As I did used to enjoy playing interactive backgammon on the computer with
my friend Cindy in Toronto (until I realized that my internet provider was
tracking my game play), and as I did
eventually find a free site where I could whup the bejeezus out of the world’s
dumbest Artificial Intelligence (provided I sat through 60-second
advertisements every other roll of the dice), I did miss the game...
“You’ll be surprised at just how far
advanced technology has come!”
>>><<<
Logging groggily onto my laptop poot
with sleepy seeds in my eyes last whatever weekend afternoon (don’t judge me,
I’ve been on hiatus!), I read the cheeriest message from my favorite online
company, EAT24, who spoke directly to my tummy:
“Hi Penny: We were just thinking about you, and we
thought you might be hungry. We also
thought you might be too busy to read a boring long-winded email. So how about we just shut up and give you a
coupon. BOOM. That’s the sound of your wish being granted.”
Oh, at last, at last, the World Wide
Web had welcomed me into its icy-cold, Borg-like animatronic bosom! This boded ever-so well for my upcoming
Christmas present! The Universe was
welcoming me out of the Paleolithic Era, and quite literally offering me Kindle
FIRE and FOOD!!!
And specifying my late lunch order
to include ricotta cheese on the pepperoni pizza; un-selecting a salad (hey, it’s not like I was on a date –
pajamas don’t judge) and adding a Diet Coke to my delivery (call it a primal chick instinct), I
didn’t even bother with the “BOOM” coupon, as I’d already begun to salivate in
eager anticipation of my delivery!
[ADDRESS NOT IN
DELIVERY ZONE]
Well, clearly, this was my mistake
somehow, as the selected restaurant had already delivered to my apartment three
times before. And retyping all of my
information, I was met once again with the same response:
[ADDRESS NOT IN
DELIVERY ZONE]
WTF???
Well, “BOOM” all you want, but come
hell or high water I was bound and determined to gnaw on the carcass of the best
cheesiest pizza delivered to my door!
And opening a chat box with EAT24, they apologized ever so profusely,
promised that nothing like this would ever happen again and all problems would
be immediately resolved.
“Just place your order as a pick-up
for now, and I’ll make sure that the restaurant knows it will actually be for
delivery” the helpful on-line representative typed. “Please let me know when you’ve submitted
your order.”
“Done” I replied in the chat-box a
few minutes later, as a lengthy pause took place.
*ring,
ring, ring*
Bolting into the living room to
answer my land line, I was greeted with the following exchange from an unknown
wireless caller: “Hi, I’m calling from ‘Pizza
Al Forno’, to confirm that an order for Penny is actually for delivery?” the
gentleman wondered.
“Yes, that’s correct, and someone
should have alerted you to that via the World Wide Web” I explained
Spock-logically with one raised analytical eyebrow.
“OK, yeah, got that, but as your
purchase was supposed to be a pick-up, we didn’t charge your debit card with
the delivery service. You gotta provide
$2.50 in cash to the driver.”
“Not a problem” I nodded to the
phone.
“Oh, and the $2.50 is for the
service delivery only, and doesn’t include any financial compensation to the
driver as a tip” he added, crossing his tee’s and dotting his I’s.
“Yes sir, I understand” I added
compliantly, lest anyone be tempted to whack me with a club and drag me by the
hair until ten quarters fell out of my pajama pants.
With my EAT24 Agent still logged
into the chat box, I padded back to the
laptop to read a message that basically stated that I should relax in comfort,
as my order had been placed, my food was already being prepared and I needn’t
bother with a care in the world, as sustenance would soon be on its way directly
to my doorstep.
“Thanks for all your help” I typed
sarcastically – a subtle art most often lost in this digital age without a
stupid animatronic emoticon rolling its eyes.
“Anytime!” the Agent responded
happily.
“Um, you do realize that this is a shit-load of unnecessary work from a
service that’s supposed to make ordering food easier?” I nudged.
