Young kids today have a great advantage when it comes to technology. They grow up on computers, iPads and cellphones. They take for granted that they know how to download programs, upload photos and can Skype Grandma on a whim.
Back in the day, when there was a debate at hand, one made a mental note to look it up in an encyclopedia when she got home and hoped, against all hope, that the subject in question did not start with a “Z” because Mom never did buy enough groceries to finish out the set. These days, when debating with our boys, cellphones are whipped out of pockets and — faster than you can say “Draw!” — fingers slide across screens.
Within five seconds of mistakenly making an incorrect statement they proclaim, “You’re wrong! Says here the Brown Sulawesi Plume Moth does not come from Africa as you firmly stated, rather, it is a native of Indonesia!”
It is almost enough to make a woman want to keep her astute observations to herself … almost.
Although I will never be as techy as our sons, I’m no idiot. I know how to surf the web, access the Cloud and can Facebook like it’s my job.
I’m ever mindful of phone etiquette, but I do love the freedom that texting brings to my life. I can text Little Charlie to bring home milk, I can tell Lawrence it is time he calls his mother, and I send out a “Mommy Loves!” any time I want.
But the problem with texting is that every so often errors occur and, with false confidence, one just happens to hit “send” a nano-second too soon.
Sometimes there are misspellings and that dang auto-correct puts in a word that changes the whole context of the text and one doesn’t catch it until it is mid-cyberspace.
Worse yet is when a gal, such as myself, is texting several people at a time and sends the wrong text to the wrong person and makes (and I am quoting my children here) a noob of herself.
Take for instance the other day when I was texting our Huey about his first anniversary with his gal pal, and Bryan, our Internet guy, at the same time.
“Internet is down again,” I texted to Bryan along with a sad face so that he would know that I was, well, sad.
“What did you get Lola?” I texted our Huey, for one can’t allow her son to let an anniversary of being “Facebook official” pass without making commendations.
My relationship with Bryan consists of my complaining about the disadvantage of being offline and his responding, via text, with witty comments such as “I can access and ping the modem. Our sector is a solid 10/1 meg.”
I, for one, have no idea what that even means. Not wanting to be a noob, I generally respond with something as clever as “K.”
The other day as I was texting back and forth with Bryan and his techno mumbo jumbo, and Huey with regards to his and Lola’s anniversary, I was communicating with great skill, or so I thought.
Bryan told me I had about 3.4 meg down via the wireless, and meanwhile Huey told me he bought Lola a Beta fish and they named it (not making this up) Gary Lazer Eyes.
“That, right there, is some useless knowledge,” I texted for Bryan until I could ascertain what the heck that meant, and meanwhile replied to Huey, “You’re such a romantic.”
It wasn’t until a fraction of a second after I hit “send” that I realized I sent the “useless knowledge” message to our poor Huey.
Worse yet, and this is where I leaned my head back and called out “No!” I realized I had sent the “romantic” proclamation to Bryan.
Poor Huey spent several minutes thinking that I did not care about Gary and probably telling Lola his mother is heartless.
Meanwhile, Bryan probably made a mental note to never make a house call to that crazy old Clinch lady’s place ever again.
When used correctly, texting is quite the useful tool. But sometimes it’s enough to make a gal wish she were a Brown Sulawesi Plume Moth.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her by sending an email to [email protected].