Mash Here

When my ex emails the kids or me an attachment or webpage, typically something having to do with the Georgia Bulldogs or conservative politics, he writes "mash here" just above the link. Based on that, it's pretty obvious he has the gist of how computers work but not the nuance. Of course, nuance has never been his strong suit.

Technology wasn't a childhood requirement for my generation, unless you count the record player, the transistor radio, or the hula hoop. We did have a television when I was a little girl; a black and white behemoth, all guts and no screen to speak of. There were two TV stations in my home town of Savannah, Georgia: Channels 3 and 11, with the Star Spangled Banner signaling the end of everything at 11:30 PM.

I remember the night before my wedding, sleeping with my hair wrapped around gigantic rollers in one of those old bonnet hair dryers, hoping I wouldn't suffocate or electrocute myself on my hot air pillow. From that point on, the gadgets for making my life easier seemed to appear exponentially in quick succession: the microwave, the blow drier, the curling iron, the straightening iron, the portable phone, the bag phone, the boom box, the salad shooter, the Snoopy Snow Cone Machine, the Clapper, and lastly but not leastly, the Veg-o-Matic and the Flobee.

I also recall the short but important role the CB radio played in most everyone's driving life: "Breaker, breaker, Good Buddy, is that a Smokey the Bear up ahead?" How archaic that seems now, but, at the time, we were enthralled with the feeling of community we shared with those eighteen wheelers. I bet the trucking industry was pretty happy when that fad met its inevitable demise.

Little did we know what was just around that Silicon Valley corner. The microcomputer, as it was originally called, arrived, for me, via the Apple IIe, the first computer purchased for our local schools. I do have to say that 90% of everything I understand about technology came from a kid, either my own or one I taught.

I now understand that the Apple IIe was just the beginning of the seismic shift that would change everything. I remember my Uncle Walter regaling us at a family gathering with his opinion that computers would never last. Of course they did, while he, sadly, did not.

Now we have Blackberries and cell phones and IPhones and Wiis and apps and gmail (yahoo is no longer cool, I hear). We have twitter and tweets and texting and sexting and Facebook and Linkedin and Plaxo. I don't even know what half of that stuff is, except for the sexting part, which I figured out.

I am, however, better off than some of my cronies. The ex I mentioned above admonishes anyone who touches his computer "not to lose his Google." My friend, Allison, can handle most of the intricacies of her cell phone. She just can't ever find it. Her daughter tells a great story about Allison asking her to call her so the ringing could help her locate her phone. As soon as the number was dialed, Allison's bra started burbling a merry tune. Apparently housing your cell phone in your bra isn't all that helpful if you can't remember, or even worse, tell it's there.

Bottom line, I can feel myself beginning to lose touch with the newer innovations. Like lots of people, I just don't get twitter and why anyone would want to send or receive a tweet. The same could probably be said for why anyone would want to write or read this blog. As for Wii, I lost all respect for that thingamajig when I saw friends hurling themselves through their living room pretending to bowl.

I would say that Wii won't last but I don't want to end up like Uncle Walter.

Neighborhood Crazy Lady

We all know about the Neighborhood Crazy Lady. She's usually older; she wears her pajamas a lot, maybe a housecoat. She's particularly interested in what everyone else on the block is doing. You see her beady eye peering through the blinds; she seems to linger too long when she takes out the garbage (sometimes the can is actually empty); she knows too much about that strange dog in your driveway.

One thing I never understood about the Neighborhood Crazy Lady was that she probably knew that's what she was but didn't care. I understand that now because I am my condo association's very own Neighborhood Crazy Lady and I know it but don't care.

I live in a beautiful, not to mention historic, old building in midtown Atlanta. Its primary claim to fame is that Margaret Mitchell lived here after she wrote Gone with the Wind. Although I'm not as old as Margaret (Peggy to those of us a tad obsessed with her) would have been had she survived crossing Peachtree Street in 1949 (certainly something all Atlantans can identify with),I am currently the oldest person living in my building. Most of the other owners are just children in their mid-thirties to early fifties. I am definitely the Hag.

My friend, Susan, who lives directly below me, could be considered the Hag Apparent or the Hag in Waiting. While not nearly as old or crazy as I, she definitely has potential. One afternoon as I was looking out my window to see the final departure of a man who had certainly warranted lots of watching over the previous months, Susan called me. "Did you see him?" she asked. "How did you know I was looking?" I responded. "Because I heard your big old feet running to the window every time I headed toward MY window." Yep, the girl has real potential.

