Okay listen: I have a lot of pet peeves, but one of the big ones is when people refuse to admit they are wrong. In the same vein, I hate when men refuse to fold and acknowledge that technology has bested them. For example: I have had two different stereos in my car and I never figured out how to program the clock on either one of them. I tried freaking everything, and since the clock is the simplest function that a stereo with that many buttons has, it should be easy enough to program, right? WRONG. Every male that I knew tried and failed as well, and it made me laugh when they would get in my car and scoff that the time was wrong, and immediately start fiddling with buttons, convinced that they would be able to figure it out when I clearly was too much of a bimbo to handle it.
Sidenote: I’m totally a bimbo when it comes to technology, but that’s beside the point.
My dad bought my sister a new laptop for graduation, and there has been an ongoing battle for the past several weeks that will go down in history as Dad vs. The Wireless Router. For some reason, he cannot figure out how to get her computer to connect to the wireless internet. It works fine for my laptop, and always has, but now the network insists that you must have a password to connect, and none of us had any idea that there even was a password, let alone any idea of what it might be. My dad has been fiddling with this for weeks, and I trust that he’s tried everything he could possibly think of to resolve the issue. He, being a man and all, isn’t technologically challenged like me, and we here at the all-female Smith residence rely on him to handle all of our electronic affairs. Typical, I know. But the fact that we play into a stereotype by being electronically incompetent females doesn’t change the fact that it irritates me to no end when men insist on their own technological superiority but are then unable to fix the problem, and then also unable to admit that they have been unsuccessful.
Case in point: my mom’s friend came over today, and for whatever reason my mom must have mentioned to him that my sister was having trouble connecting her laptop to the internet. And so it begins: he interrupts my lovely Skype chat with Trey to ask if our wireless internet is working. Yes, it’s working, and in fact, I’m in the middle of utilizing it and would prefer not to be bothered. He then goes on to perplexedly explain that the laptop isn’t even registering that there were any available networks, and asked if my sister has tried taking the computer somewhere like Bob Evans or Panera to see if it could hook into the wireless network there.
Sidenote: who the hell is gonna take their laptop to Bob Evans and use the wireless internet? The last thing I need when I’m at Bob Evans is the internet distracting me from those amazing cinnamon cream cheese stuffed pancakes, or that epic spinach bacon biscuit bowl, or whatever other wildly unhealthy homestyle deliciousness I choose to indulge in when I’m there. I’ve never seen anyone at Bob Evan’s who wasn’t hungover or super old, so a laptop would seem very out of place to me there. Maybe a businessman would use his laptop there in a pinch or something, but needless to say, it’s not like it’s a cafe where you would go to spend time leisurely sipping espresso while typing away on your Macbook. It’s Bob fucking Evans. You go there to stuff your face with biscuits and gravy and then you get the fuck out before one of the geriatric regulars goes into cardiac arrest or something. Hit it and quit it.
The point is that my mom’s friend proceeded to spend the next hour trying to get my sister’s laptop to hook into the wireless internet. Not only that, but he kept asking me questions and explaining the problems that were preventing his success to me, as if a) I gave a shit, and b) I couldn’t figure out on my own the simple nature of the problem, that is, that the computer wasn’t able to connect to the internet. I tried explaining to him several times that my dad had already tried everything under the sun to make it work, and he simple ignored me and continued to stare at the screen. Give it up, dude. Not only was I annoyed that he was trying to drag me into troubleshooting when I have pointedly tapped out of any electronic dealings at my house, but it also irked me that he seemed to think that he would be able to figure it out even though my dad couldn’t.
As far as I’m concerned, my dad is the god of electronics. I should have written that on his Father’s Day card. Maybe I should have gotten him a Father’s Day card. Greeting cards are so lame, though. My dad is not one for empty sentiment, and I didn’t feel like wasting 4 dollars on some cheesy-funny and simultaneously sentimental card that he would display halfheartedly on the counter for a few weeks before tossing it into the trash. Why bother?
Anyway, the point is that I would have rather had my mom’s friend figure out why the volume on our newish flatscreen TV inexplicably gets deafeningly loud without warning instead of rehashing the same wireless woes that my dad has exhausted over the past few weeks. But when he was eyeballing the new TV I was watching Sex & the City, and I didn’t want to be interrupted then any more than I did when I was Skyping with Trey.
I think the point is that I’m a grump. Oh, and that I suck at technology. Yeah. Something like that.