Category Archives: technology

What’s in a name? Everything!

A “mini-pad,” really?

OK, so they pay some marketing group a boat load of cash to come up with a name like “iPad Mini?” Did they not think that people would shorthand it as “mini pad?” Which only leads me to ask what we should now call a regular sized iPad? That’s right. It’s a “Maxi pad.” I mean, seriously, nobody thought of that? Or else they did and were simply not deterred by the menstrual connection? Really?

Look, there are a host of poorly named products out there. There’s everything from Pee Cola to Barf laundry detergent. But most of the real doozies are from other countries and sound funny to us but really make sense in a different language. But for a company like Apple to just sort of miss this one seems like a colossal failure in the marketing research department.

The last product I remember with an equally bad name was the little chocolate chews my mom used to pop to help her stay slim. They were called “Ayds.” Remember them? Of course once the AIDS epidemic took center stage, the diet candies lost their appeal and left the marketplace.

I once found a guy in the phonebook named “Al Coholic.” No joke. I called him on the radio and asked him live, on-air, if he’d found it troublesome to go through life with a name like that. He said he had no idea what I was talking about. Like “Al Coholic” was just as vanilla a name as “John Smith,” which given Mr. Smith’s heroic notoriety, is sort of amusing since his name has come to stand for the epitome of unremarkable, trite and ordinary.

When we first were convinced that my youngest son, in utero, was going to be a girl, I thoughtfully presented the name option of “Leah” to my husband Mark. He just stared at me in disbelief. “Lay-a-Gettleman?” he quarried, “”That’s not a name, it’s a sentence.” I had to admit he had a point. I just hadn’t thought of it.

Which brings me back to the whole Kotex thing. I mean sure, people make mistakes. We’re all human. But when you’re a multi-billion dollar company, like Apple, you sort of expect more. Unless…maybe they’re going after that ever-so-elusive, older, female demographic. I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe they deliberately named their new device after an outdated feminine hygiene product to try and attract the gals who grew up using those “mini pads.” Now that is ingenious.

Expand the market share from dweebie, gen-y males to mature, married chicks, 54 plus. Hmmm???? Clever move. Boy those guys at Apple are ahead of the curve.

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“Call” me crazy

Hello, mom? Have you lost your mind?

There’s a drama at our house and it revolves around an electronic device. Sound familiar? The only thing unusual about this particular drama is that it’s only occurring within the ravages of my mind.

You see, part of me thinks my 11 year old son, Levi, needs a cell phone. I mean he’s constantly using mine to talk to classmates about assignments and set up social arrangements. Frankly it’s a bit of a nuisance. But more importantly, he sometimes needs to call me from after school activities when schedules change or plans vary. It would be, well…convenient.

However, when I say “cell phone,” I’m actually talking about a device used to connect to people telephonically. No texting. No internet. No video capabilities. Just a simple, highly limited calling plan. In short, not the cell phone he would like to acquire.

I once floated the idea to him. When he heard that it wasn’t 4G or invented by Steve Jobs, he politely declined the offer, preferring instead to remain disconnected and untethered from such an utterly uncool parental figure. So the first part of my dilemma is that he has no interest whatsoever in obtaining a cell phone. We all know too well how items with no personal value are kept and maintained by 11 year old boys. This does not bode well for said cell phone.

The second issue is that no matter how vehemently a parent opposes the whole electronic invasion, eventually your will is eroded and you give in to things you never in a million years believed you’d give into. So I figure it’s only a matter of time before my son manages to coax an evil, spend-your-life-texting implement out of us. But the earlier we start the descent down that slippery slope, the sooner he’ll be lost to us in a sea of cyber-space. Putting off the inevitable, even for a year or two, gives us more time with him as a viable and meaningful member of our family. One could also argue that more time as a child, unencumbered by a device that teaches people to be 100% accessible to their peers, co-workers, and even enemies at any given moment, would serve to cultivate a more thoughtful and emotionally connected adult later on in life. So why start the journey earlier than absolutely necessary?

