I should’ve been able to just go press a button on the thermostat. A dial. Where’s the dial? Shouldn’t there just be a number to turn?
But no. Our new cooling system is hooked up to Wi-Fi, ran through the Honeywell site on my computer, of course. We can control the temperature when we’re not even home, you’re dad says with wide dreamy eyes.
These times, they are a’changin’.
Will you even get what that means? Or will Bob Dylan just sound ancient to you, like warbling bluegrass does to me, sung from a time way before, did they even have electricity?
…At a book reading last night someone asked the author, Jonathan Tropper, how he writes. Literally. “Do you write with a pencil?”
Tropper blinked. “Um, no. I don’t know anyone who still does.” He pondered for a minute, then added, “I saw on a documentary that Woody Allen still uses a shorthand, and uses a typewriter for scripts” as if a sadness about the truth of what he’d said sunk in, and he was looking for proof of that romanticism, somewhere.
…At the register, a woman next to me buying a copy of his book picked it up and smelled it. She smelled it. “Ah, she said, nothing like the smell of a book…”
…When I came home your father was on the couch pointing a remote at the TV. On the screen DVD covers were floating on display.
“What is that?” I felt like I was in the Jetsons, like when I was registering for all our baby crap and walked into BuyBuyBaby and saw that floating eggshell thing called a Mamaroo, and thought of my grandparents, staring at it, saying what the heck is that?
“It’s Apple TV.”
“What are you doing?
“I’m setting it up.”
“No, I mean literally, what are you doing? As in how am I going to do that when you’re not here tomorrow? I just want to watch TV!”
Sure, to me and Zoolander. (The files are INSIDE the computer??!)
…This morning walking into camp we were late, of course. “Come on, you guys,” I hollered back to you holding hands a few feet behind me, stopping every few inches to point out things of importance, a brick, a bottle cap–“MOMMY! Wet grass!”–“Put a little pep in your step!” I cried, “Come on, KEEP UP!
Now isn’t that ironic.