So in the past month, we have had the following mechanical things go kablooey: the washing machine, the car, my iPod, Chicken’s laptop, Mate’s old phone. The refrigerator, the drier, and the bathroom plumbing are hanging on by a thread, and you know? That was bad enough.
But when I got the new Odyssey, it hit me: Cars–and most machines– have become a lot fucking smarter in the past decade. My car is smarter than me now– mostly– and occasionally we butt heads on certain matters, such as whether it’s polite to interrupt someone in a perfectly restful driving coma with a phone call from a telephone vendor. (No. However, Cortana is a whore and has no shame.) And, as the car and I are having our disputes, and my car is threatening to either drive itself or sell itself off to someone who is not as apparently inept as I am, it has occurred to me that I am either A. Not particularly savvy, technology wise, or B. Fucking cursed.
I mean, I have a car and a phone and a tablet and a faithful laptop, but every day something shows up to either amaze me or piss me off.
My family thinks this is hilarious–and I have to tell you, I am fast becoming the toast of the technology helplines in a variety of fields. Heh heh… yeah. You probably think I’m kidding. The following conversations (or something close to them) have occurred in the past week between myself and the nice people at…
Cortana (also known as “The Odyssey” but since whenever I get in the car that heifer takes demonic possession over the car’s computer and bluetooth system, we’re just going with Cortana here, Kk?):
You have received a text from Ma-ree Cal-mess. Would you like to answer it, or ignore?
Me: Answer it.
Cortana: It says, ‘You should tweet the sale Naomi just posted on Dream Readers too.’ Would you like me to reply?
Me: ‘What sale?’
Cortana: Should I text back, ‘White sails?’ or would you like to add more, change it, or cancel.
Me: Change it.
Cortana: Sure. (And don’t you just love how condescending that is. Sure? Like, you know, it’s MY fault, but she’ll help me out with it.) What would you like it to say?
Me: WHAT. SALE.
Cortana: Would you like me to text ‘What sale?’ to Ma-ree Cal-mess?
Cortana: Sure. You have a text from Ma-ree Cal-mess. Would you like me to read it or ignore it?
Me: Read it.
Cortana: It says ‘Dreamraisers’. Would you like to reply?
Me: Yes– say, ‘Is it the one for Beneath the Stain? And should I put it on the blog? What is Dream Readers?’ (Notice how I now speak Cortana, right?)
Cortana: Would you like me to text, ‘Is it beneath the stains or put on the log with the dream reekers?’
Cortana: Would you like me to cancel?
(Kids in the back, laughing their asses off.)
Me: No, Cortana. Send it.
— SEE? Not just me, right? That heifer led me down the garden path, and right when I was thinking I was going to have a good conversation, BLAMMO. The “Are you texting from Mars or Lars?” text. Uhm hm… not my fault, right?
But that’s only the beginning.
So, I’ve joined the dreaded WW, and, since I just sort of kited off last time and never came back, and they’ve got this whole e-tool thing that I barely understand, their website took exception to me trying to log on at all.
Now, the new points system is baffling to me, but last time, I depended on the calculator on my web dash, and I was planning to do the same thing this time– except it’s not showing up. And I’ve had a moderate breakfast, and a moderate lunch, but if I don’t start writing down my menu, I’m going to forget I’ve eaten at all and try to make up for lost time. (You think this doesn’t happen? LOOK AT ME and find another explanation!) And I need a snack. Like, need some protein, because my little Patrick-ADHD brain is spinning at frog speed, and is about to jump the track.
And the 20 minute conversation with tech support went something like this:
Tech support: Okay, so I’m going to try something here… *five minutes of tapping*
Me: (Internally) Bird! STring! Spot on the ceiling! Dog! Dog! Dog! Aw… doggie… scratch the doggie… pretty doggie… love the–
Tech support: Okay, try it now.
Me: “What? Oh, wait. There you are.”
Tech support: “You found the screen?”