Hmmm…Sometimes clarity comes from simply seeing your issues in black and white. I think that is my experience today. As I reread this, I am convinced that, unless I am harboring some internally masochistic yearnings, I’d better hold off on the cell phone idea for a while. Maybe I’ll wait until…he’s driving, or legally drinking. Oh lord, I just hope he doesn’t combine those two things; especially while he’s texting.

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I am a camera

Cable car cuddling: Don't we look sweet?

I’m sitting at my computer watching a slide show of photos of happy kids, untroubled parents and a family that clearly loves life, each other and having fun. Who are these people? They look an awful lot like my family. But there’s no way these happy-go-lucky folks are even remotely related to me, my exhausted husband, or my increasingly annoying two children.

Why can’t life be more like a photo montage? I mean, in all fairness, I took a lot of these pictures. I was actually present for each and every happy moment that’s parading before me on my computer screen. I can even remember most of the events without a great deal of prompting. I ought to feel as joyful and carefree as my celluloid image. But I don’t.

The mom in the photos is young, happy, and easy-going. I, in contrast, feel tired, ancient and about as close to breaking as an overstrung archery bow. I can’t even imagine my two sons sitting next to each other without trying to kill each other. And I’m not sure I can remember the last time I saw my husband smile. This is making me sad.

Maybe there’s some way to “fake it till you make it.” If I just pretend to be as happy as photo me, maybe I’ll somehow morph into her. Maybe if I act like her, my family will follow suit and my kids will burst out into peels of laughter instead of screeching furiously at one another. Maybe if I can just convince myself that she is me I can bring a sense of joy and ease back into our lives.

That seems kind of impossible from my current vantage point. Maybe I’ll just write a play about a writer who wills herself into her computer to relive all the happiness depicted in her iphoto albums. I bet that’d get old pretty quickly though. I mean, how many chilly San Francisco cable car rides would it take before even photo mom got bored?

No. I guess I’m stuck out here, being me, watching her, wondering how we all got so frustrated and disgruntled about life when it really is filled with so many opportunities to love and enjoy each other. Maybe I just need to realize that we do have joyful moments, mixed into the misery of 113 degree days, unending errands and piles of dirty laundry. Maybe it’s all about focus. When you take a picture you take a moment, you breathe, you stay still and snap, the perfect shot. Most of the time in life I forget to breathe, am running 150 miles per hour and never even look where I’m headed.

I am that woman in the photos. I just need to aim my eagle eye at the good things, the happy moments, the daily victories, and not to concentrate so hard on the tirades, the tantrums and the tragedies. It’s all about where you aim the camera, set the F-stop, and how you choose to compose each shot. Plus one can always add a little bit of flash to brighten up the image a bit. Remember, as Gentle Giant once sang, “I am a camera.”

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Six word memoir

Who are you really, In six words or less?

Who are you really, In six words or less?

I was listening to NPR today and they promoted an upcoming segment on writing your own memoir — in six words. The minute I heard it I was hooked. Six words to tell the world who you were, what your life meant. Fascinating. Tricky. Impossible. I became obsessed. It’s like that game we used to play as kids; “If your house was burning down, what three things would you save?”

If you only had six words, who would you be? Can you hone a description of yourself to that fine a point? Without cliche? Without limiting all that you are?

I began to work:

So much laundry, need to write.

Write to live. Mother to love.

More than mom. Creator, artist, dreamer.

Watch stars. Play Clue. Want more.

Seeking balance — motherhood and self expression.

I asked a friend what his would be. He said, “I would have done it different.” That made me sad.

I kept working. Then I checked out the NPR transcript since I hadn’t even heard the show. Apparently the idea came from “Smith,” the online magazine. Based on the legend that Hemingway once responded to a challenge to write a complete story in six words with, “For Sale: baby shoes, never worn,” They asked readers to tell their life stories in a single sentence. What resulted was a book,“Not Quite What I Was Planning,” by Smith founding editor, Larry Smith and his memoir editor, Rachel Fershleiser.

Here are a few excerpts from the book:

After Harvard, had baby with crackhead.
- Robin Templeton

Watching quietly from every door frame.
- Nicole Resseguie

Savior complex makes for many disappointments.
- Alanna Schubach

Born in the desert, still thirsty.
- Georgene Nunn

Almost a victim of my family
- Chuck Sangster

Painful nerd kid, happy nerd adult.
- Linda Williamson

Then I went back to work on my own. Clearly being a mother was key to my self description. But so was being an artist, an independent creative being. I netted out with this:

“Deep loving mom, creating art to live.”

