The other night I went to dinner with some writing friends, the local ANWA ladies. All ages of women were there, from my mom’s age down to just a little older than my oldest son. It’s a fun group.
As we horked down our cheese enchiladas, Danni (age 18~) told us she sends/receives about 300 texts per day. Shazam! “Are you kidding me?” I whipped out my fancy, fancy phone, “Do you know how long it would take me to key in 300 texts on this model? A month.”
Danni took it from me and looked at it with eyes of love. (Bless her.)
“A candy bar phone! I love these!”
I’m sure she saw someone with one back when she was in elementary school.
She punched the keys and then said, “Why is it in Spanish?”
Good question.
Takes you back, doesn’t it?
I regaled them with my story of how about six months ago when I was in WalMart and walked past this cute little Hispanic girl, my phone suddenly beeped. I looked down at it, and it no longer displayed in English. All Spanish.
Plus it thought my name was Amber.
Literally hours of messing with the buttons and using the far extent of my six Spanish classes I took at night in 7th grade netted me no change in display. I’d given up, assuming it was Spanish and I was Amber forever now.
My sister in law Julie, who was also at the party, said, “Well, if I want my phone fixed, I always just hand it to a young person.”
Chantel, who was sitting next to Danni offered to take a look at it.
Nope. No fixie.
Danni the Texting Wonder took a whack at it.
“I can’t find it. It’s not here. That is so weird.” I was sad, but not surprised. I mean, I’d done my darnedest to figure it out—for six months. “Wait. Wait! Wait. I got it! I got it. Look!”
Danni flashed me my phone.
It was speaking English again!
It was back. My cute little candy bar phone is now a smartie phone once again. Well, as smartie as I need it to be.
Good times. Tech and me. We are like this.
