Last night Michael came home filled with joy, light as a cloud. He hadn't received a promotion, a raise, a bonus. No, it wasn't because either of his daughters called with good college news, stories of A's and success. Nor did they have happy love stories to tell. He hadn't won the Lotto or even played for that matter. He hadn't gone out to a great lunch or received an email from a long lost friend.
No, it was none of these things. Michael was happy because two men from Microsoft had come to his work at his invitation and talked about a programming language to him and his team all day long.
Upon his return home, I listened to what he had learned, which is to say, I didn't understand a word of it. That's not true, really, because over the years now, I've figured out what databases do and how one talks about them. Or, at least, how Michael talks about them to me, which is baby database language: "You ask it a question, and it goes here [imagine gesticulation to indicate where the here is]. Then the information comes back."
I know the programming language he writes in, and I know the problems that can ensue. Still, I know nothing.
But he was beaming, and I listened. Today, the men will be back, all day long, for more talk about the here and the question.
Computers and and databases and web sites are so mysterious to me, though I feel I have a better grasp than some. I can add things to my own web site myself because I learned how to use a program called "cute ftp" and can add things here and there. But I leave the heavy lifting to the woman who designed my web site. Mostly, I expect things on the internet to flow and go, though I know that they often do not. There are bugs and crashes. Yesterday, two web sites I frequent often had the "temporarily unavailable" sign up. whoops! Somebody asked a question and there was no here there.
What got me started on this riff is that when I pulled up the "blog entry" page from the add content page, the little box around "Blog Entry" was gone. Yes, I am typing this into space. Where did it go? Did a bug eat it? What language did the little box want to speak? Who forgot to tell it to show up for the writing party?
Some days, I think I am in a Jetson's show, a Star Trek episode. If I could have even fathomed all of this technology, I wouldn't have believed myself. I can picture my childhood self, and I remember being thrilled with just having my own phone. And now, I have all this stuff available to me. Except when it isn't. Like the little box and its four walls of containment, which give me the illusion that I'm on ground when I'm anything but.
Causes Jessica Inclán Supports
Women for Women International Goodwill Industries Lindsey Wildlife Museum Freecycle.org