But that's not the only evidence of my commitment to being the Nosy Nora of Piedmont Avenue. There's a handsome attorney who just goes ahead and waves every afternoon when he arrives home from work. He knows I'll be at my kitchen window fixing my early bird dinner at exactly the same time every day, and I've seldom disappointed him. Then there's the neighbor around the corner who keeps his blinds closed ALL THE TIME and the owners who are NEVER THERE. What's up with that? I only go to Condo Association meetings if they are in units I haven't visited before or if something really juicy is going on. If there's an open house for a condo that's up for sale, I'm there bright and early Sunday afternoon, walking through rooms and checking out storage space. And, I'm definitely the one to yell out the window if people are making a ruckus in the outdoor common area at a ridiculously late hour, say 8:30 PM.

So, there you have it. I've gone from being the party girl who could always be counted on to be the loudest person at any gathering early or late, the woman too busy to worry about someone else's arrest warrant, to the lady who stays in her PJ's all weekend pretending to work on her computer and eating tuna out of the can. The fact that her desk placement affords the best view to the most units in the building, along with maximum ingress and egress routes, is just a coincidence. Excuse me while I take out the garbage.

Old Bag

I'm a second-grade teacher and I really like it, but I always feel sorry for my students at the beginning of the year. All of the other female second-grade teachers at my school are young and pretty and wear trendy clothes. In the fall and spring the other teachers wear cute little sundresses and fancy flip flops. They aren't allowed to wear regular flip flops because those are deemed unprofessional by our superintendent. Also, the sundresses have to have straps so that a child in need of comfort won't accidentally expose parts of the teacher the superintendent has deemed as unprofessional to show. However, one of my work daughters, which is what I call my young co-worker friends, has been known to wear a bolero sweater over her strapless sundress. So far, so good on that. In the winter months, my cohorts wear sweater dresses with high-heeled boots or leggings.

My plan for work wear is somewhat different. In the fall and spring, I wear knit tops and capri pants, which surprisingly, our superintendent currently considers professional. With that I wear sensible sandals that cover most of my wrinkled feet. In the winter months, I wear the same knit tops with cargo pants, which I have found to be the same pants as capri pants, only longer. I have even discovered cargo pants that have a little tab which allows the pants to be rolled up into capri pants, therefore cutting in half my work wardrobe budget. I have, however, had a hard time rolling both legs up to the same height, which sometimes causes a half capri/half cargo effect. In the winter, I wear either black, blue, or brown trouser shoes I bought about 15 years ago. They still look good, although one of my work daughters makes constant catty remarks about them. I think that's because her feet are hurting in her high heeled boots. Finally, if it gets really cold, I have some corduroy pants I wear along with socks I buy at Publix. I also have a couple of hoodies I wear, which I bought at Macy's. I had a great gray hoodie I used to wear with everything, as gray does pretty much go with everything, but my friend, Allison, who isn't all that great a dresser herself, made me throw it away. I showed her, though. It's in the trunk of my car in case I ever need it.

Back to my poor students. I can just imagine, during the summer preceding second grade when the class lists go out, a child asking his mom or dad, "Dr. Mayo, is she the one with the long blond hair and the flip flops? No? Well, is she the one with the long dark hair and the pretty boots? No? Well, is she a real doctor then, the kind who gives shots? No? Well thank goodness for that."

So, with the relief that I'm not a real doctor who gives shots, the kids seem to forgive me for the all-season knitwear and the shoes twice their age. They even tell me I'm pretty sometimes, but that's usually when they are in trouble. I did have a student a couple of years ago who, during story time, would push the skin around on top of my foot. I have to say that irritated me a bit.

Right on a Wrong-Way Street

I'm definitely not losing it. Driving the wrong way down a one way street is such stereotypical behavior for senior citizens, which, by the way, I'm not. Remember, 60 is the new 59 and 1/2.

I was overtaxed and over burdened. I had a lot on my mind. I wasn't used to this way home because, being overtaxed and over burdened, I'd missed my exit, which, being Atlanta, I think they moved. The stupid driver in front of me had his stupid turn signal on, making me move into his lane because that's what I wanted to do - turn. Then he (I'm pretty sure it was a he, being that he did something so stupid) wimped out and carried on, going straight ahead.

So, apparently, I turned onto a one-way street that just happened to be going the one way I wasn't going. And, adding to the problem was that it wasn't just a little street. It was a big old four-lane boulevard with all lanes looking at me as I carefully made my way, both hands on the wheel at 11 and 3, in the far right lane, which turned out to be the far left lane going the other way.

The happy part of this story is I'm still here. The sad part is nobody shot me the bird, nobody screamed obscenities, nobody feigned a near-death collision. One person did politely tap on his horn and point, not with his bird finger, the way I was supposed to be going.

But I don't think the other drivers' politeness was because they were saying something like, "Oh look at the old lady driving the wrong way, I don't want to scare her and make her have a heart attack" or anything like that. I think it's because they were so impressed by the fact that I was driving so carefully, not to mention slowly, up the down-only Juniper Street in Atlanta, during rush hour traffic.