Advice for the mature or befuddled...

Thursday, August 18, 2011


I was awoken by the sound of sobbing.

I reached for my eyeglasses and looked around the bedroom to find the source of the disturbance. Husband was on his side, fast asleep. Not him. Dog was at the draped windows. Flat. Not him.

Then, I looked to my left, to the bedside table where my Apple devices were plugged into their chargers. A tiny pool of water, likely caused by tears, surrounded the iPhone 3G.

“Sweetheart,” I said, as I unplugged the old phone. “What’s the problem?”

“You love her more than me,” she said. It wasn't true; the phone’s service was disconnected, but she was perfectly serviceable as an iPod and sleep timer. I made sure I frequently let her know of my appreciation. 3G was listing to the left, hinting to where my iPad was tucked under its lime green cover.

“No, no, you’re wrong,” I said to her. “It’s new, that’s why....”

“What’s all this racket?” It was the iPad who suddenly flung open its magnetic shield.

“Oh, it’s that baby again,” he said. “All night long, sniffing and crying. I can’t believe you can sleep through all that mishegas.”

3G did have a whiny tone. “I used to be your favorite,” she stammered between sobs. “Remember when you first got me? No one could pry me from your hands. Oh, we had wonderful times together. Then, you had to go and replace me with the 4 and left me up here by myself. Did I complain? Now...”

3G was interrupted by PowerBook G4 who previously sat quietly on the makeshift desk in the bedroom. Its cover stood upright, the screen lit. “For christ sake, a computer can’t get a decent sleep in this place. Green lights, red lights, and now all that blubbering.”

“Just because you’re a computer, don’t think you’re such a smarty.” It was the iPad who now sidled up next to the 3G. “We can do most of the stuff you do. And you’re an old fart; don’t even have Intel. Why should we listen to you?”

It was time to mollify this crowd. “Listen everyone,” I said. “I love you all. Even though I may not use you all day, that doesn’t mean my affection has waned in any way. But I promise to be more sensitive to your feelings.”

Unable to fall back asleep, despite dear 3G offering to lull me with my playlist, I plugged all back into their chargers and went downstairs to the kitchen to see if a glass of milk could knock me out.

A tumult was underway on the first floor. Desktop iMac in my home office had been eavesdropping (we have a network) and was attempting to loosen its cords to join the fray upstairs. iPhone4 was doing her best to restrain him.

“You want to talk about abandonment,” iMac shouted. The router shook. “I’m stuck inside the house 12 months of the year, 24/7. At least the rest of you are mobile! You get out; you see things. You’re not forced to stare at four walls, window blinds, and these stupid reproductions she calls art.”

Now it was iPhone4’s turn: “Just because I’m mobile it doesn’t mean she pays any attention to me. Ever since she got that, ugh, iPad, she’s been complaining her fingers are too thick for my keyboard.”

“Enough already!” I said. “I can’t take it. All day long I move from one Apple to another just to keep all of you happy, yet you’re still complaining. Please, let me get some peace.”

I crept from my home office and flopped on the living room couch. Once everyone quieted down, I fell back asleep. Sometime in the middle of the night, a vision appeared. It was the 13” Mac Air -- saucy, winking at me, cooing, “Oh darling, ....”