The Wake Up Ping
WARNING: It’s ‘nother first world blues rant.
I don’t usually keep my phone near me when I’m in bed. Had a lifetime in the military, along with my time in marketing. People always wanted me immediately available.
Well, no longer! It’s one of the declarations of independence I made when I retired from all that work stuff. The phone stays in the other room.
Except, yesterday, it didn’t. I wasn’t feeling well. My car was in the shop for routine maintenance. I was waiting for them to call or text to tell me it was ready. So I had the phone on my nightstand.
They called about four-ish, asking if they could keep it overnight. No, nothing major found; they were just short-handed and overscheduled.
Shrugging it off, I agreed, sure. “Call me in the morning when it’s ready.”
I went back to sleep, off and on, and forgot about the phone.
Until six AM this morning.
The phone pinged with a message. In irritation, I thought, sisters. That was more a matter of my mood than anything. My sisters have habits of getting up early and sending texts early. They’re on the east coast of the US, so they’re three hours ahead of me. Texts that they’re sending at 8 AM are pinging on my phone at 5 AM.
But it wasn’t my sisters.
Nor was it the car repair shop.
No, it was Google Health, formerly known as Fitbit.
Google Health pinged me awake at 6 AM to tell me that I didn’t have a good night of sleep.
Sure; that made total freaking sense.
As Mom often grumbles, “Those so and so’s.”
A Bulb Tale
More first world blues!
I barked out a laugh.
My wife absently asked, “What’s so funny?”
We were in the home office, each quietly doing computer things. Sitting back, I turned my chair to face her. “You know how that garage door light bulb went out?”
The background: there’s a light that goes on when you press the button to raise or lower the garage door. It was no longer going on.
She nodded, waiting for me to drop the other shoe.
“Well, when you were out the other day, I replaced the bulb. That didn’t fix it, though.”
“Oh,” my wife said.
“Anyway.” I gestured at the computer. “I figure, must be something else. So I’m researching online. One of the things I came across was that I should use a light bulb specifically made for garage door lifts.”
My wife frowned. “What?”
I laughed. “Exactly. We’ve lived here twenty years. I think I replaced the bulb one before. I replaced our Half Moon Bay garage door light one time. I’ve never bought a special bulb for it.”
“Why would the garage door need a special bulb?” my wife asked.
“It’s supposed to be ‘more rugged’.”
She and I both laughed. “I think that’s crap,” she said.
“I agree,” I replied.
We returned attention to our computers.
Another School Dream
Heading to school. Adult – roughly my current age. Driving through a dark, rainy day. It is pouring rain.
It begins with me in a car, driving. Traffic is heavy. I’m trying to get into the left-hand turn lane. A dark blue Miata is ahead, trying to get into my lane. Behind the Miata, a motorcycle is trying to also change lanes to my lane.
Patient and courteous, we work it out and go on. I turn left, then left again onto the school grounds.
Then I’m in a crowded small classroom. English lit is being taught. Other students present are famous and accomplished: movie, television, and rock stars, along with NFL players and coaches, and NASA scientists. I think, what am I doing here?
A man introduces himself as a NASA scientist. I once facilitated some NASA scientists in a team-building exercise. I struggle to remember their names. I can only tell him when and where it happened. He smiles, indulgent, but he’s not impressed.
An NFL player sitting not far from me recalls a ‘jet sweep’ play. He was blocking for the runner, and vividly remembers details. “Was the QB the runner?” I asked.
An NFL coach joins the conversation. Using a marker, he draws up the play on a sheet of paper, describing it in detail. I’m astounded.
We break to different classes. As I walk away, I notice that my computer bag, which is black leather, feels awfully light and floppy. Damn; I left my laptop at home. I think, if I have my phone, I can still log in and do things – but no. I’ve forgotten my phone, too.
Grimacing, I think, how can I recover? Not seeing a way, I sit, hoping to be inconspicuous, realizing, if called upon, I’ll just need to explain that I screwed up and forgot my phone and laptop. I’m so mortified.
Another person sits beside me. I recognize him as someone famous. He asks, “Hey, are you alright? It looks like something is bothering you.”
I explain that I forgot my laptop and that it upset me.
The teacher, a small elderly woman, comes in and sits at a desk at the crowded class’s front. She begins talking.
Dream end.
More First World Blues
My wife lost her phone.
So, I’m changing information in online accounts. The procedures were all originally all set up for us do online — technological DIY, if you will — back in the Internet’s infancy. Since then, the net has been terrorized by security threats and thefts.
Anway, the saga begins…
I log into my account. Navigate to my profile. Go to the phone numbers. Try to change the number.
Can’t!
Because I have already added that number.
I attempt to delete that number.
Can’t!
In order to do that, they want to text me a security code on the number I’m attempting to delete because the number is no longer valid.
Yet, that’s listed as the primary contact. I can’t move the other name up. It has a strange, inexplicable logic to it.
No other options are available online. My only choice is to call them and explain it all.
It’s a technological catch 22.
First World Blues: The Phone Saga
I entered the house.
My wife looked at me with hope. “Did you find my phone?”
“What?” I asked.
She explained. She’d called and left messages. She’d lost her phone.
My phone never rang.
After cursing that, I examined my settings. The phone should have rung. It’s possible it rang and I didn’t hear it.
Anyway…
My wife lost her phone. She thought it happened at the coffee shop. I called them to ask if they had found it. They looked all over as I called the number.
“No, sorry,” Katie told me.
We drove over to the coffee shop to look for ourselves. No sign of the phone.
Then I got a phone call from her phone. Children were making a prank call.
