RE: (Humor) No Iphone, Iswear...technology you can almost laugh about

No Iphone, Iswear

When our family sets out to enjoy some scheduled spontaneity, it seems the only way “normal” works its way into the experience is if we watch other families on their outings.

Witness our recent adventure when we all got together for a bit of revelry marking our birthdays.
There we were, waiting outside an eatery, having a good ‘ole time engaging in the laugh riot that ensues as we torture each other with the usual conversational fodder.

This non all-inclusive list of topics consists of: our advancing age, “what were we thinking?” presents, and a wealth of stories with embarrassing moments that are sure to mortify the subject.

Just about the time our table was ready a young woman advanced upon us, ostensibly seeking solace as she set forth her tale of woe.

It seems her cousin had set her Iphone on the bench, over yonder, and though she didn’t think it was the case, she was wondering if we had seen it.

We assured her that we had not seen such an item. (Heck, truth be told, we hadn’t even seen the bench.)

We made the appropriate sympathetic noises one would make when a stranger reports the loss of something and, thinking we were done, we made our way over to the front of the establishment.

Then it got ugly. Real ugly.

Immediately the launch sequence was initiated for one of my least favorite spectator sports – the public scene.

I distinctly noted her glowing red eyes, octaval voice drop, and six-inch height increase as she tuned up for an orchestral rant.

The kicked-up-a-notch-shrew told us it sure was funny we hadn’t seen her iphone since we were talking about it when she walked up, to which I cleverly interjected, “I what?!”
[By the way, that play on words thing may work well in columns, comedy clubs, and even congregations, but not with an angry, unhinged fruitloop.]

Oh, sure, that’s right. Just call me Ma Barker. That’s what me and my younguns do for kicks on the weekends. We travel to area restaurants, absconding with folks’ iphones, making a passel of trouble for ‘em.

As an aside to my aside, the she-devil was wearing a particularly fetching frock, which did not even hint at the unpleasantries to follow.

Timing being everything, it was at this juncture that the bistro maître d (that’s fancy talk for “person holding menus”) called our party’s name. A good thing too, because I was just getting ready to helpfully offer “Young Yeller” a southernmost locale where she might seek out her missing Iphone.

After such a bizarre interlude we somnambulated our way toward our table, shaking off the road dust and our odd experience. We even managed to laugh about the incident as we sat down to consult our “quick pick” 30-page menu.

I laughingly advised my family, from now on I was going to ask everyone, “Want to see my new Iphone?”

By the end of the meal we’d all but forgotten about our rendezvous with crazy in the form of “America’s Next Top Possessed Model.” We were excitedly contemplating the embarrassing birthday festivities at the end of our meal, having long been the hallmark of restaurant merrymaking; singing, clapping, and lighting a delicious confection on fire.

It was at this moment our server returned, inquiring as to whether we had an Iphone. I was aghast, affronted, and apoplectic, in addition to other words not beginning with an “a.”
Heretofore my ire had remained a stowaway on my skiff of outrage, but it now launched on the behemoth ship known as, the U.S.S. Incensement.

I took a shallow breath and ahoy, matey, full steam ahead!

“Oh, for pete’s sake. We don’t have a flipping Iphone. This is ridiculous. Did that girl actually get you to ask us that? She is one cuckoo short on One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, let me tell you. How about she reels it in and takes responsibility for whatever happened and then she can quit harassing us?”

Our nonplussed waitress looked at me in growing bafflement, commenting matter-of-factly, “Oh, yeah, I heard someone lost their phone. No, no, no. I was asking because if you have an Iphone there’s an app you can access to get a restaurant coupon.”

Chagrined, my response was vintage Gilda Radner, via that inimitable “Queen of the Misunderstandings” character, Emily Litella, from “Saturday Night Live.”

“Oh.” [Insert long pause.] “Never mind.”

Re: Humor Column About Facebook...Tag! You're It!

September 5, 2010

Tag! You’re It!

So, I’ve stepped in it again and this time what I mean by “it” is the ubiquitous package we call technology. Namely, the “technology” of which I speak – and I have spoken on this topic once before – is Facebook.

I possess just enough knowledge to be dangerous about a variety of things, social networking being one of these. While I’m not particularly knowledgeable about Facebook, generally, I am even less knowledgeable, specifically, about the related etiquette. Evidently.

Having said that, Facebook does make some things easier; like uploading photographs. You can upload pictures and tag them over to your friends in less time than it takes to mop the kitchen floor. While I do understand the concept that is the photographic equivalent of yelling, “You’re It!” when tagging pictures of people who are IN the images, I figured why couldn’t you expand upon that feature and transfer snapshots to interested third parties? (Don’t get ahead of me now.)

For instance, if I took a particularly stunning picture of a gal pal of mine, why wouldn’t her significant other not enjoy seeing that picture, let alone own this treasure by virtue of his Facebook account? Well, let me tell you why.

I’m sitting at my computer one morning, creating a new album and tagging away, as I slurp down my French blend cup of joe. Suddenly, my daughter materializes in my office demanding, “Did you post a picture of me on Facebook?” to which I replied, “I just did it. How in the world did you know?” as I simultaneously notice she has her cell phone in her hand.

(As an aside, another thing I learned is that you can set-up your Facebook account, so that when anyone does tag you, you will receive an immediate cell phone notification. That is some handy information to have.)

I did not sense danger and, in fact, proudly proclaimed my actions by burbling, “I did! I took these great pictures of your dad and I thought you’d get a kick out of them.” Her horrified look told the story, but it’s really only the beginning of the story because what I had entitled the album was, “Photos of My Hot Male Model.”

My daughter ran to her computer, in full damage control mode, as I struggled to keep the bile from rising as a result of what I now realized may not have been one of my swiftest moves. My offspring’s rhetorical scream of, “How could you do this to me?!” showed me the folly of my ways.

There, in glaring font, illustrated with posed pictures of her father, but appearing on her home page – and later the public newsfeed – was the album entitled, “Photos of My Hot Male Model.” Oh, no! Even I got the awkward factor on that one.

In case you don’t know this, when someone has tagged you in this way, there’s not much you can really do about it because goodness knows we tried. It’s worse than a typo in some obscure Internet posting that keeps popping up like an embarrassingly persistent former boyfriend. She posted a note of clarification on her wall, along with a public comment to me saying, “Really Mom?!” and I shamefacedly posted back that I would put myself in a corner.

The lesson on tagging someone who isn’t in the picture also applies to pointing and staring. Don’t do it, not only because it’s impolite, but these types of pursuits tend to invite the kind of attention you just can’t Face(book).