Rant

Dear United States and Beyond, to whomever has reason to call me:  I am phone illiterate with no concern for achieving proficiency.  The phone is usually the last place I put it down; not in a purse, not in a pocket, not on a leash, or attached to a socket.  It calls for me to reinstate my landline, with each most visited room provided a base, but then that service gets clogged with people wanting to sell me window replacements or asphalt and they don't get that I live nine floors up in an apartment but fill up the messages nonetheless.

There is a symbol with something that to me looks like a tape recorder on the phone keypad; aha, this must be the messages?  After unlocking the phone, scribing the secret code pattern, opening the phone app, bringing up the keypad, there is the symbol under the number one.  I press it.  Nothing.  I press it and hit the "Call" symbol.  A flat voice tells me this ain't happening, but takes 8 seconds of my phone time.  I look at the phone for some mysterious hieroglyphic releasing the ethereal voices of friends and pharmacy, doctor's offices, and Come To Our Churches.

I go to the laptop and type in "Retrieve Android Messages".  Wrong-o again, O ancient fossil.  What pops up are directions on getting text messages, because lord knows but apparently I don't, people text more than call.  Yes?  Adding the word "phone" to the formula gives results which say to hold a finger on the number one key until Voice Mail ka-poofs into reality.  'Kay.  I do and it does.

But NOW, you have to listen for the flat voice to tell you of your misinformed life because your mailbox is FULL you eedjit, and things better get straightened out or you won't get more messages.  Yes, yes, yes.  C'mon, this is taking longer than necessary and the pauses between electronic sentences you could kill and slaughter an ox between pronouncements.  But first, type in your secret number password because nothing that has happened prior indicates that you are the one to receive notice that your Prozac is ready.  Do I remember my code?  Let's try, nope, let's try this one--it's why my personal limit is two passcodes for everything and let the hackers take my identity because then they would have this puddingeffer student loan to deal with. 

It's been twelve minutes since the phone call from my doctor's office prompted me to check messages.  Twelve minutes of futzing around and if you think I will remember the process next month when the light bulb goes on, har-de-har-har, Alice.

Finally, the mechanical voice coughs out four new messages; one pharmacy, three friends. two of whom are from awhile ago I believe, but cannot confirm as this mobile martinet does not record time or date.  More floaty deductions as I place the events they mention into a time frame.  "Hope you're feeling better..."  When was I sick?  A month ago.  "Come over for tea, I want to hear about your trip..."  That was in mid-May.  "I just wanted to thank you..." Um, maybe two weeks?  I am bad at mobile phone business.  Electronics in general, really.

I thought I heard the phone ringing out dulcet tones or was the apartment below playing music?  At the time, I was up to my elbows in giving the cat box a master cleaning and couldn't have answered immediately anyway.  The alert tone had just been changed to something not alarming but noticeable, but was this it?  Checking the phone screen showed No New Calls until I swiped my finger, did the mystical anagram, then yes, there was a call.  More scrolling, taps, and scrolling, and there it was.  Jaysus.  My doctor.

The receptionist said I was overdue for a bone scan, thyroid scan, mammogram, and blood testing.  Well, yeah, but for me to get to the doctor these days, I have to take off from work, and the consequences tend towards crisis intervention level.  I haven't been able to find the scripts for the testing if I ever had them, for the receptionist said that I can get them from the web portal and print them off.  But I don't have a printer at home.  I should go to the library, renew my card and use one of theirs for which there is a minimal charge, not to count the metered parking?

"You don't have a printer??"  The incredulousity was tidal.  Technically, I do have a printer, a new one since the old, just as good one could no longer communicate with the laptop once the purveyors upgraded their programs which the old laptop could not keep up with so I bought a new printer which ticked me to no end.   But, this new printer came with an installment disk which is simple enough but since the new laptop does not have a cd/dvd port, the process has elevated to online communication.  So far, nothing I've done has worked to get the new printer talking to the new laptop.  Hours, days; I finally said the Friday word and have gone without a printer for months.

 "Well, Just This One Time, we will print it out and mail it to you".  Can't you just put it into the system for the providers?  "We don't do that."  Huh.  I felt it important not to mention that I don't have a television.  Gongs.  I have cats and gongs.  Plus, phone conversation goes funny and I find myself explaining things that aren't in regular people's lives; it occasionally scares them.  Changing the strata in the millepedes.  The lightning rod tipped over.  I was talking to my unborn granddaughter.  Gluing trilobites back together.  See?

So, the point is, if you don't hear back from me, try email or the ubiquitous Facebook, email is best.  It's not that I don't like you, it's that you can hear the sound of frustrated finger-tapping/swiping/resetting/brain freeze in the far distance.  Say the date, time, and WHO YOU ARE, if you think important.  I can't tell voices on the phone, it sounds like you are in the trunk of a car driving in a circle.  Louder, softer, louder, softer, garbled, static, martians from space.

Listening closely to context reveals who you might be, and I have found myself talking to a different person other than perceived more than once.  Diane?  "No, it's Hollie; we've been talking for twenty minutes, and you thought I was Diane?" Verbal mannerisms are great clues and it was unusual that Canadian Diane had not said "Eh?" during the whole conversation. 

It's said that living downtown mixes and fuzzes signals amid the tall buildings, spires, antennae, and emergency scanners.  A new phone came with hopes of clearer reception.  But really, provide the date and time, don't just say 3 o'clock because there are generally 56 three o'clocks in a month.  And I'm phone phobic.  Don't wanna know who's on the other end, although I am able to pay my bills these days.  I am just exasperated at having to buy the latest electronics so that they work with the the downpour of changeling programs designed by people who drink too much coffee.

On the way to lunch today, the brakes started grabbing, it was the weirdest sensation at 50 mph on the expressway.  I stepped on the gas to see what would happen; some lights came on the dashboard and the herky-jerky business stopped.  Paul followed me to the mechanic's, they declared not to worry, coulda been dust, bring it in Monday, no the car will not freeze up in traffic, it's probably the computer, and we then went to the Thai restaurant in a diverse, lovely neighborhood. 

We have passed the solstice, the brilliant greens of plants are punctuated by roses, cherries, dogs, and people who will find things to do up till the last ray of light.  Ah, but then.  Evening comes; the air fills with nightbirds calling, fluttering moths clustering around street lamps, with social rituals untangling themselves from daylight.  Sleep is one such ritual, lending us protection from the strangeness of the dark. 

Shake out the blankets, hang them outside if you can for saturation with the fresh air.  Put away the bowls and dishes, latch the door, love the cats, love the dogs, all of it disappears at night when we are under the science of Morpheus.  Good night.