Gadget And Technology

Posts Tagged ‘Technological’

A NEW BEGINNING … I’m moving in the driver’s seat and pull the car door, so we have privacy. Drawing a deep breath and kicked me, know how this guy tick. Can I turn the piece of paper folded several times recalls the construction of paper used to play football at school in the triangles. You know, in which the hands act as goal posts and threw it in the triangle on the desktop with the times,  high,  fingers.

The firm and the family feels solid in your hand. In order to develop. I’m soon sitting behind what looks like a huge New York Times rice paper with some brief instructions in 10 languages! Drawing a deep breath.

In fact, I just wanted a simple clock, they could me the time and a family tick, tick, tick … Father and son walk in his old familiar pattern. I look down on the number of electrons in the wrist as a sign of his little beady eyes on me, a little mockingly. I feel like I have to do.
I am on the inside of the car flip and stretch your arms to the User of rice paper accordion-jumbo  New York Times to expand from 10 languages.  I just wanted a clock that old whispering  I, my wrist. He smiled at me with illuminating figures. I think I see him smile. I feel a ping of regret in my negative thoughts for a while and I should be better in my new adopted. I look to help in the manual and try to find the English version. How to find English words and appears straightforward: the usual  began with the new Timex, Indigo, laser rapid, accurate to 1/100th of a second to see  a very important role in the tip of the giant rice paper. I am pleased, glasses for fine print and go one step.  Adjustment time

As time goes by … We begin to know each other, me and my car in the parking lot at Clock Superstore under the strange light pink lighting. I move through the instructions on the search for the hidden buttons and switch between screens. Finally, I can set the time and even hidden stopwatch function that can be helpful to sleep with children.
I’m starting to move into my new friend, try burning and the laughter that I escaped sometimes lack of instructions or a button on the dark side to ignore. At one point, the chronograph function, the better of us and we get stuck in the extended mode, the sadistic-layers is feared to other screens.
The second type is now mad accumulation of 1/100th of a second! It moves at a breakneck speed that the landscape beyond his little genius in the world, see problem after problem with no end. I hear panting, beads of sweat dripping from his face digital bit, the ride of your life! I try to save him, fingers clumsy with all the side buttons, holding the notice to the evidence that could free him.

I try to help, really! Spring treatment of torture Chronograph groundwater. I am trying to do a better reality, where you get inhaled. Looked helplessly on my wrist. Miro in width, the number of eyes and blink as little exhausted. We must now add hectic 1/100th ‘s a second high-speed always here! He looks at me pleadingly, my eyes search for relief. I understand that you are using any kind, do any kind. It seems that crying little digital voice,  Help help for the love of God, do something to the instructions in front of him, in 10 different languages!
UPI time to return it back to him and tried to show compassion in his eyes, did not want to miss him. Finally, after our long look, we can not take, we both know we need reinforcements. I lift, take the rice paper, break open the driver’s door and head to the main entrance of the Sports Authority. I sprint across the parking lot, dodging cars towing instructions Accordion me like a candle in the wind. I can fly through the large windows at the front of the store.

Once in the store, I mentally congratulate you once again for the friendship with advanced technology and set up quickly to the record. I hope not too disappointed in myself that I defend my little boy dynamic and threw the body on the counter.

TIME reinforcements …
Once there, carefully relay our unfortunate story of hope and possible imprisonment. With my head, I describe how I to a new parent company, as much hope for us and how our history has taken place tries in our current situation. I confess my weakness, the ultimate failure as a foster parent again and I was wondering if you trust me again now. I wonder if I will be banned from future purchases – on the black list as irresponsible, incompetent and unworthy of technology adoption in the future.

We find ourselves in our respective sides of the recording, which heads down to the click, flash, see the exhausted body. Digital pleading eyes turn to us for the signs of hope in a  two – face to face ‘better – the -.  A kind of smooth arrangements for the visit of Guy and relaxed, he nods warmly as relay my story a. The conciliatory tone.  Mm-hm  and  Uh-huh woven  with calm compassion and mercy. I am relieved it feels like maybe you have seen.
Carefully collect my little man deep into his face, his study. I see how my boy has digital – her hands are smart and relaxed care, your breath and even his keen eyes and knowledge. I’m relieved again, I think it will be good. I’m sure this guy can help.

I see my Clock facilitated also stated that, banda her biological clock of the boys relax in the hot box finger. I look at the couple pushed around and realize that these two brothers are foreigners. They appear in a mute alien aliens secret language to understand that only two of them.

The type of belt; a few buttons on the side and wait patiently for the reactions of the square face. I heard a noise or two in their reply, but are not accidental. They are now more coordinated, empty despair that fills his voice shortly before the car. Stay for a while, the two navigate the menus and layers gently guide my boy from his hell, experience, chronograph race.

