Tag Archives: facetime

A Loss For Words

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Most people who know me would likely tell you I am rarely, if ever, at a loss for words.  But they would also assure you, I trust, that I am far from being a blabbermouth.  My own opinion is that in most social situations, I can hold my own in conversation without becoming annoying or overbearing.

Most of the time, I listen; when appropriate, I ask questions.  If prompted, I will hold forth on a subject (if I know something about it), but not to the point of boring my friends to tears…I hope.

There is one situation, however, where all of the above is not true, perhaps the only circumstance where I find myself virtually unable to get a word in edgewise.  This unfortunate state of affairs occurs every time I find myself on a FaceTime call with my wife and daughters.  I hustle into the den with my iPad, leaving my wife with her screen in the living-room, so we won’t get feedback during the call.

When I say ‘unfortunate’, I mean for me, of course; for all I know, the ladies find it delightful when I sit, practically mute, at my end of the line.

The problem arises, not because my wife and daughters ramble endlessly on and on, not because they’re rude or inconsiderate, not because they delight in ignoring me, even politely.  Nothing could be farther from the truth.  In fact, they are all among the most considerate of creatures on the face of the earth, and they love me dearly.

No, the problem occurs almost every time we’re on a call because they appear to react faster than I do.  And to think faster, too, I suppose.  Regardless of the subject, I’m usually listening attentively as they express their various points of view, waiting for my brain to kick into gear as I consider an appropriate response.  The sad fact is that, by the time I have a response, one of them has already jumped back into the conversation ahead of me.

Another issue causing me a problem is their propensity to change subjects at the drop of a hat.  We might have spent five minutes batting a particular topic back and forth—the three of them talking while I listen—and Boom!  Without warning, one of them will introduce a brand-new thread, or ask about something entirely different from what we’ve been discussing. 

Even as my brain registers the change, a part of it is crying, silently and forlornly, that I haven’t yet kicked in my two cents’ worth on the first topic.

But they aren’t rude, as I have said, so at some point (perhaps noticing my silence), one of the girls might say, “What do you think, Dad?” 

“Ah…let’s see,” I reply, “can we go back to that first thing we were talking about?  I had a thought about that, but I couldn’t get in.”

The three of them laugh and roll their eyes at this, chide me to ‘keep with the tour’, then blithely resume their three-way conversation.  It’s probably just as well, I guess, because by the time I’m asked to chime in, I’ve often forgotten the point I wanted to make, anyway.

I must admit, though, all modesty aside, that I generally look surprisingly good on those FaceTime calls.  I sit up straight, look right into the camera (with an occasional peek at my own image), and keep myself centred in the screen.  They, by contrast, let the screen wobble all over the place as they walk from room to room tending flowers, picking up dirty clothes, starting early prep for supper, training their camera on their dogs.  It drives me crazy, but I can never worm my way into the conversation to ask them to stop.

I’ve explored various strategies to help, but none seems to.  I’ve tried holding up my hand, for example, when I want to cut in, but all I get is a return wave, as if they think I’m leaving the conversation.  “Bye, Dad!”

On more than one occasion, I’ve cut my video feed for a few seconds, hoping they’ll wonder if I’m okay, but all I hear is, “Looks like Dad has left the conversation!  Was it something we said?”

“No!” I want to shout, as I turn the video back on.  “It’s because I haven’t said anything!”  But they’re already talking about something else, so once again I can’t get in.

I recognize that the limitations of the FaceTime technology, marvellous though it is, play a part in exacerbating my dilemma.  The offset between audio and video transmission makes it difficult for me to pick the right moment to jump in—like watching a TV commentator interviewing someone far away, each of them experiencing a delay in hearing the other, resulting in dead air.  If I speak up too soon, while one of the girls is still talking, no one hears me; if I wait ‘til she’s finished, someone else has already started.

Still, I persist in taking part in these FaceTime calls, not only to hear what the girls have to say, but to look at them as they’re saying it.  And I console myself that, if ever I had anything pertinent and crucial to share with them, I probably did it years ago.  Whatever I might add now is probably just more of the same.

The ironic part of the whole thing, though, is after we’ve ended the call, I’ll wander back into the living-room and my wife will say, “Are you okay?  You didn’t have much to say today.”

And that always leaves me at a loss for words.

Wrong Number!

