This year alone I have logged so many hours on the phone with tech support for my less-than-two-year-old lemon of a computer that at times I have lost full work days, my patience, and – quite nearly – my mind.
Sometimes, out of the boredom that comes with waiting for this diagnostic or that test to be run, a background in journalism, and a general curiosity about people, I have had conversations with technicians about family, the pluses and minuses of arranged marriages, what it’s like to work all night. One time I was on the phone so long that while the tech was working, I actually took a shower, dried my hair, got dressed and put on makeup. “Speaker phone is on. Yell if you need me,” I told the tech. “Do not leave me,” I warned, “because if I have to start over again with someone else, I will jump off a roof.”
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My friend Michael and I have, on more than one occasion, sung to one another on the phone. No love songs, no Broadway. Just two early baby boomers trying to cobble together the lyrics to songs we were raised on by progressive parents who believed in the messages the songs taught. Neither of us knows anyone else who played these 78s until there were no grooves left in the plastic records.
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My book group has grandmothers and moms with at-home or sometimes-at-home kids. We are psychologists, business owners, social workers. We have an attorney, an OB-GYN, an ex-investor relations pro who is, for the moment, retired.
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I picked blackberries the other day. Nothing unusual about that. Most every day I go to the local fruit and vegetable mart, ask, “Blackberries good today?” and decide whether to pick a small container or a large one.
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