MOTHERLODE
Spaces have become my final frontier
May 11, 2009
Lorraine Sommerfeld
Imagine my surprise when I turned on my crappy little cellphone the other day, and it winked and told me I had a text message waiting.
Really? I didn't know I even had this service. In fact, I checked my bill because if you accidentally perform a function you haven't signed up for, it will cost you $200. Cellphones are the equivalent of hotel mini-bars – so many things seem like a good idea at the time, but you forget you are living in a parallel-cost universe where an Internet connection costs $45, and a jar of cashews is $18 . They do this so you convince yourself that six Pringles chips for $9 looks like a deal.
I don't know anyone who would text me. Only about five people even have my cellphone number, and I live with three of them. I ignored it.
A few days later, my phone told me I had three text messages. In a fit of Pandora-like recklessness, I opened them. It was my cellphone company, sending me junk mail. I called and reminded them interrupting dinner every week was interference enough.
I could lie and say that the initiation set off a wave of texting, but it didn't. I see people trudging around glued to their phones, walking into poles, cars and people as they send their vowel-less missives to each other. I see idiots driving and texting; I see people ignoring their kids, their friends and movies to text. Apparently, whomever you're actually with isn't good enough – it's about whom you're virtually with that really matters.
Christopher, 17, was out of town a couple of weekends ago. I knew basically where he was, but the deal was I'd get a phone call with more details. I called his cell for an update when I hadn't heard from him.
"I'll call you back. I have to go find the home phone number," he explained.
"Call me right back," I said, and sat foolishly waiting for the phone to ring. After another hour, I called again. It went to his voicemail, which he has never activated. As my anger did zero to 60 at warp speed, I considered my options.
"Ari! Get down here!" I yelled up the stairs. Ari, 14, came running, wondering what he'd done. "Your brother's turned his phone off," I began. Ari's shoulders visibly relaxed. "How do I text him?"
"You wanna text him?" he said. "You can't even turn on the TV if we're not home. Just call him later," he said, heading back up the stairs.
I was now brandishing my small, lousy cellphone like a parcel of nuclear waste. Squinting at the keys, I delicately queued my way through the buttons until, with a swirl of colour and noise, a small cursor sat blinking at me. I have bad eyesight and big fingers, a lethal combination for the tricky art of texting. As a kid, I remember reading that someone had written The Lord's Prayer on a grain of rice. I now recognize that as good training for new-world media.
It took me 20 minutes of plucking and deleting and cursing to create my message:
"callmerightnowyouaresogroundedandimgoingtokillyou"
When Christopher finally came in, I demanded to know if he'd received my message.
"Yeah. Sorry. I'd just told some people you were a writer, and I showed them all your message. They're still laughing," he said. He then showed me how to put spaces in.
At least I didn't walk into any poles.
Lorraine Sommerfeld appears Mondays in Living and Saturdays in Wheels. Reach her via her website lorraineonline.ca.
Toronto Star