81-year-old Yorkie-crazed gossip columnist Cindy Adams is so bewildered by technology, she devoted a column to perplexing contraptions like cellphones, doorbells, and windows.

My situation is, I look in awe at the simplicity of opening and closing a window. I wonder, how does that work? Push it up, it rises. Pull it down, it lowers. Position the thing halfway, it stays. How this operates is beyond my comprehension.

The buzzer or bell. Which type brain masterminded jamming your finger onto a little gizmo, which then results in noise, which somehow activates a body inside, which then opens a door.

What if Cindy's entire career is actually an elaborate comedy act?

I am not inherently stupid. I am capable of certain small tasks. Like I can open a pistachio nut without cracking my teeth. At times I have opened full 2-pound bags of pistachio nuts without cracking my teeth.

Cindy Adams: Cunning as a dodo bird. (Still more cunning than a Real Housewife of New York, according to last night's tooth-shattering episode.) Apparently the impetus for today's column was the acquisition of a new phone:

My latest problem is a new cellphone. Miseries were that my old cell was either defective or my hand cream had clogged its arteries. Also I spilled coffee on it. Also it crashed onto a cement sidewalk. Twice. Again, I think it was that damn hand cream. Anyway, comes now the new cellphone.

Nice. Except the new one's gizzard was not in sync with the old one. This I discovered when I tried switching over my original contact list. Lotsa luck. Easier to open that aspirin bottle. My techie—who may soon live in—made an emergency visit. I was told it's my SIM card. My SIM card wasn't adapting. My SIM card, which reeked of Dunkin' Donuts, was damp. My SIM card didn't translate. I don't even know what SIM stands for, and suddenly it was ruling my life. I only know I couldn't cancel my dentist's cleaning appointment because I couldn't find his stupid number because I had a cranky SIM card.

Poor Aunt Cindy, forced to paw feebly at cellphones and other instruments of mental torture, like velcro. And faucets. And that infuriating work bench with all the holes in it, and the colorful pegs she can never seem to shove through. The circle or the square? Which one is it? Yarrrghhh, it's so infuriating, why can't you just give Cindy Adams a break, you sadistic genius people?!??!

The ringtone is too loud. A caller's voice is too soft. Shutting it totally in a theater means pressing the thumbnail elliptically into a tiny spot. Result? My nail cracked.

See what you did? Now dotty Aunt Cindy is going to die of a broken nail. Shame on you, inventor of the cellphone. As soon as Cindy learns how to use Wikipedia—or, hell, how to turn the pages of a book—she will look up your name and scream it in agony while shaking her fist at the sky, assuming she can determine the sky's location.

Love you, Cindy Adams. Never change. [NYPost]


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