The type of rice paper fund request from time to time, but seems to know exactly where you make your next train. Quiet zeros to the right of the English language and the earth in the next step. Finally, raise your head and gently slide the clock on my page register disadvantages.

Here ya go.  Offers, he said the little man is sleeping in the palm.

Copyright (c) 2010 Suzanne Wells

THE BEGINNING OF TIME…
I slip him on my wrist. He blinks his eyes open and the current time is flicking proudly from his face. He seems to have a little Mona Lisa smile on the edges of his squared off lips. I can see his breath and cadence are comfortingly regular and he seems to sit a little deeper in his Indigo glow bed. He slips nicely onto my wrist and I’m glad I’m getting used to him. I thank the checkout guy and bow my head with reverence for his Technological prowess. Humbled by the entire ordeal I silently vow to smile more brightly and with more authenticity for the next technologically advanced checkout guy I meet.

An awkward silence hangs in the air between us. I nervously collect the 8 foot rice paper and make a ridiculous attempt to restore it back into its original finger football, triangle form. It ends up looking like an origami nightmare and I shove it into my purse. I hurry to the door as I catch the image of its crumpled body peeking out from my purse. Its wrinkled head seems to plead for restoration.

TIME FOR RENEWAL…
The paper guy is a mangled mess- all legs and hands sticking out at odd angles from his crumpled, battered body. The sting of inadequacy percolates up from somewhere deep inside me. Weirdly, I start thinking about paper Mache casts and how one could mend little broken paper bones. I remember his perfect triangular body and think of ways I could heal him. I wonder if yoga can help with the folding, if only I could find a soft, fluid paper-only yoga class that was gentle and kind enough for a trauma survivor.

On my way to the car I tuck the disorganized jumbled paper a little deeper into my bag so he won’t get cold. As I drive home, I ruminate on my dilemma: can eight-foot rice paper ever really return to its innocent babyhood of finger football games? I wonder: will he hold fond memories of how he fit so snugly into the recessed plastic triangle bed of his brothers watch box or be forever resentful for the way in which we failed him?

TIME TO GO HOME…
When I get home I turn on the desktop computer as the familiar whir of his fan and engine rouse him up from his evening nap. The big guy deepens his breath, stretches and yawns and blinks his face awake into a bluish glow. The Google screen appears from behind the curtain. The empty Google search box seems so empty and alone, all white and rectangular. It winks at me, pleadingly for conversation. His digital arms reach out for a relationship of some kind. I tilt my ear closer into the lonely white rectangle and sure enough I hear his tinny, rectangular voice call out to his little marching letter friends who wait patiently on the keyboard. In alien language, he asks them to line up in an orderly fashion along his belly so he will feel full and purposeful again.

A puff of air blows past my lips as I poise my hands over the keyboard. The letters hold their breaths for the anticipated reunion. I pause for half a second and type “Origami Experts”. The letters dutifully tumble into his white belly. He seems to expand with the arrival of his friends. I smile and secretly roll my eyes.

Copyright (c) 2010 Suzanne Wells

Technology has always been a mystery to me. I’m a 48 year old mother of three. Lately, I feel like I’ve just arrived home from a major battle with the cultural technological machine.

THE ART OF GROCERY SHOPPING… My kids will tell you I can be heard on most Sunday afternoons pining for the good old days when going to the grocery store meant having actual conversations with real people. Nowadays, the shopping experience has been reduced to bar codes and laser guns that rudely shout a series of startling beeps and electronic grunts to let you know you’ve messed up the scanning process. Today the grocery store is a lonely landscape. You’re lucky if you get a “Thank you for shopping with us!” from the receipt.

Even in the old days, grocery shopping was never really my favorite experience anyway. It took me moves to Boston, Atlanta and Ohio to realize it is actually better to smile, look the checkout girl in the eye and politely take your change. I’m a stereotypical New Yorker who tends to view the checkout line like the Amazing Race; where the winner is the one who gets in and out as quickly as possible.

When I first moved to Ohio, I practiced the etiquette of grocery shopping for months before I would even enter the local checkout line. I would stand in front of the bathroom mirror and rehearse my tone and cadence to get my affect exactly right in order to ensure a pleasant shopping experience. Years of practice have refined performance. On the rare occasion when I actually encounter a living, breathing human in the store who is willing to have an actual conversation; I still secretly roll my eyes as I hear my New York voice lilt through “Have a nice day!

THE END OF TIME… The other day, after arriving annoyingly late for several important appointments, I realized it was finally time to turn in my old trusty Timex. I liked her ticking round face and lived-in watchband. She went everywhere with me wrapped happily around my wrist. We enjoyed our morning showers and the way we cooked breakfast together. We even plunged into the icy waters at our Lake house in Vermont together and dove head first into the summer swimming pools in several states. We washed the dogs, scrubbed the kids and hell, she even took a few surprise dips into overflowing toilets for me.

