Although I have a website, a LinkedIn page, a Facebook personal page, a Facebook biz page, and a blog, I am still somewhat of a closet Luddite when it comes to certain technology. Last night was a good example of how it catches up with me.

I had been enjoying a sensual dream about my mother’s baked stuffed artichokes, soft hearts oozing with Pastene’s olive oil and generous chunks of garlic. I woke suddenly to the sound of Riley barking.

Boop!

That sound—kind of like an electronic sound, maybe.  I raised my head up immediately and sniffed the air, while Riley continued to bark.

Boop!

Yes, it was a faint electronic  sound occurring at a regular interval.  Smoke alarm wearing out its battery? Better check.

I got up and started my patrol of our one-floor ranch. Jean came out of her nightly coma to mumble, “Let the dog out—it must be the bear in the back yard again,” and then went back to sleep.

Boop!

It became a game of hot/cold.  As I wandered from room to room, the faint sound either got louder or faded.  Just in case, I checked the basement also, but the heat went on and blotted out any other sound.

Boop!

Now I’m getting frustrated. I open the door to the room Riley sleeps in, and he comes bounding out and glues all 80 lbs. of himself to the rug beside Jean in the bedroom, which wakes her up again. “Whaaaahmmmm?”

“Go back to sleep; I’ve got it.”

Not really. My heart is jack-hammering and my hands are sweating.

Not wanting to wake Jean, I turn on only one light and creep through the house, trying not to bump into things or step on Max the cat, who is now spooked as well and following me everywhere.

Boop!

I check the computer closely, as it sometimes talks when it’s unhappy, but that’s not it. In the dark, my entire home is a field of fireflies, little lights winking and glowing on the phones, the clocks, the VCR, the TV, the modem, the stove, the coffee pot that still needs cleaning, the smoke alarms, the CO2 alarm . . .

Boop!

THERE IT IS—I am right next to the sound! I raise the living room shade and stare into a large round yellow light glaring at me from the street.  My heart skitters to a stop.  Max runs and hides under the futon.

OK, no, not a UFO . . . just the reflection in the window of the one light I turned on.

Silence.

Suddenly a series of soft musical notes plays. Right in front of me, from my pocketbook. The sexy Verizon melody of a cell phone shutting itself down.

I fish it out and see that the battery is dead and the beeping sound has stopped.

I’ve been a bad mother.  I haven’t charged it for weeks. I haven’t even used it since last September when we moved here and didn’t have a phone. I bought it only for emergencies, not even using it for business purposes in case I got that all-important call from a client and hit a dead zone at the same time. But, I am afraid to shut it off, so it lives at the bottom of my pocketbook, feeding on lint. I check the messages once a month and find wrong numbers, text ads from car dealers, and an occasional (probably former) friend who forgot I don’t take incoming and left me a message by mistake. I hate it. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.

I plugged the phone into its charger and patted it.  “OK, you win this time,” I admitted. Maybe I’ll pay more attention to it in the future. Then again, probably not.

(Dedicated to my sister in law Julia, who still, bless her heart, has a rotary phone.)

Fran Fahey, Fran’s Fine Editing