“LOL!” typed the Agent.
Oy!
Insert stupid animatronic emoticon rolling its eyes...!
Now, I know I’m a dinosaur, but WTF? Do people even bother to use a land line
anymore? Or must every person-to-person
discussion be prefaced with a text message that says “can u chat L8r 2nite?” Well here’s a novel idea: pick up the damn phone and ask me! And if I answer, I'm apparently available!God knows that elegant cursive writing has gone the way of the Dodo bird unless you’re 40 or so (I must insert a special “Thank You!” to my sister who wrote sooo beautifully in my Birthday card!); but I couldn’t quite let go of the image that eventually I’d be buried or cremated, possibly next to a placard etched with the ever-so solemn words “OMG! WTF? RIP, BFF... TTFN...”
But I
digress! And I attempt to evolve.
Approximately forty minutes later,
my land line rang yet again, this time from yet another unknown wireless caller.
“Hi, pizza delivery – your security code isn’t working and I’m outside
your gate” the driver announced.
“I’ll be right there” I sighed,
throwing on a winter coat over my pajamas and plodding out into the rain; six
bucks in hand to cover delivery and tip.
“I pushed the star key and the pound
key, but nothing worked” the driver shrugged.
“Didja ever maybe consider the big, bright-red,
jolly candy-like button that says “talk” and my two digit number written here
on the receipt?” I shrugged back.
“Hunh. Let me see...” he mused, as he held my pizza
hostage in a wet plastic baggie while he played with the keypad. (Once
again, sarcasm lost; yet lo and behold, there was my answering machine!) “Oh.
Well, sorry to make you come all the way out here in the rain” he
shrugged again.
>>><<<
Having celebrated “Orphan” Christmas Day
with a group of friends at a festive Mexican restaurant (with a mariachi band!), I was finally feeling more in touch with humanity. We’d enjoyed lively conversation! We’d feasted communally upon the never-ending
baskets of tortilla chips and bowls of salsa!
(And I’d only scorched my arm hairs
once on my fourth strawberry flaming margarita!)
And walking home safely with my friend
Lon who was house/dog sitting near my apartment building, we parted ways with a
hug, as I padded into my bat-cave to warm my chilly hands over my spiffy new Kindle
Fire HD.
“OOOGH!” I think I said, tappy,
tappy, tapping the screen. “Make Fire
go” I commanded, as a myriad of screens presented themselves as to registering
the product, connecting to my router, negotiating with my computer, additional
options of charging the tablet with my cell phone cord, and logging onto WiFi
troubleshooting.
Hmm...
Yeah, OK, insert stupid emoticon scratching
its chin...
Yet pragmatic
as I may be, logical to the point of obnoxious and perhaps overly confident in
a once-a-year tequila-induced haze, I was yet again, bound and determined to make
sense of my world.
Me make
Fire.
Make Kindle
Fire go!
Me need
help. (Me pour vodka?)
Ooogh...!
>>><<<
Now as a general rule, I’m not one
to mix alcoholic spirits, but somewhere in the darkness of my humble bat-cave
as I slept off my holiday hangover, alchemy was afoot. Mr. Kindle had met Ms. PC, and whilst I’d
shut down the poot early in my stupor, they’d apparently discontinued
negotiations. And whilst I’d required a
full night’s sleep (and then some) to reboot my pea-brain, upon wakening, apparently
Mr. Kindle Fire Pants required four hours of solid battery charging through the
router all by himself.
Yes, yes, feel free to once again insert
stupid emoticon rolling its eyes...
And high-maintenance as Mr. Kindle
appeared to be, I acquiesced and gave him some alone time in the cave. “OK. Me
wanted to continue to carve wheel anyway” I sighed. (I had a tasty port wine cheese ball in the
fridge.)
Yet not long after, Mr. Kindle woke
up.
Ooogh...
Hunched over a high-def screen of
seven inches like a complete Neanderthal afraid to go near fire, I tentatively scrolled
through options of Amazon Apps.
