I’d like to think I’m not a sucker when it comes to gadgets and for the most part – on first thought, of course – I think that’s pretty true.
Sure I have a cell phone, but I’ve wildly and vociferously eschewed any possible additional connections the carrier wants to flog me. I don’t want to connect to the Internet, I have no interest in twittering, or tweeting or whatever it’s called. I don’t want to read the news on my phone, I don’t want to get stock quotes, and I most certainly don’t want to get or give e-mails on my telephonic device.
I can take a very lousy photo with my phone, but I don’t want to download my photographic failure to my computer.
I guess it’s the telecommunications equivalent of walking into Starbucks and just wanting black coffee – people look at you like you’ve lost the odd marble between the parking lot and the store – but sorry kiddo, I want my cell phone to do two things – make and receive calls. That’s it.
I have, though, succumbed to the odd bit of advertising in my life and have purchased, completely on a whim with no forethought whatsoever, several clangers over the years. Like the mono-wheel on a stick exercise gizmo. That was a true nine-day wonder (Mum? Dad? are you listening?). I realized on the first use that I could indeed burst a foofer-valve rolling myself up and down the carpet, and I frankly didn’t care if I ended up with an 18-pack for a 6-pack. The damned thing hurt, so I’d stick with my 1-pack, thank you very much.
Back in Sydney I lived in a gorgeous old house, built in 1923, and like all houses of that era, it was remarkably lacking in built-in closets. So space in the wardrobe was at a premium so I decided to go for the nifty hanging devices where you could hang six hangers in the six little holes, collapse the left hook, technically leaving your six items of clothing tiered, if you will, hanging from one hook on the rod. Yes, well that was all fine and dandy, but the wardrobe wasn’t massively tall, so the bottom three draped in various stages on the floor, thus requiring far more ironing than this particular little duck was prepared to do.
Kitchen gadgets used to be a particular problem. I had the dicing machine in which one could pile, let’s say, one’s onions and beat the plunger for all one was worth, each beat sending the zig-zag blades smashing down on the poor veggie till you ended up, indeed, with a very finely chopped onion.
So it almost got a nine, except for the fact I used it so rarely – preferring a good sharp knife for the most part – so said gadget can probably still be found moldering in the dim dark recesses of a cupboard back in Sydney.
There is a store in New York City called Zabars. Its bottom floor is one humungous deli where you could spend the equivalent of the gross national product of a small African nation in one shopping spree, it’s so fantastic. But upstairs. Oh my. Upstairs is a gadgetaholic’s dream. If you need a left handed pickle jar opener, a balsamic supercharged turbo enriched salad dressing shaker, a can of striped salt – you name it, it has it. I love the store to bits, and no trip to that great city is complete without a visit.
I have a gadget from there, though, which we love to bits and use often. It’s called a Gourmet and it’s a device which sits in the middle of your table, given that the middle of your table is within the proper length for en-plugging into the outlet. Once heated, it has a griddle on the top and underneath sits teeny tiny fry pans. So as the hostess all you have to do is to prepare a platter of teeny tiny meats and veggies, a bowl of cheese and a bowl of eggs and let the guests loose with cooking on the griddle or preparing teeny tiny omelets in their fry pans. Guests love it, and as my good Aussie mates, Kerro, say – it’s ‘friendly self service’, so there is no bemoaning a bad meal afterwards as after all, you only had yourself to blame.
I somehow got Sir on a good day the other day and so impressed was he with my urgently requiring a new gadget he broke down and purchased three, for the three women in his life who read. Me (naturally), my gorgeous daughter, Madam, and our potential adoptee – if Nancy and Keith ever want to give her up, MK.
Said gadget is called a Kindle, and you can download books to it and read them electronically. It’s designed so that to your eyes the screen actually looks like a book should look, so I’ve been assured I will love it.
The really weird thing is this. I am able to walk into a book store right now with absolutely no purchase in mind, and casually drop a couple of hundred bucks and leave with arms full of books.
With my new gadget, books are a third of the price, but, oh my, I just can’t make up my mind.
So, if you need me Saturday, that’s where I’ll be. E-shopping on my e-reader for my e-books.
