I am a fallen woman. I was able to buy an ipad-2 this summer and it has been my constant companion. I sleep with it. I downloaded 40+ Georgette Heyer kindle books during their sale in August and have been reading them ever since. I think I need a 12-step program. I. A.
This was written before the Georgette Heyer kindle sale, in June.
I'm sympathetic. Apparently the garden of eden had wifi.
Apple has been around most of my life. Not all of my life.
The odd little boxes were beginning to be used by schools and the odd teacher when I was in college.
"What can it do?" I would ask, politely.
"Not much, but it's wonderful," would be the answer.
Last month, I replaced my Razr with an i-phone.
I have placed several calls on it.
I made a favorites list. Verizon transfers the contacts from phone to phone for me, which is why I have phone numbers for people I don't remember knowing.
I watched several Youtube videos of pandas sneezing.
I attempted to log in as an i-Tunes person, but was defeated byy apparent inability to type my user ID and password correctly.
I used the compass to find my way around my office.
I took a photo of my office.
I asked the Audubon Zoo program staff to come down to the Children's Room to see my "Bead Gator" which is how I collect Mardi Gras beads to re-cycle. I had forgotten to do this the last time they came, and had regretted it sincerely for a year.
They brought down the live baby gator and put it in the gator's mouth and the only camera we had handy was my I-phone. I did not take the pictures. I cannot figure out how to share the pictures, but I enjoy showing them to people on my i-phone.
I took a photo of my black long-haired cat, Gloomy Midnight, on the phone and made it my wallpaper.
I listened to some voice-mail.
I have re-charged it twice.
I set my ringtone.
My father, a generous man, recently gave me money to buy an I-pad.
Yesterday I bought the i-pad. Does this thing make phone calls?
"What does it do?" my teenage son asked.
"Not much," I answered.
There's some old cliche about the poor workman blames his tools. . .