Today, in a desperate attempt to post something, anything, that requires very little effort, I will reveal the glorious effects when I Google myself. I recommend you trying this on yourself, but it might not work so well if your name isn’t as weird (or at least as weirdly spelled) as mine.

When I type in my first and last name, I discover things I didn’t realize or remember, and I’m a little surprised that I have more than one page of goodies. Evidently I have a ScrapBlog and a ScrapBio, probably created back when I actually made scrapbook pages and labored under the cruel delusion that someday the world might want to share in the awesomeness that is my craftiness.

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Generally, I’m a fan of progress. Technological advancements are usually good, because they’re usually improvements, a way to make life easier, or at least less annoying. Text messaging allows me to communicate long-distance without sharing my conversation with everyone else in the grocery line. Electric toothbrushes make my dentist happy. Double-sided tape saves us from making endless tape loops to put a poster on the wall.

But there’s one so-called advancement that I protest. It has caused me nothing but frustration, heartache, and stinky hands. It is the “safe edge” can opener. I like to call it the can’t opener.

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So I thought I was somewhat capable when it came to technology. I’ve smirked at the teachers who can’t seem to grasp the leap from Mac to PC, who go into a state of shock at the idea of a mouse with more than one button. I can do pretty much anything I need to do on a computer, or at least I thought I could. But now I’m in Internet-land, creation rather than navigation, and it is a very scary and lonely place to find yourself lost. I have been reduced to a tentative clicker, which is annoying. I have become the person who asks stupid questions which I could easily answer if only I had looked at the right part of the instructions. It feels somewhat like walking with cement shoes. On my feet and my hands. In a foreign country. And I’m deaf.

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