Me: “No, literally– there you are. I forgot what we were doing. Wait. No. I’ve got it now. No. It’s not working.”
Tech support: “Okay. Okay, fine. Here, let me try this.” *five minutes of typing*
Me: (internally) Brush! Paper towels! Do we need paper towels? Will my concern for the environment be cheapened if I buy paper towels? Is it worse to buy paper towels and recycle than it is to buy cloth towels and accidentally use the one you were using to wipe something off the floor as a hot pad for your husband’s soup? Wait– have I ever actually done that, or did I catch it in time?
Tech support: “Okay. I think we have it now. Log in again.”
Me: “We’re still doing this?”
Tech support: “Yes dear– it should only take a second.”
Me: “Okay, trying… wait wait wait… YESSSSSSSS!!!!!! YES YES YES YES YES!!!”
Tech support: “It’s working?”
Tech support: “You’re funny!”
Me: “Funny? I’m starving! I need a snack and if I didn’t log it in, I was going to eat a pound of chocolate and call it good!”
Tech support: “Don’t do that?”
Me: “Nom nom nom… iths a rithe cake n hummuth, I thwear…”
— So you see? Me and tech support? We get along, yo? Which is good. Because there are even more sensitive moments for tech support than Weight Watchers. Like, uhm, say, when you’re trying to log into Corbin Fisher. For my non-porn watching friends, let’s just say there’s a lot of sweaty naked things going on at this website. For my straight male friends (not sure I have any) just stay away. You’ll sleep better at night.
Now, for those of you who don’t follow me a lot online, you may want to know that I often work with a Chiwhowhat and a Shitzu napping in my sweatshirt. It’s important. I swear.
Tech Support: How can I help you?
Me: I could have sworn I updated this credit card.
Tech support: We’re sorry, Amy, you told us that card expired on 8/14.
Me: Oh! That’s my bad– it should say 17, not 14. But now we have another problem.
Tech support: What’s that?
Me: You’re not supposed to know I’m Amy. I should have another screen name, right?
Now, what follows is a long and involved conversation that I enjoyed very much–although by the time we were done, I was no longer in the mood for porn. We talked about the website update (it’s very pretty) and how much better it was than the old format and how there was a website for tech support and how I should upload Yosemite on my Mac…
Wait, I should what?
Tech Support: Yes– your model mac would work much better with Yosemite.
Me: I don’t even know what model Mac I’m working with. It’s old. YOu know that?
Tech Support: Yes, Amy– I also know that you could view us better if you used Chrome or Firefox instead of Safari.
Me: That’s totally scary. Quick– how many dogs do I have in my shirt?
Tech Support: Uh, one?
Me: HA! TWO! Oh thank God– I was never gonna watch porn again.
— So there you go. My adventures in tech support– the good, the bad, and the absurd. And here I was, writing this blog, when I get a text from Chicken about her broken laptop. She needed cheering up.
Chicken: I’ve been crying all day.
Me: No worries. Don’t cry.
Chicken: No worries?
Me: Save your tears for when we sell your little brother.
Chicken: heh heh heh heh
Me: And the dog.
Me: I’m sorry– did you text dad?
Chicken: He hasn’t gotten back to me.
Me: He’s busy taking Zoomboy shoe shopping. Do you know how big your brother’s feet are?
Chicken: How big?
Me: Mens 8 1/2.
Chicken: No way. I can’t wear his shoes anymore.
Me: You didn’t want to wear his shoes anyway. He has freakishly shaped frog-feet.
Chicken: Heh heh heh…
Me: And watch out– at least one of your children will have freaky frog-spread whacked little piggies too.
Me: All the better for stepping into two different piles of puppy poop. I swear, if you point that dog’s ass and squeeze her in the middle, you could decorate a shit cupcake.
Chicken: heh heh heh heh
— And there you have it. I can’t make my car behave, document my calories, or watch a decent episode of porn, and I’ve passed it on to my kids.
But at least we know how to laugh about it!