The adventure started when my dad gave her a Radio Shack gift certificate for Christmas, intending to let me help Babs actually purchase the phone. Because he never really loved me.
Now, I love my iPhone, but wouldn’t exactly call myself a smart phone expert. My only solid advice was, “Get the gold one, it’s pretty.”
Wow, I really need to stop biting my nails.
Two hours at Radio Shack and the death of my soul later, Babs got her first lesson from me:
“See this blue icon with the A? That’s your app store. Click it and type in Macy’s.”
Any good teacher knows you have to speak your student’s language.
While she took to the shopping apps like nobody’s business, the past few weeks have looked like this:
And my very favorite:
…Wait for it…
I [just called to say I] love you, Babs. Thanks for letting me use those screen shots for the world’s amusement.
How do you/your parents fare with technology? Any gadget gift fails?
P.S. – I suck royally for not responding to recent comments. Rest assured my absence has only made my heart grow fonder, and I totally want to have 10,000 of your babies.
I realized something today, and I’m not quite sure how I feel about it. I’ve come to conclude that the more embarrassing something is for me, the more amusing it is to you, dear reader.
With that in mind, I’d like to talk about Parents. Don’t they just say the darndest things? (I know it’s a two-way street, Mom and Pop. Remember when I said I wanted to quit the flute? Or when I told you I wasn’t going to college because I was going to be a screenwriter?) More often than not, people claim that their parents are an ongoing source of shame. Usually, I disagree with these ungrateful little bastards.
Except this one time.
"My mom let me leave the house like this, and now I'm one of the first things to pop up when you do a Google Image search for 'embarrassing.'"
Now, I’m not going to talk about the time they put my dog to sleep without telling me, or the many times they let me leave the house in white tights and boxer shorts. No, no. That would just be unenlightened.
I’m going to tell you about something you can probably relate to. I’m going to tell you about the time they told me I could be anything I wanted to be when I grew up. What the fudge, right? Why don’t we try lowering the bar a little, Babs and John? Some days I can barely remember how to tie my shoes. Yesterday, I asked my husband which side the heart is on*. In case it’s not already abundantly clear, I AM grown up, and I CAN’T be anything. In fact, the list of what I CAN be is getting shorter by the minute. I can’t even audition for American Idol anymore!
Before I sound like one of those ungrateful little bastards myself, I should pay tribute to all of the things I CAN do, thanks to my parents. So here, in no particular order, are my inherited skills:
I make a mean carrot cake.
I can paint a room without taping up the edges first.
I can play Chopsticks and Heart and Soul on the piano.
I can recite most of Dirty Dancing.
I can ABSOLUTELY recite every lyric to every John Denver song ever recorded.
I can use “merkin” in a number of ways during family Scategories without getting in trouble.
…Thanks, Mom and Pop.
*My husband would like you to know that I can’t really be faulted for asking this question, because I have a severe case of [self-diagnosed] selective dyslexia, whereby I usually cannot tell the difference between left and right. “Even when you’re looking RIGHT AT the GPS!” he is saying now. He is sweet, but I don’t need his pity.
"You'd better not laugh, you stupid b*tch." ...Wait, I don't think that's it.
Go Jules Go 