I have lost track of the number of times my technology, and especially my phone, have outwitted me.  As I get older, it appears I am not, in fact, getting wiser, at least in this regard.  In fact, I’m absolutely sure I am losing ground in this war.

               Let’s not even discuss the appalling number of pocket dials, purse dials, and butt dials I seem to be able to make.  All I have to do is bump my purse, set the phone down too firmly on a counter, or, apparently, merely think about a pocket dial, and I’m calling someone.  (Usually, this is a friend and they are very forgiving.  Occasionally, it’s a business or acquaintance – chalk up more folks who think I’m ditzy.) 

               These happen with such regularity that I’m just assuming it’s my “new normal.” [What does that even mean, really?  If it’s “normal,” it’s not “new,” right?  And if it’s “new,” it means it’s not “normal.” So are we just making stuff up now? ]  But I digress.

               My phone has morphed into a new dimension of being outrageous.  Now it not only calls people randomly, it FACETIMES them.  So I hear a buzzing, pick up my phone from the counter, and there’s someone’s face staring at me, saying “Hello?” 

               WHA??????

               I didn’t touch the phone.  I certainly didn’t ask it to call or Facetime someone.  Speaking of which, I don’t “ask” my phone to do anything.  In order to access that feature, I have to hold down the “home button” until a little icon begins to swirl.  Then I can ask it to call or text someone and it will do it – about 75% of the time.  Other times, the little voice just ignores me.  Very frustrating.

               So it’s puzzling that out of the blue, my phone will Facetime my best friend, or – and this has happened – a random bank teller.  Explaining to the person who handles my money that I didn’t actually call them probably induces them to put some kind of red flag on my accounts.

               Once in a while, lately, my phone has begun to talk to me.  Again, I haven’t touched it or pressed the feature to open Siri.  I’ll be cooking or reading and suddenly my phone will say, “I’m sorry I can’t access that information.”  What information?  Who’s he talking to??

               It’s just a little bit spooky.            

               The worst thing happened last week and lasted several days.  I was able to receive phone calls just fine, but nothing else.  I would pick up my phone to look at it and it would show several text messages throughout the previous few hours that had not buzzed me.  I checked the volume and it was up.  I checked the “silence” mode and it was not on.

               Past experience led me to look at the “airplane” mode in settings. It was not on.  Finally, on the third day, my phone notified me that it was in “do not disturb” mode. 

               I don’t know why.  I didn’t put it in that mode.  I didn’t know even how to put it in that mode.  I went online to find out how to get it out of “do not disturb” and was told to “click the do-not-disturb” icon.  But there was no such icon on my phone.

               GRRRRR.

               I solved the problem. I asked Siri to take it out of the do-not-disturb mode, and he did.  I also asked him to quit talking to me first, but so far he’s not responded.  We’ll see.

I’ve been noticing more and more signs – since my last post about this topic – that are so incredibly funny and strange and just wrong. I had a little pushback on one of my signs earlier – the one that had a sign saying “end construction” and 10 feet later one that read “road work ahead.” One of my faithful readers pointed out that indeed, part of the construction may have ended, and more was beginning in the next block.

Fair point. However, it still struck me funny. As did the following set of signs:

I was trying to find out why this might have been a useful pair of signs and I ran across a website that showed a lot of strange signs. My favorite was one that is designed to confuse any driver. It’s also not helpful to those trying to teach young folks that “red means stop” and “green means go.” It looked like this:

For those of us – and we appear to be dwindling in number – who are cautious drivers, I appreciate signs that tell me that the bridge surface will freeze before the road, and that there are sharp curves ahead. But I saw a sign that made me think there are people out there who maybe, just maybe, shouldn’t be driving. At least, if they require this warning, they should re-think driving (just my opinion).

My personal favorite of the strange and oxymoronic signs is one that defies explanation. If you can think of a single reason that this sign (and someone spent money to create it) is useful, I’d be fascinated to hear it!

As a person who mows several acres of land each week, barring droughts, I appreciate the need to put out signs asking county mowers to “not spray or mow” my tiger lilies. I also appreciate when signs tell them there are hidden ditches or ravines. Safety first, always! But this sign- and it’s my last, I promise – really threw me. I mean, seriously, would someone have to be told this? If so, perhaps this is not the person to hire into a mowing profession!

This morning I had an experience that made me recall some of the amazing –and not-so-tasty – culinary accidents I have created in my lifetime.

               Let me preface this by saying that I am a reasonably good cook.  Mistakes in the kitchen are not commonplace for me, at all.  If you don’t count the numerous times I’ve sliced myself with a sharp blade, then they are quite few indeed.

               But those few mistakes are pretty….significant.  Catastrophic in a couple of cases.

               The first one happened when I was about 8 years old.  I decided to treat my family to warm cocoa in the morning when we were on vacation.  I crept to the kitchen, opened the fridge, grabbed the milk, and began heating it gently in a pan on the stove.  I slowly added the cocoa powder, stirring until it was the perfect shade of mocha.  Then, as my parents and brothers groggily made it to the table, I poured the steaming brew carefully into each mug.

               All was wonderful until my brother spit his out all over the table.  My other brother and mom sat quietly, discreetly pushing their mugs away.  Only my dad sipped his, sighed appreciatively, and pronounced it “delicious!” 

               It was not delicious.  It was vile.  I had pulled out the carton of buttermilk.  

               I do not recommend warm, chocolate buttermilk.  But hey, I was 8.

               My next disaster didn’t happen until I was 15.  My mom typically did all the cooking and I was just a table-setting gopher.  Apparently, not a particularly observant one.  So when she had surgery, I decided I could make the mac-and-cheese from a box for the first dinner she was in the hospital.  I mean, it was a box for heaven’s sake.  Anybody who can read and follow written instructions could do this, right?

               It was easy-peasy.  Except I read ¼ teaspoon salt as ½ cup of salt.  My macaroni and cheese was disgustingly briny.  My dad, again, ate it and pronounced it just fine.  Then we drank about seven glasses of water each.

               During the years I dated my husband, I cooked many a meal for him – all pretty good, I might add.  So it came as a big and unhappy surprise, when, in our first week of wedded bliss, I made him pan-fried pork chops that were like rocks.  We couldn’t cut them with any knife we owned, nor were our teeth strong enough to tear them apart.

               My hubby was quite nice about it, but I stewed all the next day at work.  What had I done wrong?  Since I had purchased a package of four chops, I decided I would bake them, long and slowly, and cover them with mushroom soup.  That would surely tenderize them!

               It did not.  They were awful.  It had not occurred to me that I’d simply gotten ahold of a bad package of pork chops.  And that’s the night I discovered that my new husband was not a fan of mushroom soup. Or mushrooms, in general.

               He laughingly told me that he learned his lesson – don’t complain about the food or you’ll get it the next night smothered in mushroom sauce.

               Years have rolled and only a few minor incidents have occurred until this morning. We have a wildly producing group of cucumber plants and I made buckets of pickles with some.  At lunch, we put some pickles in two ramekins (nut dishes, you know?).  After lunch, I realized I hadn’t taken my vitamins, glucosamine, calcium, or magnesium. 

               I take all of these supplements in gummy form because I can’t swallow pills easily.  So I dumped these 8 pills into a ramekin and proceeded to eat them. But not before they had become saturated with pickle juice.

               Trust me, this is not a new taste sensation.  Best to leave pickle juice away from your fruit-flavored gummies.

               My husband and I are a little bit of Anglophiles.  We love British films and television shows.  Some of our favorites are on PBS and we discover new ones every year. 

               The only glitch in this shared delight is that occasionally we find British actors difficult to understand.  Even with the volume cranked enough for the neighbors to hear, we find ourselves saying, “What did he say?” and backing up the tape to listen again. 

               I do take some responsibility for this.  My hearing is terrible and my husband’s is not exactly improving with age.  That said, British folk tend to speak softly (i.e. mumble) and quickly (so that whole sentences often sound like “fluff fluff fluff and stuff”).  [Try that out loud, fast, and quietly and you’ll feel like you’re speaking British English.]

               Of course, it doesn’t help that that is exactly what they are speaking – British English.  That language only faintly resembles American English, in that it is more precise, more grammatically correct, and uses quaint terms like “flats,” “biscuits,” and “lifts” when they mean “apartments,” “cookies,” and “elevators.”

               So one rainy evening when we could find nothing exciting to do, we popped in our copy of The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel to watch.  Filled with wonderful British and Indian actors, we enjoyed the film at the theater but had not seen it in several years.

               Right away, we were having trouble understanding the spoken word.  My technological-savvy hubby immediately grabbed the remote (well “grabbed” is a stretch, since it rarely leaves his hand) and adjusted the film to allow for closed captioning.

               Marvelous!  We now could see the film, listen at an appropriate volume level, and also read along with the actors as they spoke. 

               Something odd began to happen.  Both of us sat up and began to scan between the captioning and the actors’ mouths.  Because the words they were saying were there, but additional information was being related audibly.

               There was a narrator, saying things like “woman rolls her eyes,” “man looks down at the floor,” and “another man enters the room.”

               We had closed captioning and narration.  This was distracting.  So my husband began scrolling through the options and clicked on the next item.  Relief!  The narration went away.  But so did the British accents and words.

               Now we had closed captioning in English, but the actors were speaking in Spanish!  This was disconcerting and pretty hilarious.

               The next click got rid of the Spanish-speaking Brits.  Instead, they were speaking in French, with English captions.  Narration came back on, also in English.

               We were rolling around in our chairs laughing.  Who, exactly, were these options designed to help?  People with vision problems and hearing problems who understand spoken French but read only English?  For people trying out for a Mensa club?

               Finally, he stopped the whole mess and started over.  We got our closed captioning in English and our actors speaking English and no narration.

               It turned an otherwise mundane evening into a great adventure, though!