Listen, I aspire to be cyber- savvy. Who doesn’t?

However, I think it’s been proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that I’m actually pretty techno-illiterate. I’m the only adult in the year 2010 who’s still using a cell phone with texting capabilities of only nine buttons and a broken antenna.

And when the cell phone rings, I answer the door.

And when the doorbell rings, I answer the phone.

And when they both ring, I look in the microwave to see what’s ready.

I hang onto the era of “remember when” with two clenched hands and a bagful of Razzles. I miss the decades past when the only electronic thing I had to worry about was a garage door opener.

Who needs a world where everybody knows your name, race, social security number, credit history and bra size simply by latching onto Google for ten minutes? Where is the mystery, the intrigue, MY PRIVACY?

It’s all circling above my head in a cumulus cloud full of browsers, hyperlinks and giga-whatevers.

Maybe it was time to break free of my techno-phobia, time for me to accept the fact that by touching a seemingly innocent screen attached to a new-age phone the size of a granola bar, I’d able to access everything from directions to Shickshinny, to the current registrants on Megan’s Law.com, to a recipe for corn chowder.

Over Christmas break, as I noticed my daughter hunched over our computer, laughing, hunting, pecking and generally carousing, I ambled over and positioned my face over a hunched, defensive shoulder. “Whatcha doing, Cupcake?”

“Nothing! Privacy please!”

“This isn’t your dorm room, Toots. There is no privacy at the University of Heck. Zero. Which is why I just tried to read an incoming text on your phone/radio/toaster and I seemed to have disconnected or broken something. Heh, heh. Sorry about that.”

“MOM! Don’t touch anything electronic from this era! Just go back to your CB Radio, would you?”

As she stomped off, I slid into her still-warm and ripe-with-pseudo-adult-angst seat and noted she was on a site called Facebook.

Now, I’m certain many, if not all, of my readers are familiar with this networking site, but for me, I thought it was a site showing your choices of various faces, you know, like a mail order bride type thing. What do I know? I also thought Yahoo was site for excited rednecks.

Well, I noodled around Facebook and before I knew it, I became a member! Look at me! Look at me! I’m now a member of the life-on-parade decade!

Yahoo, indeed!

Initially, I had trouble getting the hang of this new hobby. Every four minutes, I’d scream desperately down the stairs to son: “NICCCKKKK!!! Mommy needs to add a friend! How do I add a friend? Help me! Quick! Before this friend changes their mind about me being their friend!”

He resigned himself to being my Facebook mentor in only very small increments.

When my daughter peeked-in to see what all the commotion was about, she grabbed the mouse from my feeble hand and yelled at her brother: “Nick! Do not help her! Don’t encourage the old lady! STOP SHOWING HER THE ROPES!”

What ropes? I don’t see any ropes!

I see lots of little faces and strange icons and flashing lights and notifications! Is this Facebook or am I entering the portals of hell?

I was confused but eventually learned that Facebook is a communication networking site designed to let you re-connect with old friends and new friends alike. It has replaced … you know … writing letters and stuff.

You must “request” a friend before you can begin communicating. I requested so many “friends” I felt like Paris Hilton, but shorter, flatter and poorer.

I was drunk with friends!

“Madeline!” I shrieked. “I requested you as my FRIEND! Isn’t that exciting?”

“STOP!” she yelled back.” I will never accept you as my Facebook friend! Never! I will press the DENY button every time! Deny! Deny! Deny!”

“Well, even I know there’s no such thing as a DENY button, honey! It’s an IGNORE button. And you can keep pressing the ignore button on my friend request, if you choose. But just remember, next time your tuition bill becomes due, I too, will be pushing my own ignore button.”

She angrily percolated as I soldiered onward. I was mumbling about how some people will only remember me from my maiden name, B.M. (Before Marriage. What did you think I meant?).

I was sure that was the reason I didn’t have hundreds of friend requests! What else could it be?

She muttered under her breath, “Yeah, well, all the old farts on Facebook use their maiden names. That’s how you know they’re too old to be on Facebook.”.

Ouch.

I was pouting and debating whether she had a point. Maybe I was too old for this nonsense.

But wait!

Here’s a big red number on my screen alerting me to four more friend notifications!

I had more friends!

Yay!

I was finally popular in a way that no amount of Silly String and contraband Black Jack gum back in fourth grade could make me. This was fun.

I better face it – Facebook is here to stay. And, like it or not, no excited redneck nor morose daughter could shut me out.

I am now one of the cyber-savvy elite.

Join me.

About the Author

Maria Heck covers for the Times Leader. Reach her at or .

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