I forgot to tell you that yesterday, when I walked into the Apple store with my 10 year old Matthew, and I beheld all the twentysomething nerdling staffers pootling about, I felt about a billion years old. “Can I help you, sir?” this one staffer asks me.
“Um, yeah, said I, I’m trying to find one of those, um, things you, uh” — (please, Earth, open your mouth and swallow me whole now) — “you know, those things that you need to get wi-fi at home. Airport Express. That thing.”

“We have them right here.”
I kid you not, I felt like I ought to hike up my Depend or something. How the hell did I get so old? Every word coming out of my mouth sounded like something my dad would say. “What the hell is a Talking Head?” “How come they call them Thompson Twins when there’s three of them?” He really did ask me those questions once upon a time, and I just rolled my eyes. Old people. And now, le vieux, c’est moi.
As if that weren’t enough, this morning I was fiddling around with some software issue on the fambly iMac, and having no success. These actual words came out of my mouth: “Honey, go wake Matthew up and see if he can make this work.”
Matthew, as I said, is ten. I am already turning to my pre-teen for help with tech issues.
I wonder what vodka tastes like in Ensure…