Tag Archives: smartphones

Trust Me; The FBI Wouldn’t Want my iPhone

www.melindawentzel.comI have an iPhone, similar to the one that caused the hullabaloo in the news cycle in recent weeks. As you might recall, there is a great deal of controversy surrounding the issue of privacy and national security as it relates to the San Bernardino shooters. In sum, the FBI wants to extract data from a particular iPhone owned by one of the gunmen, Syed Farook, in hopes of obtaining more information about the December attack in California.

Like a lot of people, I have mixed feelings about the matter since I can clearly see the benefit of unlocking the device in order to learn more about the crime’s particulars, yet I can also envision the potential negative of such an encroachment, setting an unwelcome precedent that may affect law-abiding citizens. As is the case with so many conundrums, knowing what is right is far more difficult than doing what is right.

One thing I know for sure, however, is that the FBI wouldn’t want my iPhone under any circumstances. Trust me. If, in fact, the government were to confiscate it, I’m certain they’d be disturbed by a number of things that would likely cause them to chuck it in the nearest river. First and foremost, they would be horrified by the egregiously unimaginative set of numbers I’ve assigned to its passcode—much like the predictable nature of those I use to guard practically everything in my life.

What’s more, they would be appalled to learn how many times my kids text from school to tell me they forgot

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something of vital importance, how often I ignore the directional advice of Google Maps and wind up perfectly lost, or the amount of time my husband and I discuss dog poop. Yes, dog poop. (It’s a long story and you probably wouldn’t be interested). At any rate, officials would also discover the unhealthy obsession with which I text in complete sentences, almost always using proper grammar, capitalization and punctuation—to a fault. My teens, of course, have come to expect such dysfunction in our family, but even still they roll their eyes at me. “Who does that?” they’ll ask with more than a little disdain.

Furthermore, I have serious issues with misspelled words and inadvertent omissions within my messages. Needless to say, it kills me to send them out into the world like that—broken and/or woefully incomplete. That said, I am positively fixated upon retyping them until they’re right. It’s a sickness, I know. By the same token, using abbreviations for common words or phrases would imply that I’m beyond lazy, and I’m simply not ready to admit anything of the sort to the government or to anyone else. Also, relying upon Siri to translate my speech into text while I’m driving is just IMG_0476asking for trouble. Quite frankly, she never gets it right, and then I have to pull the car over, delete her drivel and retype the stupid message—the one that could have been delivered long ago had I simply taken the time to hunt and peck on my tiny keyboard.

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In a related matter, I’m convinced that AutoCorrect is demonic and revels in its ability to thwart my repeated attempts to curse. After dealing with Siri’s ineptitude, it’s no wonder I feel compelled to use colorful language. So, of course, I persevere despite being hampered by the evils of spell-check gone awry. If nothing else, the FBI would be inspired by my determined efforts. Probably.

By contrast, it’s likely they would be largely uninspired by the cache of photos stored within my phone—the ones that feature food on a plate, unabashed selfies with my dogs and a PROFUSION of odd pictures and videos that my kids have taken upon hacking my phone. Because, of course, they think it’s funny to zoom in on chin rolls and nose hairs.

In sum, I think it’s safe to say that my iPhone won’t be seized by government officials anytime soon.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Join me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

Copyright 2016 Melinda L. Wentzel

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Filed under Normal is Relative, Techno Tripe

It Takes a Village…to Find My Husband’s iPhone

www.melindawentzel.comMy husband suffers from a debilitating character flaw—namely, that he loses things with disturbing regularity. That is not to say that the items in question remain lost forever. Sometimes, when the universe is agreeable, he finds them. Or at least someone finds them. Such was not the case with his wristwatch, however, or his enV cell phone that went MIA in 2007. I’m sure that by now someone out there is greatly enjoying the ungodly expensive Bulova I bought him. The phone with the nifty little keypad, by contrast, is likely still inside my home, lurking in a faraway corner, gathering dust. Or perhaps it’s situated right in plain sight, also gathering dust. Either way, by the time it’s recovered it’ll be a tired relic and of no use to anyone.

Needless to say, our exhaustive search for the abovementioned items proved fruitless so we broke down and purchased replacements, both of which have been AWOL as recently as today. That said, my husband’s condition is not only insufferable, it is also chronic.

What really stinks about the situation is not only that my husband’s world is upended whenever he misplaces something deemed vital to his everyday functioning, but the whole family is miserable since we’re forced to drop everything to help him hunt for his stuff. Invariably, it’s the iPhone that sparks the most outrage when it disappears from the radar, fueling our collective frustration.

“How on earth can you lose something as large as A PIECE OF TOAST?” I implore him, incredulous and furious as ever, not only because his phone, quite literally, is as large as a piece of toast, but because he not-so-affectionately refers to the device as “a piece of toast.”

The irony isn’t lost on me.

Even the kids are baffled as to how he can remember an astounding number of obscure events in history as well as the names, faces and phone numbers of practically everyone he’s ever met, and yet, he cannot readily recall where he left his phone just moments ago.

