(Illustration by Stripes Okinawa)
“I want Oreos and Pepsi,” my grouchy 83-year-old father blared through the telephone from his North Carolina hospital bed, where he was recuperating from recent surgery.
“Okay, Dad, I’ll try, but this is my first time using Instacart, so I hope it works,” I replied from Rhode Island without reacting to his unhealthy snack choices.
“You’re using that damned Internet, so I won’t hold my breath,” he snapped.
My cantankerous father took every opportunity to criticize modern generations’ technology-dependent lifestyles. I’d been the target of his passive-aggressive comments countless times over the years.
“Dad, I sent you a text with a link to…” I’d start.
“I don’t text, I told you. I hate these damned cell phones!” he’d interrupt, even though he played Spider Solitaire on it every day.
To cut down on local errands after Dad began using a walker, I suggested online banking.“That’s horse [BLEEP]! I’ll take my checks to the bank teller, thank you very much,” he blasted.
When he couldn’t find his beloved “All in the Family” sitcom reruns, I suggested a cable upgrade. “I need a what? A ‘streaming’ service?! Why the hell can’t I just watch my damned shows?!” he’d grumbled, pointing his overused clicker at the television and jabbing away in frustration.
“Amazon?” he crabbed when I offered to order dog food to save him a trip to PetSmart, “You think ordering online is so great, but you watch, nothing will come in the mail.”
Once, when I ordered him 40 frozen meals so he wouldn’t need to shop, I called him to make sure he’d put the food in his freezer. “They never delivered anything,” he snapped angrily.
“What? But I received an email indicating that the package was delivered to your address, Dad,” I said.
“You can’t trust those damned emails!”
I called back 10 minutes later when I found a link in the email showing delivery photo proof. “Dad, I’m looking at a photo of the package sitting just outside your garage,” I said without seizing the perfect “I was right” moment.
“Oh,” he said, sheepishly.
Without a doubt, modern technology has eliminated many time-consuming manual tasks and opened up a new world of capabilities, from Googling answers to almost any question in an instant, to conducting complex business meetings and transactions from a mobile device.
But despite his angry delivery, my father had a point. Thanks to modern technology, I’m accustomed to endlessly poking my smartphone keypad numbers, following the orders of a robot voice telling me to “Press one to pay online, press two to enter your account number, Press three. …” When all I want to do is to speak to a human being.
I’ve agreed to no-touch tele-health appointments when, truth be told, what I really wanted was an in-person doctor who’d tell me what the heck is wrong with my shoulder, and that the mole on my back isn’t suspicious. For criminy’s sake, if I have to take my doctor’s appointments over Zoom, the least they could do is write me a prescription. I don’t care if it’s stool softener, aspirin or Smarties— when will doctors learn that patients feel better when their appointments end with a prescription?
In the military, we used to hand-carry our cumbersome health records to every new duty station. Now, with the advent of Military Health System Genesis Patient Portal, all service members’, veterans’ and dependents’ medical records have been digitized and are accessible online through the DS Logon system. With the mere press of a button, I can see lab results, doctors’ notes, medications and more.
The only problem is, the DS Logon system forces users to create a new password every 60 days, with new requirements each time, such as passwords must contain at least 30 characters, eight of which must have not been used in any previous DS Logon password. Thanks to these modern security measures, I keep my DS Logon password on a Post-It note under my keyboard.
Despite it all, I agree with Stephen Hawking who said “Intelligence is the ability to adapt to change.” But I’ll bet he never tried to order Oreos and Pepsi on Instacart.“I want Oreos and Pepsi,” my grouchy 83-year-old father blared through the telephone from his North Carolina hospital bed, where he was recuperating from recent surgery.
“Okay, Dad, I’ll try, but this is my first time using Instacart, so I hope it works,” I replied from Rhode Island without reacting to his unhealthy snack choices.
“You’re using that damned Internet, so I won’t hold my breath,” he snapped.
My cantankerous father took every opportunity to criticize modern generations’ technology-dependent lifestyles. I’d been the target of his passive-aggressive comments countless times over the years.
“Dad, I sent you a text with a link to…” I’d start.
“I don’t text, I told you. I hate these damned cell phones!” he’d interrupt, even though he played Spider Solitaire on it every day.
To cut down on local errands after Dad began using a walker, I suggested online banking.“That’s horse [BLEEP]! I’ll take my checks to the bank teller, thank you very much,” he blasted.
When he couldn’t find his beloved “All in the Family” sitcom reruns, I suggested a cable upgrade. “I need a what? A ‘streaming’ service?! Why the hell can’t I just watch my damned shows?!” he’d grumbled, pointing his overused clicker at the television and jabbing away in frustration.
“Amazon?” he crabbed when I offered to order dog food to save him a trip to PetSmart, “You think ordering online is so great, but you watch, nothing will come in the mail.”
Once, when I ordered him 40 frozen meals so he wouldn’t need to shop, I called him to make sure he’d put the food in his freezer. “They never delivered anything,” he snapped angrily.
“What? But I received an email indicating that the package was delivered to your address, Dad,” I said.
“You can’t trust those damned emails!”
I called back 10 minutes later when I found a link in the email showing delivery photo proof. “Dad, I’m looking at a photo of the package sitting just outside your garage,” I said without seizing the perfect “I was right” moment.
“Oh,” he said, sheepishly.
Without a doubt, modern technology has eliminated many time-consuming manual tasks and opened up a new world of capabilities, from Googling answers to almost any question in an instant, to conducting complex business meetings and transactions from a mobile device.
But despite his angry delivery, my father had a point. Thanks to modern technology, I’m accustomed to endlessly poking my smartphone keypad numbers, following the orders of a robot voice telling me to “Press one to pay online, press two to enter your account number, Press three. …” When all I want to do is to speak to a human being.
I’ve agreed to no-touch tele-health appointments when, truth be told, what I really wanted was an in-person doctor who’d tell me what the heck is wrong with my shoulder, and that the mole on my back isn’t suspicious. For criminy’s sake, if I have to take my doctor’s appointments over Zoom, the least they could do is write me a prescription. I don’t care if it’s stool softener, aspirin or Smarties— when will doctors learn that patients feel better when their appointments end with a prescription?
In the military, we used to hand-carry our cumbersome health records to every new duty station. Now, with the advent of Military Health System Genesis Patient Portal, all service members’, veterans’ and dependents’ medical records have been digitized and are accessible online through the DS Logon system. With the mere press of a button, I can see lab results, doctors’ notes, medications and more.
The only problem is, the DS Logon system forces users to create a new password every 60 days, with new requirements each time, such as passwords must contain at least 30 characters, eight of which must have not been used in any previous DS Logon password. Thanks to these modern security measures, I keep my DS Logon password on a Post-It note under my keyboard.
Despite it all, I agree with Stephen Hawking who said “Intelligence is the ability to adapt to change.” But I’ll bet he never tried to order Oreos and Pepsi on Instacart.
Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com