What would your six word memoir say?

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Fried at “Fry’s”

Yesterday my eldest son, Levi, got electrocuted at

No, I don't want FRYs with that!

“Fry’s” Electronics. The irony of that is not wasted on me. It was truly a horrifying event. We sat down in these massage chairs and when they weren’t working, Levi went to check and see if they were plugged in. When he picked up the cord it exploded into flames, knocked him back about three feet and singed his hand badly. It was terrifying. He then became completely hysterical and I tried to comfort him while also barking out orders to nearby nitwit employees who just stood there staring at me.

He is fine, albeit a bit fearful of anything electronic. But the fact remains that this could have been a grave, irreparable tragedy. That’s the part I can’t get beyond. I’m haunted by the “what ifs.” What if the current had been stronger? What if the explosion had caught fire and spread. What if something truly terrible had happened to my son?

It’s funny. When bad things happen, I almost always realize how lucky I am. It’s that Jewish “imagine the worst” thing that guides my thoughts towards the worst possible scenario. Then I’m deeply grateful for whatever minor event has befallen me. But I can’t forget how quickly life can turn — forever. It can leave you shattered, alone, sick, lost, afraid; for no other reason than random chance, and there’s simply nothing you can do to control it.

I stood right next to my son as he innocently picked up a cord, an ordinary event that had an unexpected, extraordinary outcome. A friend of mine told me how her toddler daughter had fallen and broken her arm, twice, as she walked helplessly alongside. I remember countless times when minor accidents occurred under my watch and only through luck and good fortune amounted to only a few cuts and bruises.

It’s all very frightening. I want this realization to make me live more fully, embrace every moment, appreciate all that I have. Instead it makes me want to slip under the covers, barricade my front door, and turn out all the lights in the house like my lame neighbors on Halloween night. I want to keep my family safe, my boys alive and unscathed by life’s darts and daggers.

Today my car was broken into. The window was shattered and an expensive item was stolen. My first reaction? Relief. Thank God no one was in the car. Thank God my husband and kids were safe. Thank God no one was hurt. But maybe I’m too passive. Maybe I ought to be more proactive, see potential bad things around the corners before they appear. Maybe my “thank god it wasn’t worse” attitude is really just a manifestation of fear, helplessness and the reality of how truly ineffective I am in life.

Help, I think I’ve fallen into a philosophical minefield and I can’t get up.

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The power of a Twinkie

Twinkies...the new diet aid?

“Four out of five dentists recommend sugarless gum for their patients who chew gum.” Do you remember that slogan? Have you ever thought about that slogan, about the sheer inanity of that slogan? What does it mean? That one out of every five dentists recommend sugar-saturated Bubble Yum over the sugar-free alternative?

I don’t know about you, but I have never met a single dentist who advised me or my children to chomp on sugar-laden bubblegum. Not one. Yet 20 percent apparently were counseling patients to coat their teeth with sickeningly sweet, caloric, cavity-inducing chewing gum. Why is that?

Because in any study, any collection of information, any data sampling and analysis, there will be a shockingly high percentage of people, (often impressive, well-degreed people), who espouse a point of view that is not only patently untrue, but may actually border on the edge of absurdity.

Think about it. We know beyond the shadow of a doubt that there is no link between autism and immunizations. There have been countless, international, meta-analyses to prove this. Yet an entire subculture of parents is out there proliferating this hogwash and exposing their children to deadly diseases like polio, measles, and whooping cough. Why? Because celebrities like Jenny McCarthy insist that the evil medical industry is responsible for sickening her child with autism. (Not to worry though. She changed his diet and cured him!).

Never mind the facts. There will always be someone who will say something insane, unsound and idiotic about anything.