“That’s not normal, Dad,” our progenies suggest. “Maybe you should just keep it in your pocket, like everyone else on the planet. Or clip it to your belt.” Of course, in a perfect world, advice like this would have merit. However, my dear husband has informed me he doesn’t do clips. Nor does he place the phone in the same pocket—like a sensible person. Instead, he prefers to switch the phone willy-nilly from pocket to pocket, jacket to jacket and sometimes even plops it inside a shopping bag. “That way I don’t actually have to carry it,” he defends.

My theory is that he secretly detests his smartphone with every ounce of his being and purposefully abandons it whenever and wherever possible. That way, he can practice quiet defiance while appearing as if he truly cares about its recovery by helping us search beneath heaps of mail, under car seats and between couch cushions seemingly forever. A clever ruse, yet not quite clever enough to fool me.

At any rate, when the iPhone in question skips town we repeatedly and desperately call or text his number, hoping we’ll hear its familiar ringtone from the depths of the refrigerator (or some other perfectly logical place to leave a phone). It’s all for naught though, since it’s usually set to “vibrate only.” Naturally, when he mentions this particular detail, we want to scream something about buying tickets to see a train wreck. Or find the phone and soundly flog him with it.

What the man really needs is one of those beeping, flashing gizmos that restaurants use to let patrons know their table is ready. He should then duct tape the stupid thing to his phone—or simply duct tape the phone to his forehead. Either way, it would qualify as an improvement.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, in search of my husband’s iPhone. Probably. Visit me there at www.melindawentzel.com and www.Facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

Copyright 2015 Melinda L. Wentzel

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Filed under Captain Quirk, Daily Chaos, Rantings & Ravings

Call Me Crazy: Crazy for My iPhone

www.melindawentzel.comAs love affairs with cell phones go, the one I am about to describe is epic. Not that I’m the only person ever to become enamored with his or her smartphone—because I’m not. Plenty of idiots like me cling to their dear Droids and BlackBerries, inextricably fused to the deliciousness of those handheld wonders and to the epitome of shameless egocentrism. It’s just that I have trouble wrapping my head around the hideous nature of my fixation.

And by hideous, I mean that it is both appalling and unhealthy, never mind indefensible. Indeed, those with whom I reside will readily attest: “Mom, it’s like you have a crush on your phone or something. I seriously think you need an intervention—or possibly a better hobby.”

Case in point: In the dark of predawn, I abandon the warmth of my bed and stumble across the room, drawn to the soft glow of my beloved phone—a moth to flame. As if nothing else mattered, I scan breaking news from a never-ending stream of sources, devour the latest nuggets of idiocy on Twitter, check my email and, of course, peruse the Facebook statuses of 300 of my closest friends. Admittedly, I’ve got a problem.

Oddly enough, just a few short months ago I mocked those who appeared to be tethered to their precious devices—i.e. the people who routinely careen into oak trees and ill-fated produce towers while attempting to walk and text at the same time. The cool and detached who no longer engage in meaningful, face-to-face conversations, preferring instead the wit and wisdom of Siri, who understands them more completely anyway. Dweebs who have the audacity to sit across from one another in a café (or the same cussed living room), maniacally tapping screens and peering into their palms as if they each held a tiny, companionable wizard—which is disturbingly close to reality, now that I think about it.

Ironically, I’ve become one of those people—ever-so-smitten with my iPhone, unable to resist its wily charms and perfectly debilitated by its consuming allure. Never before did I imagine a fascination or dependency so profound. With each passing day, it lures me deeper and deeper into the tangled wood of its enchanted forest. Good thing I’m equipped with a state-of-the-art GPS and a user-friendly navigation app I downloaded for free.

At any rate, I cannot deny my crippling obsession with the aforementioned gadgetry, nor can I refute the fact that I feel naked without it. Especially in the shower. Despite my best efforts to prevent it from seeping into every corner of my life, it has become my muse, my constant companion, the yang to my yin.

My husband, by contrast, tends to regard it as a) a disease, b) the pure embodiment of Lucifer, and c) a tech-inspired monstrosity he would gleefully launch into the stratosphere if he had his druthers.

Clearly, the man doesn’t understand the bond my phone and I share or how said device “completes me” (and my sentences if need be). Nor could he possibly grasp the deep and abiding love I have for iTunes…and iCalendar…andIMG_0175 word games, or how patently delirious I was when I first discovered Instagram or that I could look up inane facts involving the lifespan of headless cockroaches WHILE listening to Zeppelin AND using the built-in alarm to remind me to haul my brood to the soccer field. Likewise, he couldn’t begin to recognize the delectable nature of speech bubbles or why I smile each time my kids iMessage me. Moreover, I think FaceTime frightens him.

Indeed, it’s a complicated sort of relationship—one that my dear husband will probably never fully appreciate. He doesn’t care that I spent an inordinate chunk of time learning how to properly waggle my phone, that I googled an embarrassment of app-related tutorials in order to become minimally functional or that I endured countless sessions with my tech-savvy charges who found me “impossible to work with.”

In the end, I suppose it doesn’t matter. I’m still crazy for my iPhone.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, wooed beyond comprehension. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom and now www.Instagram.com/PlanetMomPics.

Copyright 2013 Melinda L. Wentzel

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Filed under Techno Tripe, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction