seeking permission from the Federal Trade Commission when my son, resplendent with all the wisdom that twenty years of free meals my kitchen can offer, strolled past the computer.

“You’re not going to put that picture up, are you?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because you’ll never get any friends. And if MY friends see it, I’ll have to sell the computer and take up weasel wrestling in Wyoming.”

“Very funny. How’s this one?” I admired a lovely shot of me squinting into the sun and pointing to a mountain in the standard “Here I am by a landmark” pose. I’m not sure what I’m wearing, but it was probably very stylish at the time.

“Fine if you want to attract every loser in the universe.”

I brightened. “I haven’t already?”

“Mom. You want to be careful about the image you project to the world.”

“What image should I project?”

“One that says “Not Ryan’s Mom.”

“Okay, how about this one?” I clicked on a thumbnail picture that sprang into a full-screen image. The picture showed me grinning happily cheek-to-cheek with a handsomely decorated papier mache goat. We were both wearing pink clothes and bemused expressions.

“That’s good. Cut out the one on the left.”

“But that’s me.”

“Well, you don’t want to embarrass the goat.”

I studied the picture. The goat smiled slyly.

With sudden decisiveness I punched the button that would display the picture for all the world to see.

Son One glanced at the screen. “You might want to change the caption.”

“Why?” I asked, trying to find a spot on my trifocals that would read the nanoprint onscreen.

“You left the caption from the old picture. It says, “My high school reunion was a big hit. Here I am standing with my old math teacher.”

I grinned and admired the photo again. “I think I'll leave it. I look like a cool kid standing next to that old goat.”