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“How did you know it was me?” “The phone tells me,” I say. “Also, you called six times.” “Huh. Did the phone tell you that too?” My mom has a socal relationship with technology that’s something akin to the one she had with my father, circa 1995. It is a socal constant, baffling source of frustration. It makes her throw pots and pans. And while marital counseling eased tensions at the Eckleman household, no such luck with technology. A cell phone bought “for emergencies” has never actually socal been used. Last year she got a flat and walked two blocks in pumps to find a pay phone. “What’s going on, Mom?” “Nothing, honey.” See, she does this. “OK. Then why did you call six times?” “Oh, I didn’t want to bother you with a message.” Mom has a way of sliding into conversation like she’s easing her way into a cold pool.
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