. . . why Apple goes to legendary lengths to make our iPhones look so sleek and elegant when the first thing we do is buy dumb rubber cases to keep them from breaking? What makes it even more absurd is that the stupid clunky cases are EXPENSIVE, adding to the cost of an already outrageous phone. Plus, they get dirty, so you end up replacing them when you reach your personal level of gross.
The last time I removed the multiple layers of protective devices from my iPhone, I actually gasped at how beautiful and sensual it was. It glistened in the light; it slipped in lithely and out of my hand.
So yay that iPhones are now water-resistant (20 years late, if you ask me), but if they're so smart, why don't the Apple geniuses design a phone that is scratch-, dent-, and break-resistant – so we can appreciate these beautiful little pieces of jewelry in the raw?
As it is, my iPhone seems afraid of her own sex appeal!
. . . why we have allowed technology to make our lives both more complex and less efficient. I'm referring to the tendency of manufacturers of everything from washing machines to (from what I hear) vibrators to incorporate computer chips into their devices.
I don't think I need to know that my toothbrush is recharged at a 75% level, thank you. I don't need to watch my car compute gas mileage on a minute-by-minute basis. And I certainly don't need to be viewing the interior of my refrigerator unless I'm standing in front of it trying to make something appear out of nothing.
You know what all this technological gadgetry does? It makes us crazy. My question is why, when it seems possible to know and control everything, do I know so very little and feel so out of control?
And I know the answer: it's because technology is so unreliable and frustrating and counterintuitive and, well, robotic.
The final blow came when my machine machine was on the blink. My instructions were to call the hot line.
When a person finally answered, his idea was that I would read him the information on the screens, and we would diagnose the problem together. Of course it was fruitless - just a huge waste of everyone's time. The problem was solved in a method decidedly Old School: by a human repairman, who informed me that unlike washers and dryers of old, today's laundry equipment is designed to last a mere five years "mostly due to all the technology."
"I don't get it!" I cried. "That's because you don't sell washing machines," said he. This kind of logic makes smart homes look pretty darn dumb.
. . . why I must face the opportunity of taking a survey every time I land on a web page, attempt a drive-through deposit, or order something on-line. I mean, really, dear company, if you're so keen on making me happy, just get me through this tedious task (probably #10 of 25 on the list for today) without making a mistake, okay?
Not so much any more, but people used to always ask me: why do you call this - looking at my booth - Beyond Her? Ha ha, I would laugh - it's because of an old friend who noticed that, once I reached a crescendo, I always concluded my rants with "Ugh! It's beyond me!" I guess you could say it's my manifesto, articulated here.
You'd think I'd understand a lot more now, at this ripe old age. But it seems like I spend more and more of my time shaking my head, pursing my lips and rolling my eyes.
Starting now, I'm going to chronicle my quandaries. And let me just say that this is going to be Her - raw & uncut. Why would I bother to be politically correct on my own blog? It's beyond me.
So here we go: Installment #1. The possibilities are, well, endless.
It's Beyond Her: Potty Talk
When I grew up, the old saying was that you had to eat a peck of dirt before you die. Look it up: that's a lot of dirt. This expectation, combined with spending a lot of time outside and covered in art supplies have left me pretty much immune to personal messiness and with very little fear of germs. Unlike everyone else, it seems.
So, why is it, that with all these manically clean, disinfected, Purel-ed people making a huge production of their personal hygiene, that every public toilet seat I sit on is wet? And we know what with, right?
These cleaner-than-thou germophobes have gone out of their way to whiz all over the public fixtures so that they can't catch anything from the seat (guess they missed health class that day). Meanwhile, the next person, AKA me, gets to sit in their waste.
Like I said, I'm pretty germ-insensitive, but even I find this disgusting. And a damp bottom makes it hard as hell to pull up my pants. SO rude, SO self-centered, SO entitled. Gives new meaning to the phrase pissed off.
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