Change number 246 in the year 2009 for Miss Jillian happened yesterday when I got my new cell phone. I went with the LG Rumour which has the slide out QWERTY keyboard, because clearly I am 15. Fun.
I sat down with it and started to acquaint myself. First thing that needed to be done was input all my contacts. On my old phone I had 28 entries. Yup, two years, 28 contacts, one of which was the telebus number so I can stand at the bus stop and inquire as to when the next bus might arrive. 28 seemed like a rather paltry number to me until I had to go and retype them all. Well, not all since I got tired of typing and left a few contacts behind.
"There has to be an easier way to do this," I said to my mom.
"Your sister would probably know if there was."
I texted her to let her know I had a new phone. No response. She must be working.
I chose my new ring tone and message alerts. Then I put the phone down on the table and willed it to ring. It was 3:30 on a Monday afternoon, I didn't know who I thought would be phoning me then but I would have even settled for a telemarketer. They usually call around 11am though and then again 10 minutes later. They really like to call when I have forgotten to put my phone on vibrate so the whole office can know that they are calling. Only people I truly care about call when I have forgotten to take my phone off of vibrate so that it is subtly going off at the bottom of my bag while I am at home alphabetizing my soup cans and such.
By 6:30 I still had no new calls or messages. My dad's phone was sitting on the kitchen table so I picked it up and dialed myself. Rumour rang out its new happy little tune. You push "Talk" to talk. That's how this phone works. I just wanted to be sure I figured that out before a real important call came in.
I turned the ringer off before I left the house because I was going to my first shift at the Writers Festival. I was scheduled to work the box office, which isn't so much a box nor an office as just a table with a white table cloth and a cash box and a stack of tickets.
A woman of about 35 sat down in the chair beside me.
"Are you a writer?" she asked.
"I blog," I said.
"Oh, that's great!" She said. "What do you write about?"
"Me. Things I did during the day, conversations I had with people."
"Oh," she said and then picked up her program to flip through.
I thought that she was going to be the person working the ticket table with me but she wasn't. An older woman showed up later for that role. Pretty much all the people there that night were older, or women, or both, or young women who were accomplished and published or older women who had been accomplished and published for years. Dateable, no, but inspirational, yes. My box office co-worker was actually the festival director a few years ago. I enjoyed her company greatly.
Just before the show was set to start my box office partner said I could go in and watch, that she would look after the table for us. So I did. I took a seat near the front like a keener.
The current festival director took the stage and welcomed the audience. She also took the opportunity to ask us all to turn off our cell phones. I reached into my bag and pulled mine out. No missed calls. I turned it off of vibrate to silent mode in case it was a loud vibrator and someone important decided to phone me right in the middle of a reading. That would be embarrassing. More embarrassing than no calls at all even.
I very much enjoyed the readings. Lauren Kirshner read first from her novel, Where We Have to Go. She is young, about my age or younger, and pretty in a plain way. She was mentored by Margaret Attwood. Before starting she admitted to having stage fright but I sensed none. I love how people read their work. Not only have they clearly developed and claimed their written voice, but they also have these understated-to-perfection reading voices. They don't get all dramatic about the reading, they just let the words do what they're supposed to do very well on their own. As I listened I decided that I was going to go home and practice reading something of mine out loud to my goldfish Bill.
My mom used to read to me at bedtime. We read all of the Little House on the Prairie books (I wrote many short stories about the pioneer days as a precocious eight-year-old) along with the entire Encyclopedia Brown mysteries collection. Even now, listening to someone read a story out loud instantly puts me into a relaxed state, like when someone plays with my hair or when Elmo sleeps at my feet.
Jon Paul Fiorentino read next from his book, Stripmalling. He opened up by quoting some positive reviews it received from Quill and Quire and the Toronto Star. At first I thought this was rather boastful but then the former Winnipegger went on to say with a laugh that the Winnipeg Free Press called it the worst book ever written. He too admitted to having some stage fright and removed his glasses so that he could not see if his audience reacted badly to his reading. I wanted to run up there and hold his hand.
The second half started with a poetry reading by Metis writer Gregory Scofield. I usually have no use for poetry and maybe I wouldn't have given this guy's words any of my attention if it were not for his beautiful reading voice.
The last author was a white haired woman with a novel. She barely peered over the podium as she spoke about why she wrote a novel about a character who was dying (because she wanted to). If Lauren Kirshner looked like a dream within reach to me, Bonnie Burnard looked like my very distant future. She writes because it is what she is moved to do. She is inspired by life and the relationships she has with her female friends. She spoke with grand experience on life, love and love lost. Then she read a passage from her book Suddenly, where her two senior characters have sex. From my experience with these reading things, it seems that the night just isn't complete unless someone reads a passage about two people getting it on. The fact that this rule was met by the only author on stage who qualified for a seniors discount was awesome.
I got home around 10. Before going to bed I checked my phone to see if it needed charging what with all the playing around I did with it that day. The display greeted me with:
ONE MISSED CALL
Doh!
It was my sister, and apparently there is an easier way to transfer your contacts list to your new phone.
*Actually yes, yes I do mean that.
