This has been The Year Of The Smart Phone here at the Ryan’s, and unfortunately Mr. Cranky Fibro Girl and I have become one of THOSE PEOPLE. You know, the people who will use any flimsy pretext for whipping out their device and boring you silly by making you watch as they scroll through each and every one of their 875,000 apps. Not to mention their eleventy billion photographs.
My mom and dad got themselves Blackberry’s a couple of years ago, so of course the last time we were all together we ended up comparing phones. And then my mom asked me what the difference was between her phone and mine (I have a Droid.)
“Well, my phone is what’s called a ‘Smart Phone’,” I began.
“My phone is smart,” interjected my mom, stricken.
“Um, OK,” I said, groping around for something different to say. “It’s just that my phone is a different class of phone.”
“My phone is classy,” she replied, not understanding why I seemed to be attacking her precious Blackberry.
“OK,” said my husband, “Here’s the difference. When Jenny and I access the Internet from our phones it’s quick, and easy, and nice to read on our big screens. But trying to get online with your phone is like drinking the Internet through a straw.”