I spruced up her wardrobe with a new watch band last summer and that seemed to revive her for while, but not for long. I depended on her and she just wasn’t keeping time anymore. I went the distance for her though. Last week, I went to the mall to replace her battery in an attempt to get her face to pep up a bit. The jewelry store guy reassuringly slipped the wafer battery into her back and sent us on our way. By the time I got to the intersection in the mall parking lot, I was late for the red light that got me on the highway home. She was tired and I realized I would have to put her down.

When I got home I unclasped her battered buckle and solemnly placed her in the burial ground on my dresser next to the other graves of single earrings, broken bracelets and of piles of gold and silver odds and ends. I’d actually meant to bring her to the crematorium to see if I could get some hard cash to finance my new watch! Instead, I muttered a silent prayer for them all and started off to the local strip mall in search of a replacement. The suburban strip mall is home to the neon- blinking, traffic everywhere, fluorescent lighted, massive parking lot, anything you could want, ELECTRONIC SUPERSTORE! I mourned for her a bit on my way to the superstore monolith as I peeked down at my bare wrist all naked and vulnerable like that. I repeatedly glanced at the time on the dash just, to make sure I wasn’t late for myself again.

SHOPPING FOR A NEW WATCH… Finally, I arrive at The Sports Authority mega, monolith, anything-you-could-want superstore staring blankly at the watch display. I want a watch with a face. I like the idea of watching the second hand tick around the clock face, tapping each number as it spins around its circle, as though they were old friends slapping high fives as they pass each other in the hall each day.

I like the earth elements in the circular face of these watches. I like the way each cycle is divided into 12′s and how the hours are segmented into neat, equal quarters. The five minute intervals seem like a bunch of nuclear families all joined together in one big, circular bash. I am soothed by the way the numbers relate to each other in a collective way and how the hour hand and the minute hand seem like a father and son. I like the way the whole damn thing fits together in its little circle-world. I feel like I can find my way around there, like I can always get home. Watches with faces sooth me, comfort me and feel familiar. This is the kind of watch I want.

On the other hand, digital watches devoid of familiar round faces, spinning second hands seem lonely without the organized circular landscape of their number families. They feel hollow and give me the creeps. It’s disturbing to gaze at their blinking squared off numbers faces and I am always jarred at the odd way they beep at random times. Even the eerie green glow they give off from their sharply lined faces scares me a bit. When I’m forced to enter a relationship with them, I’ll glance sideways at the little alien on my wrist and wonder if it’s recruiting me into its way of life. I wonder if I am being coerced into his weird alien, digital language. If I wear a digital watch too long, eventually I have visions of having to hire the “Coalition for the Freedom for Digital Watch Wearer’s” who specialize in reprogramming the sorry sacks that were naively taken in by the promise of chronographs and reprogrammable wrist alarms.

Unfortunately, in Sports Authority, my search for acceptable wrist wear is futile. The only selections with faces on them seem to be men’s digital watches, and they are big. After opening several packages and trying on a few, I end up with a snazzy, grey Timex number that is a good fit for my wrist.

TIME TO CHECK OUT… As I approach the checkout I am relieved to see a young boy who looks like he knows what he’s doing. Nothing satisfies my anal mind more than a check out guy who is efficient, knows the register and his merchandise and gets you on your way. This guy has an added benefit of being young enough to possibly be a digital alien himself and may be of assistance to me later on.

I mentally congratulate myself for my good choice in checkout guys and befriend him little at the register. I act a bit overly friendly but quickly recall my training in Ohio at the bathroom mirror and work hard to replace my hard New York accent with a sing-songy, southern drawl. I coyly batted my lashes to conceal the secret New York eye roll. Digital aliens are very helpful to have on your side in the case of a future battle with your watch, I think.

I ask him to please open the package before I leave. Nothing frustrates my burning, efficiency based mind more than un-openable packages wrapped in impossibly hard plastics with tiny plastic rings that cement the item firmly in its casing. He breaks out the scissors and goes to work. He finally liberates the item and I am happy to have my watch.

I place it on my wrist, smile at it and try to like it. The process reminds me of when you meet your best friend’s newborn who is really not that cute, homely even. You smile anyway into the little guys cooing face and pretend he’s not really a wrinkly, old bald man with a big nose and receding chin. You hope you will grow to like him and reassure her that kids always grow into their noses. I complete my purchase, head to the car and admire my new guy on my wrist. I cock my head to see if I can hear cooing from his square lips, then politely shift my gaze so he won’t notice my wince at the sight of his nose.