I sat down with it and started to acquaint myself. First thing that needed to be done was input all my contacts. On my old phone I had 28 entries. Yup, two years, 28 contacts, one of which was the telebus number so I can stand at the bus stop and inquire as to when the next bus might arrive. 28 seemed like a rather paltry number to me until I had to go and retype them all. Well, not all since I got tired of typing and left a few contacts behind.
"There has to be an easier way to do this," I said to my mom.
"Your sister would probably know if there was."
I texted her to let her know I had a new phone. No response. She must be working.
I chose my new ring tone and message alerts. Then I put the phone down on the table and willed it to ring. It was 3:30 on a Monday afternoon, I didn't know who I thought would be phoning me then but I would have even settled for a telemarketer. They usually call around 11am though and then again 10 minutes later. They really like to call when I have forgotten to put my phone on vibrate so the whole office can know that they are calling. Only people I truly care about call when I have forgotten to take my phone off of vibrate so that it is subtly going off at the bottom of my bag while I am at home alphabetizing my soup cans and such.
By 6:30 I still had no new calls or messages. My dad's phone was sitting on the kitchen table so I picked it up and dialed myself. Rumour rang out its new happy little tune. You push "Talk" to talk. That's how this phone works. I just wanted to be sure I figured that out before a real important call came in.
I turned the ringer off before I left the house because I was going to my first shift at the Writers Festival. I was scheduled to work the box office, which isn't so much a box nor an office as just a table with a white table cloth and a cash box and a stack of tickets.
A woman of about 35 sat down in the chair beside me.
"Are you a writer?" she asked.
"I blog," I said.
"Oh, that's great!" She said. "What do you write about?"
"Me. Things I did during the day, conversations I had with people."
"Oh," she said and then picked up her program to flip through.
I thought that she was going to be the person working the ticket table with me but she wasn't. An older woman showed up later for that role. Pretty much all the people there that night were older, or women, or both, or young women who were accomplished and published or older women who had been accomplished and published for years. Dateable, no, but inspirational, yes. My box office co-worker was actually the festival director a few years ago. I enjoyed her company greatly.
Just before the show was set to start my box office partner said I could go in and watch, that she would look after the table for us. So I did. I took a seat near the front like a keener.
The current festival director took the stage and welcomed the audience. She also took the opportunity to ask us all to turn off our cell phones. I reached into my bag and pulled mine out. No missed calls. I turned it off of vibrate to silent mode in case it was a loud vibrator and someone important decided to phone me right in the middle of a reading. That would be embarrassing. More embarrassing than no calls at all even.
I very much enjoyed the readings. Lauren Kirshner read first from her novel, Where We Have to Go. She is young, about my age or younger, and pretty in a plain way. She was mentored by Margaret Attwood. Before starting she admitted to having stage fright but I sensed none. I love how people read their work. Not only have they clearly developed and claimed their written voice, but they also have these understated-to-perfection reading voices. They don't get all dramatic about the reading, they just let the words do what they're supposed to do very well on their own. As I listened I decided that I was going to go home and practice reading something of mine out loud to my goldfish Bill.
My mom used to read to me at bedtime. We read all of the Little House on the Prairie books (I wrote many short stories about the pioneer days as a precocious eight-year-old) along with the entire Encyclopedia Brown mysteries collection. Even now, listening to someone read a story out loud instantly puts me into a relaxed state, like when someone plays with my hair or when Elmo sleeps at my feet.
Jon Paul Fiorentino read next from his book, Stripmalling. He opened up by quoting some positive reviews it received from Quill and Quire and the Toronto Star. At first I thought this was rather boastful but then the former Winnipegger went on to say with a laugh that the Winnipeg Free Press called it the worst book ever written. He too admitted to having some stage fright and removed his glasses so that he could not see if his audience reacted badly to his reading. I wanted to run up there and hold his hand.
The second half started with a poetry reading by Metis writer Gregory Scofield. I usually have no use for poetry and maybe I wouldn't have given this guy's words any of my attention if it were not for his beautiful reading voice.
The last author was a white haired woman with a novel. She barely peered over the podium as she spoke about why she wrote a novel about a character who was dying (because she wanted to). If Lauren Kirshner looked like a dream within reach to me, Bonnie Burnard looked like my very distant future. She writes because it is what she is moved to do. She is inspired by life and the relationships she has with her female friends. She spoke with grand experience on life, love and love lost. Then she read a passage from her book Suddenly, where her two senior characters have sex. From my experience with these reading things, it seems that the night just isn't complete unless someone reads a passage about two people getting it on. The fact that this rule was met by the only author on stage who qualified for a seniors discount was awesome.
I got home around 10. Before going to bed I checked my phone to see if it needed charging what with all the playing around I did with it that day. The display greeted me with:
ONE MISSED CALL
Doh!
It was my sister, and apparently there is an easier way to transfer your contacts list to your new phone.
Santa baby, forgot to mention one little thing, a ring, I don't mean on the phone*
--Santa Baby (pick your favourite version)
*Actually yes, yes I do mean that.
1 comment:
At least your phone doesn't moo when it unexpectedly rings during morning meetings...
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