Selfies aren’t harmless. In fact, they’re being called “killfies” as more people, doing stupid things in order to snap that ideal picture, are staggering and stumbling and plunging to their deaths. Documenting our lives has become a dangerous stunt, in more ways than the obvious.
For a while now The Hubby and I have been debating the purchase of a voice-activated smart speaker, not because we need it but because so many people we know have one. Whether it’s the Amazon Echo or the Google Home or the Apple HomePod, I don’t want to miss out on what is certainly the future of home living.
Without my purse, I feel naked, vulnerable, at the mercy of who knows what. Men don’t get that need — or devotion — to handbags. They traipse through life footloose and fancy-free, with no more than a couple of possessions in a pocket.
My oldest grandchildren at 11 1/2 are well-ensconced in that spot I call The In-Between: not yet teenagers but not quite little girls either. It’s a quicksandy kind of place, with shifting allegiances, evolving friendships and more than a few bouts of drama.
Happy belated 30th birthday, World Wide Web. At this age, WWW should be all grown up, but it is still in the process of adulting, a term coined to describe the lo-o-o-ng process of maturation by a generation that hasn’t been taught differently.
I’ve learned that nothing replaces old-fashioned face-to-face meetings. Sure, there’s FaceTime and Skype, but sorry, tech enthusiasts, that just doesn’t cut it. A person’s face on a screen is a substitute, not the real thing.
In the past few years, everyone I know who has embarked on a house remodeling project has knocked down at least one wall. Gone are the partitions separating the dining area from the kitchen. Bedrooms and bathrooms are the last rooms left standing in our drive for exposure.
Our country is divided not into Republicans and Democrats, conservatives and liberals, rural voters and urban ones. No. The true division in my world, the line that separates the “us” from the “them,” can be blamed on one song: “Baby Shark.”
I live a cluttered life, or so I’ve been led to believe by the barrage of emails, advertisements and TV shows reminding me that closets need to be organized, countertops cleared and drawers emptied of stuff I haven’t worn in ages.
Another holiday season successfully celebrated means one sure thing: I won’t see some of the people I most love for many weeks, or at least until I board a plane and fly across states to visit them in their own homes.