I have numerous friends who are currently on the HCG hormone diet. This diet allegedly resets your metabolism and you lose tons of weight in a mere three-week period. Here’s the catch: You are only allowed to ingest 500 calories a day for 21 days. This new diet craze, which incidentally first appeared in the 1940s, has been conclusively shown to be dangerous, even deadly, in several circumstances. But all it takes is some “expert” on television touting its benefits, and millions of people rush to the naturopath for a dose of the delightful diet aid.

To prove a point, Mark Haub, a professor of human nutrition at Kansas State University, put himself on a Twinkie diet. For two months, he only ate Hostess Twinkies, snack cakes and other equally junky munchies. He lost 27 pounds. His point? It doesn’t matter what you eat. Just eat less, burn more calories, and you’ll shed the extra weight.

But we want to believe in miracles. We want to uncover the truth that someone somewhere is conspiring to keep from us. The truth that will make us thin, cure our kids and ultimately set us free.

Keep this in mind: if there is even one licensed dentist in this country recommending sugar-filled Bazooka to their gum-chewing patients, you can pretty be pretty sure there are plenty of other people who will say something illogical, irrational and idiotic about almost anything.

My advice? Trust no one. Question everything. And never, ever underestimate the power of a Twinkie.

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The good, the bad and the ugly

No more cellulose heightened realities for us!

Okay, I’m never going to the movies with my kids again. It’s always a friggin disaster and I never seem to learn my lesson.

My 6 year old son, Eli, begged me to take him to see Toy Story 3 (or whatever number the new one is). I remembered the horrible scene in the theatre at Karate Kid 4 (or whatever that new one was) when the main guy got chased by a bunch of really mean kids. Then I flashed back to the trauma of “Up” that depressing “kid” flick where the old man mourned the death of his wife in the most lugubrious montage I’ve ever seen on screen. Rationally I knew that going to the movies was not a good idea. But, what is it they say is the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result? That would be me.

So in spite of the warning bells clamoring in my head, I decided to take the boys to see Toy Story 3. The first time things didn’t go just right for Woody, all hell broke loose. My youngest son is simply not able to differentiate reality from make-believe. Yikes, isn’t that the definition of psychosis?

Anyway, at the first sign of trouble, my boy becomes wild with emotion. “Noooooo!!!!!! He start shrieking, “Get me out of here. I hate this movie. Oh God, noooooo….Woody!!!” Okay, seriously, I’m like , “Eli, come on, cut it out. Woody’s gonna be fine. He really is. I promise.”

“Noooooo,” he continues to cry at a decibel louder than the movie roar. “I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home.”

Now Eli is a tall 6 year old. He looks like he’s at least 7 or 8. So the people around us are more than a little perturbed. I mean, why is a youngster that age behaving like this. I murmer a few embarrassing I’m sorries and they reluctantly go back to the movie, probably assuming some diagnosis of autism spectrum disorder or sensory integration disfunction.

“Eli, we are not leaving. The movie just started and I promised your brother he could see it. You begged me to come to this film. I am telling you that Woody is going to make it and be just fine. You have to believe me.”

My reassurances did nothing to convince him of Woody’s certain well being. He screamed incessantly throughout the movie. Sure I thought about taking him home. I thought about wandering the halls of the theatre. But you really can’t leave your other kid alone in a dark movie theatre and feel like you’re being a responsible parent. I mean, what do you say to make sure he’s okay? “Listen, Levi, if a strange man sits down next to you while I’m roaming the halls with your brother, just stand up, start screaming and run wildly out of the theatre.”

So we stayed. It was miserable. Eli sat on my lap, catatonic, while Levi tensely tried to relax and ignore the muffled cries. I wanted to kill myself. This is so not what going to the movies with your kids is supposed to be.

Eli remained petrified throughout the flick, I’ve finally begun to understand why. He’s got what we call the “Nudelman” negativity (NN). It comes from my mother’s side. It’s an innate negativity that causes all of the Nudelman descendants to automatically obsess about what isn’t working and to confidently assume the worst in every situation. In film world, as soon as the good guys run into trouble, the NN warns my son of impending disaster. He then goes berserk, convinced that all is lost and the future of his cellulose universe is doomed forever. No amount of convincing works to ease his misery.

I asked my husband, the pediatrician, if there was some kind of medication for this? “I mean, seriously,” I told him, “he doesn’t understand that bad things have to happen in movies in order for the hero to become the hero. What is wrong with him?”