As a young man, I never used to like the telephone!  Oh, I knew it was a wonderful invention, a labour-saving tool, and a life-saver in time of emergency.  And I was aware that it brings old friends together and ties families more closely to one another.  I understood that it is, indeed, a modern marvel.

rotary_phone1

But I never liked it.  In the first place, I never felt at ease when I was talking to someone on the phone.  When I couldn’t see the person to whom I was speaking, it didn’t feel right to me.

In the second place, my phone always seemed to ring at the most inopportune moments; for example, when I had just sat down to dinner, when I was busily engrossed in some leisure-time activity, or (most annoying of all) when I was the only one home to answer it.  Although it was located in a central part of the house, I never seemed to be close by when it rang.

But, without a doubt, the worst thing about the telephone was the wrong number.  And it didn’t seem to matter whether I was doing the calling or receiving the call.  Wrong numbers were a pain in the neck!

Whenever I dialed a wrong number, I was immediately apologetic to the person who answered.  I knew that my own carelessness had put the other party out, and I tried to make amends.  However, my efforts were invariably met with some sort of angry or impolite response.  It usually began right after I realized I’d dialed incorrectly.

wrong-number-phone

“Oh…oh, I’m sorry,” I would stammer.  “I guess I have the wrong number.”

“Obviously!” would come the reply, followed closely by an abrupt banging of the receiver in my ear.

What bothered me even more, though, was when I answered a call from someone who had the wrong number, because I still ended up being the bad guy.

“Hello?” I would answer.

“Jenny there?”

“No, I’m sorry,” I would start to say, “but you have…”

“Where is she?”

“Uh…I don’t know.  You’ve dialed…”

“Who’s this?” the caller would demand, cutting me off again.

“It’s me,” I would reply lamely, “and there’s no one here by the name of…”

“What number is this?”

And when I would give it, I’d get a snarling rejoinder, like, “That’s not the number I want!”

I was never quick enough to miss that banging receiver.  Worse, I was left with the feeling that it was all my fault for even thinking of answering when the call was for Jenny (or whomever the person had asked for).

On more than a few occasions, I actually resorted to dirty tricks, more to avoid the unpleasantness than out of any malicious intent.

“Just a minute,” I sometimes replied when the caller asked for someone I’d never heard of.  I then laid the receiver by my phone, placed a cushion over it, and forgot about it.  After a few minutes, the caller would get tired of waiting and hang up.  When next I passed by the phone, I gently replaced the receiver.

off hook

Occasionally I would respond by saying, “Jenny?  She left quite a while ago.  She should be at your place any minute!  Tell her to call when she gets there.”

And I’d hang up first.

Or, more than once, I asked the name of the caller, told them to wait, then made a show of yelling for the non-existent person to come to the phone.

“Jenny!  Phone for you.  It’s Alice!”

After a few seconds, knowing the caller could hear me, I’d yell again, “No way, Jenny!  If you don’t wanta talk to her, you tell her!  Not me!”

Sometimes I could hear the caller bang the receiver down from ten feet away.

I never believed that any great harm would arise from these tactics, and it sure made me feel better.  I might even have taught those careless callers to be a little more conscientious when dialing.

Somewhere along the way, I discovered the best and most effective way to deal with those nuisance calls, and it was relatively simple.  It did take some measure of will-power, and it required a little practice at first to get the hang of it.  And I no longer had to spend time dreaming up new tricks.

When the phone rang, if I thought it might be a wrong number, I didn’t answer!

Brilliant!

Of course, with the advent of smartphones, all my reasons for disliking the phone have evaporated.  Now, I can see the person to whom I’m talking, so that excuse is gone.  I’m never too far from the phone to answer a call, because it’s always with me.  There are no wrong numbers, because the name of the caller flashes on my screen.

call

But the biggest reason I have for changing my mind is that, as I’ve grown older and somewhat less active, seeing old friends less and less often, I crave the connection with people.  Instead of willing that old black phone not to ring, I now yearn to hear the ringtones in my pocket.

And so, I confess a dark secret to you.  Now—even when I know it’s a wrong number, even when I don’t recognize the name of the caller, even if I’ve been happily reading in my armchair, or dozing quietly—I answer the call.  If it’s for Jenny, I don’t care anymore.  I have even chatted happily with many fast-talking telemarketers, who quickly become anxious to get off the line with what they must assume is a befuddled, old geezer.

I love the telephone!