I tried talking to them. I offered a reward. I texted them with an offer to buy the phone back.
No response.
After two days of trying, my wife accepted, the phone was gone. She needed to cancel the service for that number.
She called the support center.
A bot answered. It explained it was a bot and asked her what her problem was.
My wife explained the situation.
“Hold on,” the bot said. A few minutes later, it came back on the line. “Can you explain your problem again please?”
My wife did.
“Please hold,” the bot said. “I’ll be right back.”
The back came back and suggested, “Turn your phone off and on.”
“No,” my wife replied. She explained again: she did not have her phone. Her phone was lost. She needed to cancel the service.
“Hold on,” the bot replied. It went away. My wife listened to hold music. The bot came back: “Turn your phone off and on.”
“That won’t work,” my wife answered. “Let me speak to a human.”
The human had her sorted in thirty seconds. If she had spoken to the human in the first place, the call would have been under a minute.
Instead, she was forced to endure having a bot tell her, “Turn your phone off and on.”
AI.
Right.
The Sisters Dream
I was with several of my sisters. We were all younger than now.
Don’t know where we exactly were. Outside. Mostly flat and sort of muddy to start.
I’d been off doing something and then returned, looking for them, as it was time to go. I found them by a large broken cement sewer pipe coming out of the base of a dirt hill. Multiple bottles and trash was there.
One of the sisters asked, “Michael, can you help us? We want to clean up these bottles but we don’t know how.”
They had two large plastic containers with a spout on top. Way too small to put the bottles in. So I tore the top of the plastic away. They thanked me and we loaded the bottles up, often breaking them. Some bottles were already broken. As they warned me to be careful, I picked up the bottles and put them in the plastic. Then I carried those away, depositing them somewhere safe.
I was ready to go, so I began walking. My sisters were several hundred yards away. I wanted time to myself. Deciding to avoid them, I began running. My sisters called my name: I ignored them, running faster.
I crossed the muddy plain and then ended up on a highway’s wide shoulder. Traffic was heavy to my right. Dusk was coming. Left was a lot of new constructions: houses and stores were being built, but was suspended for the night.
I thought, wow, that’s a lot of construction. The construction and changes threw me off. I hadn’t been in the area for a while. Confused about where I was going, I decided to go back to my sisters.
Turning around, I gawked with some amazement. I hadn’t realized how far and fast I’d run. Running back, my speed amazed me even more.
I reached the spot where I’d last seen my sisters. They weren’t visible. I called them; no answer.
Then I found them, along with their previous husbands, and more of my family. I looked for my wife but she wasn’t there. I saw my younger sister’s ex-husband, JJ, and said hello to him, adding, “Good to see you.”
The group told me we were going to Sharon and John’s. She’s my sister and that’s her husband. Then the group kind of wandered around, dawdling. Impatient, I went to Sharon and John’s house.
It was a small place. In the dining room was a large oval, polished wood table. Arrayed in front of it on one side were three rows of seven baby highchairs. They were different colors and ages. Each had a placard on it.
I was mystified. Like, what’s going on here? Is this where they expected us – adults – to sit? We wouldn’t fit in those chairs. No, they seemed to be set up for something. Classes for children?
Then the chairs rearranged themselves. Many disappeared. Matthew Perry was seated at one of the tables. Reprising his role as Chandler Bing from “Friends”, he did a few scenes. Except, he was the size of a baby.
John came in. I said, “How was that done,” gesturing to Perry/Bing in a highchair. John explained, “Oh, that’s Matthew Perry. He was in “Friends”.”
I answered, “I know all that, but that’s not him. That’s the size of a child. Is that a puppet? Animation?” It was completely lifelike.
We went back and forth, with John explaining the same thing in almost the same ways. I kept asking questions, trying to clarify it, but never got an answer. My sister came in, interrupting us to announce that there were sandwiches in the other room.
Dream end.
The Water Bottle Dream
Once again, I found myself younger and off at some gathering. Not huge, about one hundred people, I guess. It was some kind of bonding/teamwork thing. Don’t know who was hosting it.
I was part of management. I knew everyone there, at least casually, and some were direct co-workers or friends. Nobody was part of my real-life world.
We’d just finished eating and socializing. Clean up was underway. The undertaking was moving to a new location. Teams were going to be set up and tasks assigned.
As I was familiar with what was happening, I urge everyone to go on while I cleaned up and supervised that aspect. Finishing up, I found a bottle of plastic water. Drinking from it, I headed down to join the rest.
Everyone was scattered in a sort of ornate, fancy hotel lobby. I wandered through, eyeing the groups, listening to the chatter, drinking water from the bottle.
A woman at a podium accosted me from a podium that was up on a platform. She was young and dressed formally in a skirt but with a buttoned up blouse and jacket. I took her to be a concierge or some sort of hostess. Not knowing what she was saying, I went closer to her.
She said, “Wouldn’t you be better off drinking that water somewhere else?”
I didn’t respond. I realized that she thought that I didn’t belong there.
Feeling feisty and amused, I asked, “What did you say?”
Smirking, she leaned forward and looked down at me. First she repeated what she said before. Then she elaborated, “Maybe you have a home you can go to to drink your water.”
Grinning, I drank water and replied, “I like it here. Why shouldn’t I drink it here.”
Lowering her volume, she explained, “You don’t seem to appear like you belong here.”
“Really? Where do I belong?”
Our conversation had captured my friends and co-workers’ attention. Some came over and asked, “Michael, what’s going on here?”
I smiled, almost laughing, as I saw the concierge realize that I was part of that group.
Dream end.
Michael Seidel, writer 