My smartphone is screwing me over again. I’m sick and tired of it.
It sits there each morning, cradled in its slick, black charger, picking up unbridled power. Meanwhile, I’m expending energy making my bed, feeding the dogs, brushing my teeth and attempting to get matching socks on my bloated feet.
Halfway down the driveway on my way to work, my smartphone telepathically informs me I forgot to stick it in my pocket. I return and roughly grab it. At that moment, my smartphone chooses to connect me to Wally from Waterloo, Iowa, who I forgot to take off my contact list two years ago. I push the button I think disconnects the call.
Halfway to the office, I hear this cute voice say, “What can I help you with?” I yell at my pocket, “Siri, I don’t need your help. I can take care of myself.”
Later in the day, I wish to make a call. After all, this is a telephone, right? Instead of being connected, I find my phone showing a live video of my feet and the office floor (point of information: my socks were not a perfect match).
Last week, my grandson Nathan told me I should become more technologically savvy so we can connect more often with each other.
My smartphone buzzes and shakes. I hope it’s Nathan.
Nope, it’s Wally from Waterloo, returning my call.