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After remote control, technology runs amok
(by Christine Thome - December 15, 2010)
BEYOND MY CONTROL, BY CHRISTINE THOME
After remote control, technology runs amok
Technology has invaded every aspect of our life.
Sometimes I appreciate this invasion. For example, the TV remote control is probably the best invention ever. Not only does it make it easier to peruse worthless channels, but it strengthens family bonds, because you never appreciate your children more than when you can't find the remote.
"Jack! Get up here and change the channel for me!" My husband, John, yells at our son.
"Why do I have to do it?" he cries from the basement.
"Because you lost the damn thing!"
"How do you know it was me and not one of the girls?" he yells back.
"Because I'm watching "Family Guy," and you're the only one in this family who likes that stupid show. Now, hurry up before my "Two and a Half Men" starts!" John yells. "And grab me a beer from the basement fridge on your way up."
"I'm so glad we had kids," John smiles at me as he makes himself comfortable in his favorite chair, cracks open his ice cold beer and instructs Jack to keep pushing the channel button on the television until Charlie Sheen fills the screen.
"Come back up in 30 minutes and bring me another beer," he reminds Jack as the poor kid heads back to the basement.
Other times, technology is an assault on our senses. From spam to annoying ring tones, there is a lot of technology I can certainly do without.
However, the one life experience I never expected to be "enhanced" by technology is the "snow day."
Not to sound like the old fuddy-duddy who had to walk backwards, uphill, barefoot and through 10 feet of snow to get to school when I was a kid, but what happened to listening with fevered anticipation as the local radio announcer ran through the list of closed schools?
"Please call our school, please call our school," we would pray quietly as we pulled the covers up to our necks to keep out the cold. Hearing your school name was like winning the lottery.
It never failed that, if your school district started with an S, you would tune in just as they started the T's and be forced to listen to 263 other schools until they finally reached yours again. Heaven forbid, you had to go to the bathroom and risk missing your school. Again.
But now, if there is a snow day, the message is delivered directly by the school district instantaneously to every tool of communication you own. At precisely 5:30 a.m. this past Monday, my entire house lit up like the Christmas tree near a 911 switchboard. John's cell phone sprang to life, immediately followed by the house phone, followed again by the sounds of bings from texts coming into the kids' phones down the hall.
"What the hell is happening?" I cried in confusion, my heart racing.
"Lucky you, it's a snow day," John groaned as he turned off his phone, rolled over and went back to sleep.
"Are you kidding me?" I screamed, throwing back the covers. "This is the last week before winter break, and I haven't started my Christmas shopping! They can't give us a snow day. I have too much to do."
The one thing that hasn't changed with the times is that, once you know you have a snow day, the adrenaline kicks in, and you can't get back to sleep, no matter how hard you try.
So, at 5:45 a.m., I threw on my robe, walked down the cold stairs, cursed the snow that was piling up outside and blowing furiously, made a pot of coffee and turned on my computer to attempt some online Christmas shopping, since it looked doubtful that I would be leaving my house for the next day or two.
As my computer glowed in the dark living room, it occurred to my very stressed and fuzzy brain that, if I can use technology to shop during a blizzard, perhaps the schools could use the same technology to teach and assign homework during a blizzard, making snow days obsolete.
Nah, not even the Grinch is that mean.
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