An Open Letter to Techies

          This is an open letter to every app developer and programmer in the world: Not everyone speaks your language, or thinks computers are the equivalent of candy.  Oh, I know—to some people every piece of techie info is exciting, and fits right into a comfy slot in their brain.  But for others of us, it is jagged shrapnel coming in at high speed.   

    

           Whether we’re trying to burn a CD, download a program, sign up for malware protection, or edit the registry, we feel like a 4-year-old in an Olympic slalom course, waaay out of our comfort zone.

            I know you think your instructions are easy, because you have numbered them.  But numbering them is not enough.  When you say, “Go to all programs,” the novice searches their computer screen and thinks, “Where is that?” Then they stare at their keyboard and it’s not there, either.  The computer geek thinks, “Well, obviously you have to go to ‘start’ and then open the control panel first,” but that is not obvious to everyone.

            It’s like recipes today.  Years ago you could say, “Make a white sauce” or “heat syrup to soft ball stage” or “beat until meringue forms” but today you have to describe very exacting steps because most people don’t cook anymore.  Today, instead of saying, “heat tomato sauce,” you have to say, “Open can and put contents into sauce pan on stove burner over medium heat for five minutes.” But do I sneer at people who can’t cook?  No; I realize this is not everybody’s hobby, and I patiently guide them through the steps for success.

            I saw a set of computer instructions (for release and renew IP address) that said, “Open a command prompt.”  I have no idea what this means.  And in editing a registry, I have no idea what to touch and what not to touch.  I don’t even know that I understand the whole purpose of the registry itself.

            Let’s say a box pops up that says, “Local area connection doesn’t have a valid IP connection.”  You Google that, my friend, and see what various people have tried, and it will look like a plate of spaghetti. Spaghetti made without enough instructions.

            Here’s how I’d like online instructions to look, in a Dick-and-Jane sort of font:

            Can you find the little circle with the multi-colored flag at the bottom of your screen?  Click YES or NO.

          Great.  Hover over that with your mouse and click ONE TIME.  Two boxes will pop up.  Look at the darker box, and find the words, Control Panel.  Click ONE TIME on them.

          Click once on the little overlapping squares on the very top right-hand corner of your screen.  This will make both the box, and this page of instructions, visible at the same time.  Now you can go back and forth from these instructions to the box, without having to close one down.

            You get the idea.

            People who take quickly to computers can’t understand why the rest of us are befuddled, and plow ahead with directions only they and their peers can understand.  So I beg you people to enlist someone such as myself, to help you make your products more user friendly.  I am not a grandma, but I would like to call this the Grandma Test—if a grandma can understand it, then you can go public with it.  

          And here's something everyone can understand and enjoy: My books!  Even grandmas will gobble them up.  You can get them in hard copy or Kindle at this link. Check 'em out!

When You're Desperate for Tech Help

            I am about to tell you about two miracles, so hold onto your mouse or your seat or something, assuming you’re sitting at the computer.

            I have TWICE been asked for tech help.  If my four children are reading this, they have no doubt fallen off their chairs, in shock, and hit their heads on the floor.  While they wait for ambulances to arrive, the rest of you can keep reading.

            It has long been known in my family that I occasionally say things 90-year-olds say, including “I have Face Mail,” “the Inter Web,” and the redundant, “Youtube Video.” My knowledge of things electronic and computer-related could fit inside a thimble with ample room left over for my interest in these matters.  If truth be known, I miss the Selectric Typewriter and the carefree days when I could turn on the TV without rummaging through a basket of remotes and then asking, once again, how to work them.  Be honest: Don’t you think the GoDaddy logo looks like a goat?  And doesn’t it bother you that the Windows logo shows a hummingbird zooming in on leaves?  Leaves!  And don’t even get me started on how much I want Samsung to say “Sam sang.”

            So it was no small miracle (and I SO wish I’d had a videoish thing running) when the women at my Book Club asked me how Twitter works.  I had barely signed up, myself, and only with the enormous help of one Karen Hansen from my church, who is an absolute wiz at these things.  Yet there I was, surrounded by hopeful faces, putting their entire trust in my technical wisdom.  What I wouldn’t have given for my kids to witness the glorious scene.  I found myself parroting the instructions Karen had given me, and the women nodded, lapping it up.  I felt as if I could move to India, call myself Barbara, and advise any number of callers with computer trouble, that very afternoon.

            And I knew such a surreal moment might never repeat itself.  But then I had a layover in Las Vegas last week, coming back from Mississippi.  I was waiting for my flight when a gal about my age sat down beside me, pulled out her cell phone, and asked if I knew how she could listen again to a message she had already played.  Of the throngs of people crowding around, she selected ME from the group, with perfect faith that I would know the answer to her question.  ME!  I must look like a genius, even from a distance. 

            I put my hand on her knee and told her I only wished my children could be there to witness this miracle.  Then I told her that, of every person in the terminal, I was the absolute last one who would know what she was talking about.  And this would include non-English speakers and infants in their carriers.  We became immediate friends, joined by our mutual inability to master the intricacies of cell phones.  We sat together on the plane, and now we’re planning to get together for some girlfriend time.  I don’t know if she has figured out her cell phone yet; this is what children are for—you call them and after they’re through sighing and rolling their eyes they impart secret information that they get from trolls in the forest because I sure as heck don’t see it available elsewhere. 

            If Bob had been there, he would have known the answer, but he was staying behind a week.  Bob has a new phone gizmo called a Samsung Galaxy Note 2 and it feels like holding a paperback book up to your head when you try to speak on it. 

            I expect him to hang onto this gadget for another couple of months until the next big—or small—breakthrough is offered at Apple or Verizon or wherever people with those interests congregate.  Then he’ll swap it out for the Sabertooth or the Platypus or whatever they call the next one. 

            My sister-in-law in Mississippi seems comfortable with technical matters.  But she also says that no one in the South has Siri, because Siri can’t understand their accents.  Hilarious.  And I thought I had tech trouble.