The Burrow

I must confess - I love my new Smartphone. Every day it reveals another, more intimate, side of itself.  The more I trust it, the more I am rewarded. It's a very thoughtful little machine, my Galaxy S3.  It lets me clean up my Contacts List; I press the chain link icon and I can join one contact to another.  Join... isn't that a lovely word?  Combine implies mashing and smashing while join is like that icon over there, neatly fitting one inside the other, each retaining its own particular charm.   Somehow, it knows to include a picture, even if it appears only on one of the three entries I've found for the same friend. Three entries, you wonder?  Yes, the darling device has imported contacts from Google as well as those on the phone's SIM card, saved from the dearly departed stupid phone it replaced, and from Facebook, too.  For all I know, it's included the DEX or Yellow Pages from my area code.  Like my pictures, they just kind of appea...

What kind did I buy?  The kind Big Cuter told me to buy. I am too old for this.  We had rotary phones in every room in the house; Daddooooo would have a bad day and come home and run phone lines to the closets, to the other side of the bedrooms, to the basement.  Since this was frowned upon illegal considered stealing by Ma Bell, it fed his need "to get back at the man."  The rest of the family waited for the police to come and cart him away. Once the lines were installed, using the device was a no-brainer.... or so I thought.  The Cuters, when faced with their first look at this phone were flummoxed. Their little fingers went into the appropriate holes, but turning the dial all the way to the curved metal stopper was not at all intuitive for them. "This is hard!" I repeated the same thing when I first saw the Galaxy S3. At least on the old phones, it was pretty obvious how to answer and hang up.  No so much on my new one. Big Cuter called me...