“Free backgammon – good” I clicked
with a metaphorically hairy knuckle.
“Free slot machine – good” I clapped happily, having not ventured out to
Las Vegas in about two years. “Free ‘Old
School Video Poker’?” I pawed my chin, disbelieving that such a relic might
still exist in our world. But, free
Euchre? A card game that I’d grown up
with that was dear to my heart? “Get
App!” I pounded my chest with my fists triumphantly! (Ow!)
Perhaps my parents were correct all
along. Technology had come quite a distance.
Not only had the icy-cold Borg infiltrated my humble cave, but they had
even time-travelled me back to my childhood!
Yes, yes, you may insert melancholy emoticon
if you need to.
Setting Mr. Kindle aside (after what
felt like ten minutes, but turned out to be four hours), I logged on to the
poot once again for sustenance.
“Hungry?” EAT24 wanted to know.
OOOGH!
I suppose there comes a time when we
youngish old farts (I just made it to 47!) have to step out of the ice age, and
learn to assimilate with the inevitable.
And choosing to attempt to unite the
paradoxical planes of existence between my cozy comfort zone and the Mother
Ship of Automaton Zombies, I logged on to Yummy.com as a satisfactory compromise.
Yes, I would have food! I would purchase groceries online! And I would even cook it all by myself. After all, I had made FIRE go!!!
Does anyone out there have an emoticon that
screams “bad idea?”
With a metaphorically hairy knuckle
once again rapping at a computer screen, I tapped on food stuffs, entered my
debit card, and reclining for a moment, looked forward to the evolutionary
growth that a simple primate such as myself was destined to achieve... Never again would I dwell in the darkness,
when Enlightenment was but a key stoke away!
I do believe that
within thirty minutes or less, I discovered (again) that I am absolutely, 100%,
a born and bred, hardcore spoiled brat.
The three-pack carton of Egg Beaters
were threatening me with immediate use within the next seven days to “maintain
safety” -- lest I care to take my chances with god-knows what – yet they also
delightfully neglected to include even the minimalist of preparation directions
(i.e. low or high heat; or maybe an approximate cooking time for “safety”?); as
apparently I needed to check out cooking instructions on the website. (Oh, FFS!)
Meanwhile, turning my lusty carnivorous
appetites toward the package of Farmer John uncooked bacon, I scratched my head
in confusion as how to even open the damn thing. I hadn’t cooked bacon in probably twenty
years, but the hungry primate in me was already ripping and tearing at the
corner, only to discover pink piggy juices dripping down my arms...
Yep, that was the end of THAT! (I can
hear you laughing, Mom and Dad...)
Yet the day wouldn’t be a complete loss. With a tub of “I can’t believe it’s not
Butter!” waiting patiently in the fridge, I pulled out its hearty companion --
Pillsbury Crescent dinner rolls. And flashing
back to childhood once again, I lovingly recalled my Mom so effortlessly thwacking
a tube of breakfast cinnamon buns on the counter, popping out the dough, and arranging
them on a baking pan for my sister and me to ice whilst we slobbered at the
aroma.
Oh, where’s that melancholy emoticon?!
Unfortunately, only half of my genetic
make-up comes from my Mom...
Despite all of the thwacking,
smacking and essentially beating the crap out the Crescent rolls, every effort
proved unsuccessful as the tube continued to roll-over, show it’s soft
underbelly, and essentially mock me.
Ooogh.
Luckily, the other half of my DNA
comes from my Dad...
Turns out, one mighty blow from a
hammer in my Sears Ladies Tool kit does the trick!!!
Grateful to be back to work (WHERE
THEY FEED US!), and planning on a face-to-crackly-monitor at my local Mickey Dees drive-thru for dinner tomorrow,
~Troglodyte P
p.s. I had a couple of photos to upload for this post, but Google seems to be having its own "OOOGH" moments!!!
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