“Well, first of all, “ my husband began to explain in an annoyingly calm doctor voice, “it’s very normal for children at this age to have difficulty distinguishing reality from fantasy. The movie world can seem completely real to a 6 year old and that can be really scary. Plus you have to factor into the mix that his mother is a total wacko who can’t see movies herself because she gets too involved in them and then can’t function for days afterwards.”

What are you talking about?” I asked indignantly. “I see movies all the time.” “Yeah,” he said, “just the ones I pre-screen for you.” He then went on to list a few of the films we had seen that had sent me into so deep a state of devastation he had to lock up all the prescription medications in the house.

“Remember how you reacted at ‘Forest Gump’? What about ‘Lion King’, when the father died? ‘Pretty Woman’?” he was beginning to piss me off.

“Well, that was only because I thought they weren’t gonna end up together,” I said trying to sound as rational as possible.

“Okay,” he went on, “How about ‘Revolutionary Road,’ that movie about the nice suburban couple?”

“Honey,” I lamented, “I could relate to that movie. She had issues. And she killed herself in the end. That was not an uplifting film.” He went on to site some obvious selections like “Sophie’s Choice,” “Shindler’s List”, “No Country for Old Men.” I stopped trying to defend myself though when he reminded me about how I began to hyperventilate when Yoda died in “Return of the Jedi.” Then he asked me, “Have you ever wondered why that doesn’t happen anymore?”

“No,” I said. “Not until right now.”

“Because I see every movie you want to see first without you.” he confessed.

“You’re joking,” I laughed.

“No, I’m afraid I’m not. And you know those movies I told you we couldn’t get on Netflix. I was lying. I just don’t have the strength to watch you disintegrate after watching them.”

I was stunned and horrified. Could this be true? Was I living in some kind of Tipper Gore world of censorship without even knowing it. I wanted to race out and watch “Seven Pounds,” or “The boy in Striped Pajamas.” But then I realized how much happier I’d been these past few years seeing flicks like “Little Miss Sunshine,” and “The Full Monty.”

Maybe that was it. I needed to screen the movies I take Eli to beforehand. But every kid movie has a villain. Every kid movie has scary obstacles that impede the hero. Every kid movie has one or two dead parents. No. Screening alone cannot protect my young one from the fears inside his hereditarily psychotic brain.

The only answer is a movie moratorium. I’m done with the whole scene (pun intended). No more movie theatres, no more buttered popcorn, no more Screenvision trivia facts, and no more reciting classic movie lines like “Use the Force,” and “Go ahead, make my day.” I want to erase the entire film industry from our psyches. And if you think that’s the coward’s way out, “Frankly, my friends, I don’t give a damn.”

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He’s driving me crazy!!!

 

Driving him away

 

I am an enabler. Really, I am. I’m like the classic example of someone stuck in a destructive relationship. I make excuses for indefensible actions. I forgive innumerable disappointments. I turn the other cheek so often, I’ve developed chronic whiplash and need to see a chiropractor on a regular basis. This abuse has got to stop.

You see, it started innocently enough back in ’05. I needed new wheels. So I went out looking. I never expected to fall in love with a Rover. It just happened. It was like…destiny.

From the moment we hooked up, I knew he was trouble. Sure he was handsome, in a different sort of way. He wasn’t like all the others. His unique, boxy shape made him stand out in a crowd. I loved the way I could always single him out in a busy parking lot. He was powerful and rugged and I felt safe in his charge.

But the honeymoon was short-lived. Soon he started to have all kinds of “issues.” That’s when he began having an intense relationship with our service technician. At first it was once a month. Then weekly visits. Their connection seemed unusually close to me. But I ignored the looming sense of danger. What a fool I was.

We stumbled through a rocky five years together until I hit rock bottom and kicked him to the curb. I believed I was on a path to wellness. But I was merely fooling myself. This spring I met his brother. I was definitely on the rebound. I fell instantly in love, and I fell hard. But I told myself I knew what I was doing. Sure, there was a striking family resemblance. He had the same strong features, the same well-defined body, the same rugged exterior. But I believed the hype — that he was fitter, tougher, lower maintenance. Oh, how we deceive ourselves under the guise of loving.

