A confession

Some months ago, my new boss--apparently in an effort to professionalize the office-- informed me that I would soon be receiving a palm pilot. This, for those of you who aren't nearly so informed as I now am, is a largish technological device that you see lawyer types busily tapping away at on the train and in the Starbucks. You may have even received email messages from one of these well-connected souls, usually with the catchy phrase "sent without the benefit of spell-check from my blackberry wireless" or something like that. These gizmos are the new wonder assistant--you merely plug them into your computer, and whiz bang boom shazam, your calendar items that you have remembered to enter into your computer are now transported magically through an amazingly small cable into this device.

I greeted the news that I'd be getting one of these with some alarm. I am terrible at this kind of thing. Even when I can locate my cell phone, the battery is nearly always dead. A dead cellphone is even more useless than a missing cellphone, since it's just weighting down your messy purse. My iPod has the same 250 songs on it that my husband installed when he gave it to me 2 years ago. And thank heavens we no longer use a VCR.

So here I am, with my new calendar gizmo. Remember when Mulder and Scully would pull out those early-90's cell phones the size of loaf of rye? That's sort of my palm pilot. We're not a law firm, nor generally hot on the trail of aliens, so no fancy wireless access and emailing from the Starbucks for us--it's all about getting to those appointments on time. But even the lowest of the low end palm pilots, I've discovered, have a place to store your baby pictures. And now I'm just a little bit psyched. So after 6 months of people politely asking me if I have a picture of my baby, I can finally say yes. So I'm waiting. Someone ask me. Ask me now. Please!!