The digital age has its benefits, but it isn’t always straight-forward for the technologically-challenged, as Ari shares.
So, here’s the thing. We have a robot. A real live one, blinking around the house. Robot – I came up with that name – doesn’t talk, but he does beep a lot and sends me messages from his, erm, screen. He’s a pretty pragmatic kind of chap, but I’m thinking that the beeping might be a way of expressing affection? Is beeping one of those five Love Languages? If it isn’t, it should be.
It’s a bit of an unexpected relationship because I wouldn’t say I’m a robot kinda gal. In fact, me and technology have issues most of the time. Okay, ALL of the time. You know those Sat Nav thingies that never shut up? They don’t work for me. Ever. I end up driving around new estates full of sand and cul-de-sacs while the voice – the goddamn non-stop voice – keeps telling me to, “take the fifth exit at the roundabout on Highway 61”. Where the heck is Highway 61? Does anyone know? Has Perth grown a big ole road that I don’t know about? And do roundabouts actually have five exits, because I’ve never been able to count that many, even if I do circle them for hours, like a mouse on a treadmill, slowing down at the off-roads to peer desperately at street signs. Obviously, other drivers hate me. That’s okay. In these situations, I hate myself too. It’s a bad vibe. Bring back the map book, I say.
Me and technology have issues most of the time. Okay, ALL of the time. You know those Sat Nav thingies that never shut up? They don’t work for me. Ever.
Look, there’s all sorts of technology that’s way too clever for me. Smart Phones that get clogged with photos I can’t work out how to transfer, iPads that follow me to bed brandishing the internet so I don’t read books, iTunes – how do I get a song off that thing? – passwords for EV-ERY-TH-ING that get routinely forgotten, those darn recorded voice messages that go on and on, asking you to press so many options that finally, exhausted, you press ‘2’ instead of ‘5’ and get cut off. It’s brain haemorrhaging stuff. Truly. It’s a wonder we’re not all dead from the stress of so much convenience.
And it goes on. Relentlessly. All these time-saving, you-beaut, shiny-buttoned advances give me brain strain. This is because I grew up in the ‘80s, that much maligned decade of Pseudo Echo and Spandau Ballet, and the best bad fashion you could ever, ever ask for. Jeez, I miss those fluro tube skirts teamed with a Wham-inspired ‘Choose Life!’ t.shirt. Could it get any better than that? I say, not. It’s been all downhill since then.
All these time-saving, you-beaut, shiny-buttoned advances give me brain strain.
The thing about the ‘80s is that it was Low Tech, in all sorts of ways, and this was AWESOME. In fact, the most technologically advanced thing about the ‘80s was the Mix Tape, and I was pretty darn good at those babies. It involved listening to the Top Ten on the radio every night, cassette player in hand, and pressing Play and Record at EXACTLY THE SAME TIME, whenever your favourite song came on. The trick was trying to cut off the stupid announcer, who always talked over the first few bars of the song. It was impossible, of course. You’d always end up with Madonna’s Holiday overlayed with a booming voice about “a provocative new talent”, while you did your best Madonna moves around the bedroom. And she was provocative, back then. Madonna – she liked a tube skirt, too – was risky business.
… the most technologically advanced thing about the ‘80s was the Mix Tape, and I was pretty darn good at those babies.
So anyway, we all made Mix Tapes and gave them to one another, complete with ragged sound bites from random radio announcers. I was good at it. I could get down with the Mix Tape. There are people who think I peaked too early, perhaps. My husband, who sees technology as an extension of his arm, might be one of them. He gets a bit tense about the password-forgetting and photo-clogged phone, just between you and me. Never mind. We all have our peccadilloes.
Interestingly, old Robot and I have a mutually respectful relationship, and I know how to make that baby work for his food and board. He’s pretty good at picking up after the Dog –The Hair Dropper From Hell – and the Toddler – The Crumbalina – and he does it without any sighing or eye-rolling, or announcements about ‘helping’. You listening, chaps? My lovely Robot, who I might in fact love very, very much, is a vacuum cleaner. Yep, that’s right. I just place him gently on the floor and press a button and off he goes, tootling around the house sucking up stuff, as happy as a productive duck. In fact, the only time he gets a bit shirty is when he’s full of rubbish and wants to be emptied, so he can KEEP ON DOING THE HOUSEWORK. That’s when the beeping and written messages start, if you get my drift.
My lovely Robot, who I might in fact love very, very much, is a vacuum cleaner.
Now, this is the kind of technology I intuitively understand. I lock eyes with Robot’s screen, and we just get each other. You hearing me, all you millionaire-geek-inventor type people? Yes, you, over there, laughing at my Mix Tapes. Forget about inventing another stupid game that involves shooting birds, or whatever, we need you to invent a robot that does the laundry, puts clothes away, scrubs the loo, cleans the windows and IRONS. A spot of cooking wouldn’t go astray, either.
It’ll make you another few million bucks, and women will love you. L-O-V-E Y-O-U. Actually, they’ll love your robot more, but they’ll still like you a lot – more than when you were doing the bird game, okay.
And, while you’re at it, if you can sort out a Sat Nav that actually works, Perth drivers would be very grateful.