I Blame It All On iOS 7

Since I got such a great response to my last post, I decided to share another story about me jacking stuff up.  Gather ’round, my friends.  It’s a pretty good one…

The very first weekend after I returned from the cruise, Sheepdog and Kid B had to go out of town for a soccer tournament.  I was a little jealous that Sheepdog got to go do all of the fun stuff, but decided to shut my trap because I had just returned from my own fun stuff.  I focused instead on being happy about sleeping in my own bed;  I was totally going to be sleeping spread-eagle in the middle of that king-sized mother.

Friday night was clear and easy, but Saturday was looking to be a doozy of a schedule.  The day was starting very early with baseball pictures that I wasn’t even planning to buy, several kids had to be in different places at the same time on multiple instances throughout the day, and I couldn’t even drink about it because I was the only parent within state lines.

In a glorious turn of events at 6:55 on Saturday morning, I received a text.

“Picture Day has been canceled due to impending rain.”  Sweet.

An hour and a half later I heard another beep from my phone, “Park is closed today.  All games are canceled.  Please stay off the fields.”  Double sweet!  Except for ballet class, which Kid A drives to and from anyway, I had the day off.  It was turning out to be a DVR-catching-up-in-my-pajamas kind of day!  With Sheepdog and Kid B likely playing soccer in the rain, I definitely got the better end of this deal.

The boys were fine with being relegated to the basement to have their own video game marathon, and the girls went off to pirouette and tour jete.

But by mid-morning Kid E started whining.  And he Just.  Would.  Not.  Stop.

I watered and fed him…full belly.  I checked for a fever… nothing.  Had he pooped?  Like clockwork.  I offered to play with him, read to him, snuggle with him… un-uh.  I could not figure out what was wrong.  Technically, he was just being a real pisser.

The only things that remained on our afternoon and evening schedule were parties, and Kid E was supposed to go to one of them.  But there was no way in hell-o I was taking this little twit out in the pouring rain just to have him cling to my leg and act all weird and shy, while the other kids climbed the rock wall and played basketball and had normal, birthday party fun.  And what a great party favor to share… potential illness from one of the other guests.  I decided to text the party mom to tell her we weren’t coming.

I typed her name into my phone.  I thought it was a little weird when I was writing the message that her info came up as “Her Older Son‘s Mom.”  That’s how I put people in my contacts until I actually know them.

Yes, you are ID’d solely by your kid until one or more of the criteria have been met:

  1. We have interacted regularly for a while
  2. More than one of your kids plays with my kid(s)
  3. I feel comfortable enough with you to say “vagina” and/ or “penis” in our conversations

It’s my system and it works.  But it was odd that Party Mom’s ID was so retro… our relationship had surpassed the rules years ago.  She and I have discussed spider bites on balls, for goodness’ sake.  Her name is in my phone.  She earned it.

So I typed in the bail-out message.  I felt like an ass for canceling last minute.  Then, as if on cue, Kid E started throwing another holy fit for no particular reason, so I felt like I was making the right choice.  I took a deep, cleansing breath and typed in two more quick texts.

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Party Mom is a friend who always responds to texts right away.  Sometimes it’s just a stupid emoticon and other times she writes words, but I always know she saw my message.  But this time, I got nothing from her.  I chalked it up to her likely being busy with a six-year-old’s birthday party about to start, and I set off to diffuse my own six-year-old time bomb.  Regardless of my reasons, I still harbored guilt for being a shitty friend who texted we weren’t coming less than 15 minutes before the start of the party.

An hour and a half later I got this message back:

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OMG.  OMG.  OMG.

The reason the name “Her Older Son‘s Mom” came up is because iOS7 pulled her old phone number as the primary cell number from some GD cloud somewhere, even though I deleted it some two years ago.  Shit, I thought, She’s totally pissed at me.  And then, Shit, I thought, She passed her old phone down to her daughter.  I had canceled last minute (and maybe she got charged by the party people for a kid who didn’t even show) AND I texted “douche” to her 5th grader.  I am totally killing it today.