I leased the 2010 model in March convincing myself that it was only 36 months, that it would be over in no time. “Besides,” I reasoned, “With such a clear-cut ending in sight, I could surely keep my attachment in check.”

But here I am. Summer vacation in California, and he did it to me again. He started having electrical “difficulties” on the drive over. I figured it was just another ploy for attention, a clumsy attempt to steal focus from my kids. I tried to ignore the warning signs, the flashing orange lights, the minor inconveniences. But then this morning, he wouldn’t even turn over. He just sat there silently, brooding, while I raged and cursed and swore I’d leave him forever.

Now we’re stuck. After an interminable wait for a tow truck and another excruciating intake interview with an out-of-state service tech, I’m back in my all too familiar state of profound disillusionment, waiting for this week’s diagnosis. What could it be now? A faulty computer glitch? A loose radiator cap? A fuel injection hiccup? Does it even matter anymore? I feel hopelessly trapped in a dangerously addictive dance of deception and doom.

Where can I turn for help? I need to break this sick pattern of attachment. I need a ride that wont let me down, that will be there for me in good times and bad, that wont leave me stranded in strange cities, with unfamiliar mechanics and coffee machines so advanced I can’t even figure out how to brew hot water for tea.

Please, someone help me. I admit my powerlessness over my addiction and am ready to turn my life over to a power greater than myself. But who could that be? Do you think “Motor Trend” might qualify?

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A real life email to my husband during tense economic times

how modern women communicate with their men

A real life e-mail to my husband during tense economic times

Dear Mark,
While thinking about our financial difficulties this morning, I came up with a brilliant money making strategy. However, after much research, I’m sorry to report that there is not one single reality TV show I can apply to be on to increase our earnings. The only thing that even comes close is one for you. “Husbands!!! Is your wife driving you nuts?” Want to try to get on the Marriage Ref, Seinfelds new show?

I’ve checked out everything from “Does your spouse wear a snuggie?” (What the hell’s a snuggie?) to “Have you recently come back from the dead?” There’s nothing for me. Seriously. It’s a real bummer. I’m not really a shopaholic. (Although I know you might argue that point). I’m not addicted to prescription pain meds. I’m not even recently divorced. I almost qualified for The Apprentice. But of course I missed the deadline by three months.

One show advertises “Feel you’re in over your head as a parent?” That one really speaks to me. But you have to live in Los Angeles County. You haven’t cheated on me recently, have you? There’s a new National talk show looking for spouses who’ve been cheated upon who have strong convictions on the subject. (I’d kind of guess that would be all of them, wouldn’t you?)

Would you characterize yourself as controlling? There’s an ad for women with husbands who try to control their every move.

Do you often muse to yourself that I’m just not the woman you married? There’s a show for you on that issue.

We don’t have a blended family. No inter-racial components. No step-kids. Shit. We’re the most uninteresting family in the universe.

There’s even a show for Moms addicted to energy drinks. Figures I gave up my Red Bull a few years ago.

Wait, here’s one. You are pretty hot. They’re looking for men as bold and good looking as the guys  from Jersey Shore, that MTV show. You’re kind of old though. Too bad. How about this? “Spoiled Wives.” Do you think I’m a spoiled brat in need of constant manicures, pedicures and facials? Ok, don’t answer that. I’m not applying for that one. Too bad I’m so artistic. There’s a show for Interior decorators who are really interior desecrators. There’s even a show for women who own pawn shops.

I’m not a young veteran, don’t want to confront someone about their slutty facebook pictures, I’m not even interested in confronting your mistress. I’m certainly not the real life 40 year old virgin. And as far as I know you don’t have a compulsion to cover the furniture in plastic wrap. Do you by any chance still suck your thumb?

I’m not sure what “Cakemania” is, but if you’re obsessed with it or hooked on performance enhancing drugs, I have a shot at a couple of shows. I doubt I’m smarter than a 5th grader. And I’m too darn old to try out for the “real” weather girl for a new iPhone App.

Guess I’ll just go back to clipping coupons.

Frugally yours,
debra

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