Nothing comes between me and my Mac

In the ‘80s, the zeitgeist dictated a vociferous statement to a money-grubbing baby-boom generation that “nothing comes between me and my Calvins.”

The ‘90s was for the Wurtzel-washed generation filled with angst. Let’s say that for them it was “nothing comes between me and my Prozac.”

Today, it’s simply nothing comes between me and my Mac.

I’m in a serious relationship with my iPad, which I enjoy with the constant company of a Globe Tatoo Wi-Fi for a daily menage a trois in my Wi-Fi-challenged home. Vintage homes mean concrete walls.

The fiancé is having an affair with his Blackberry. It’s an open digital relationship. Who can blame us? The iPad allows me to read books, magazines, redecorate my house, get my celebrity gossip and watch Glee in a single tablet. The Berry on his side encourages his workaholic persuasions.

Last week, my best friend tried to borrow my iPad to use for her trunk show so she can show people her website. I couldn’t do it. Did she not understand the concept of Apple porn? I felt a little guilty for saying no to her. However, not even the fiancé can touch Ambra (the name of my iPad). Mifi, Ambra and me, it was all I needed for my hermetic life.

Then I started using the word LOL and something in me told me it was the beginning of the end.

The other day the fiancé was launching his third IPO. I wanted to get him something nice to congratulate him. So I went to Cartier just like the Duke of Windsor, who often got trinkets from the jewelry house for the Duchess of Windsor for every random special occasion. Unlike the Duke of Windsor, I got my beloved a bottle of cologne. No diamond-encrusted Latin crosses that would make auction history.

The real gem, I thought, would be the note. I realized I haven’t really written a letter, you know, with thoughts and adverbs in a long while. It was usually hasty generic greetings for birthdays and common holidays (Christmas even being demoted to X’mas). So I sat down and penned my thoughts. It was all lovely thoughts for my beloved on his special day. As I ended my letter with a fond farewell, I realized that though my sentiments were warm, my handwriting was homicidal. I had serial killer handwriting.

Was I living too much on the cutting edge that I might just fall off civilized society?

In the old days, your penmanship dictated your station in life. Well, thank heavens I am in the generation, which thinks Atari belongs in the Smithsonian. I was here early enough to see how that video conference scene in Total Recall went from techie wet dream to everyday reality through Skype.

I vote that Zinio is a greener way to read fashion magazines and a covert way to keep up with my US Weekly habit. However, I’m on the fence with Kindle. There’s some ease to it when I’m reading self -help books and the Dummy series. They are the non-coffee shop books that you usually accessorize yourself with in today’s café bean society.

Blackberries are hazardous to human relationships. Just the other day, I was talking to Jackie who was also dealing with her own crackberry issues. Her husband just won’t let go of that thing. I mean, why am I taking all this too personally? He’s just next to me, albeit followed by the constant click of its tiny keyboard, which has become my third least favorite sound following Styrofoam rubbing against each other and car horns.

So how does one keep an even keel on being civilized while keeping up with the times?

Invest in good stationery. I love a nice, thick notecard in cream gilded with a gold border. It’s what a mistress would use to write something compelling to her lover. Cartier is very courtesan-friendly. Everything about it is alluring and novel. I just have to go back to grade school first to fix my handwriting. I want those Wharton style cards that look like wedding invitations. There’s also nothing like spraying perfume on a love letter.

I also recommend reading the classics on paper. Somehow, reading Hamlet on Kindle reminds me too much of Ethan Hawke. There’s still that certain romance of reading lyrical prose on old-fashioned paper.

Know when to pull the plug. Even with all the Mac overload, the fiancé and I go medieval on Sundays, entertaining ourselves with conversations that command eye contact.

Maybe something, if it’s really special, can come between me and my Mac.