I felt like I was going to throw up, with literal puke in my esophagus.

That message was so cold and formal.  It didn’t really sound like her at all, but maybe I had crossed a line.  Or… OMG.  OMG.  OMG.  What if her daughter got the text and then showed it to Party Mom’s parents or her in-laws because she was busy running the party and one of them sent the response?  Holy hell, I am such a douche.

I immediately texted an apology to Party Mom’s real (I double-checked) cell phone.  The puke stayed right there (puts hands around throat in chokehold) all night.

The next morning I got up and checked my phone.  Still no response to my apology from Party Mom.  I had decided sometime during my totally sleepless night (even being spread-eagle in the middle of the king-sized mother couldn’t help me) that I would go over to her house and apologize in person to her and her daughter because it was the right thing to do.  Then I saw that Party Mom “liked” something of mine on Facebook.

Well, that was weird.  If she was so (rightfully) pissed at me, why would she “like” anything of mine?  My curiosity got the best of me.  I sent her another text.

“Good morning.  Are you still speaking to me?”  She began typing a response immediately.

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The puke slowly started to recede.  I gave her the short-story recap of my douche-baggery, in all of its glory.  And this is what she texted back to me:

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I blame it all on iOS 7.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

It Was Definitely the Hair

The future has arrived.  I can listen to whatever song I choose, make a phone call and send a message (through the air!), all from one device that fits in the palm of my hand.  I can push a button and whatever flavor coffee I want comes out of the machine instantly (like in Judy Jetson’s kitchen!).  “Space Tourism” is an actual industry.  I can even load a photo onto my computer and the computer will identify the people in the picture.

I am sorry, but that last one freaks me out a little bit.  A computer can LOOK at a picture and IDENTIFY PEOPLE from it.  Like when your kid pulls out an old, square Fotomat photo from a dusty box, wipes it off and asks, “Who is that little boy, Mama?”  And you squint and jog your memory and say, “Um, I think that was my uncle, back when he was young and super cute, you know – before he started smoking pot all the time and living with the crazy cat lady who didn’t wear underpants to your aunt’s wedding reception.  Yeah, that was him.  Don’t do drugs.”

A bunch of different computer applications have face recognition software now… iPhoto has had it for a while and Facebook apparently has it too.  I get how it works (our souls have a fingerprint-like uniqueness and the computers have a way of recognizing those very specific and detailed nuances), but I am leery of it at the same time.  I would feel so much better – and the computers would seem so much less alive – if they were just measuring the distance between the eyes, width of the nose, depth of the eye sockets, shape of the cheekbones and the length of the jawbone.

So I was reassured and very pleasantly surprised the other day when Kid A posted her Hermione picture on her Facebook account and the computer identified her as… ME!

Now, let me give you a little background.  Kid A is the first grandchild on both sides, so all of the relatives gathered together in the hospital room when she was born.  My mom was so excited and overwhelmed to have a grandchild.  She stared down at the minutes-old new life, scanned her beautiful baby face and gushed to me with joy, “She looks just like you!”

Everyone in the room responded, “Stacy looked just like Sheepdog as a baby?”

Seriously, Kid A looked exactly like Sheepdog and nothing like the woman who just attempted ripping the rails off of the hospital bed while forcing another human out of her body.  And while Kid A’s looks have changed over the years, she has always most closely resembled her Daddy.  Yet the computer identified her not as him, nor even as herself, but as me the other day.

Why did the software recognition program identify Kid A as me, you ask?  I mean, yes, she is my kid but we really do not look alike.  We clearly have different noses, different eyes, and very different face shapes.

There’s only one logical conclusion.  It was definitely the hair.  Unmistakable, big, Jersey Girl hair.  She DOES look just like me!

Kid A (but Me, according to Facebook), 2011

Me, 1987