iGot an iPhone. iCouldn’t help myself. The moment iSaw the iPhone iHad to have iT.

That’s unusual for me, because I’m slow to warm up to new technology. I like to wait and see if a new product is really going to last before I commit a few hundred or thousand dollars. Still, I have to keep up with change in this fast-paced Valley.

Remember cassette tapes? I thought they’d never replace record albums. Now I can’t buy a turntable to play my valuable LP collection. Same with CDs. I thought they were too expensive—and too weird—to replace cassette tapes. Now they’re becoming a thing of the past, what with iTunes, iPods and iStreams taking over the airways.

I was slow to get an iPod, certain this new gizmo was just a flash in the technological pan. No doubt it would soon be replaced by some kind of implant in the brain, where a music fan could press her temple to turn on the sound and blink a number of times to find her favorite song, all while driving, eating, or sleeping—hands free.

But my kids got me an iPod for Christmas a few years ago, tired of seeing my boom box. It took me six months to figure out how to use it, but I came to love being able to harvest my own eclectic collection of songs, like Joan Jett’s “Bad Reputation,” Edith Piaf’s “Je Regret Rien,” Rocky Horror’s “The Time Warp,” and the themes from “Murder She Wrote,” “Inspector Gadget” and “The Sopranos.” Of course, the minute I’d loaded up every song I ever loved, my iPod crashed and I lost the whole collection. (Backup? What do you mean, “backup?”)

In mourning, I gave up listening to music for awhile, until I discovered the XM channels on my TV cable. I spent hours flipping the dial (do they still use that word?) back and forth between ‘40s swing, ‘80s new wave, and today’s techno/house/dance. Then someone told me about “streaming,” and I began to download music from my favorite stations so I could listen while I worked on the computer. (Don’t get me started on Pandora…)

But then came the iPhone, which had it all—phone, email, Internet, YouTube, camera, weather, calendar, and most importantly, music. I’d been happy with my Blackberry up to that point, but when my daughter-in-law got her iPhone—sleek, smooth, colorful, and fun to use—I knew I had to have one.Naturally it took me weeks to learn just how to turn it on, let alone program phone numbers, add iTunes, and download my own personal ring tone (the theme from “Halloween.”) Now, when someone calls, I can see a face on the screen and ignore the call if I want to. I’m still learning how to use the camera (have some nice shots of the inside of my purse), but I know the weather in Denver, how to find the closest Starbucks in any city, and what’s “most viewed” on YouTube (Sarah Silverman and Jimmy Kimmel’s “Odes” to Matt Damon and Ben Affleck). I can even find out what’s new with Britney on Yahoo Entertainment.

Now all I have to do is figure out what “Bluetooth” means.Living in today’s high-tech world is a challenge for someone who grew up on typewriters, Princess phones, and transistor radios. But no matter what comes next, I know this: iWant it.

The Glamorous Booksigning Life

Ah, the glamorous life of a writer. I’m “on tour” with my latest book, which means I’m signing at some bookstores, “chatting” on a few weblogs, speaking at a handful of writers’ conferences, and spending all my advance money making cute little bookmarks as bribes for potential readers.

If you haven’t done a book signing recently, here’s how they typically go: You cold-call booksellers, ask if they’ll host a signing for your upcoming “bestseller,” and show up at the appointed time to sign autographs for your adoring fans. At least, that’s the idea. Here’s what really happens: You email the booksellers asking for a signing because there’s not enough alcohol in Danville to provide the courage you need to actually speak to them, certain they will laugh in your face at this ludicrous idea.

When a bookseller surprises you by asking when you’d like to come in for an event, you blurt out a date, which has already been booked by JD Salinger or JK Rowling. He counters with only date he has left this year and you gratefully accept, only later realizing that it’s the same time as the Super Bowl, the last episode of Gray’s Anatomy, or Christmas.

You send out handcrafted invitations to 200 of your closest friends, including the grocery clerk, the five-year-old boy next door, and the new neighbors you haven’t even met yet. You email the rest of your fans, creating an eye-catching flyer that doesn’t convert on anyone else’s computer and reads: “*^$&((%##& *&$^#*&^($($*(!”

You bribe your future readers to the event by promising them an all-you-can-eat dessert buffet and free bookmarks, then search the knock-off stores for a “literary outfit” that makes you look like JK Rowling. You realize after you purchase it you look more like Lady Voldemort so you change into a T-shirt featuring an ironed-on copy of your book cover, pull on a pair of black jeans to hide your less-than-literary fat, and skip the fake glasses.

When it’s “book-signing time,” you arrive at the bookstore to stage your themed display. You find yourself at the kiddy-sized table in the back, next to the Books That Never Sell. You sit down and try to look busy by constantly rearranging your book stack, while shoppers give you a wide berth and never make eye contact. Finally someone approaches your table, smiles, and you get your Mont Blanc pen ready to sign a heartfelt passage, personalized to the reader. That’s when she asks you where the restrooms are located and you point with your outrageously expensive pen.

Suddenly you’re flooded with table-visitors, all asking questions like, “Do you have any books on bird-watching?” “Have I ever heard of you?” and “What’s Sue Grafton really like?” Between “customers” you browse the bookstore shelves and end up buying more books than you sell. You wonder why you bother to write books that nobody reads, and ask the bookseller if he needs any part-time help, since it’s time you got a “real job.”

Just as you’re packing up, someone approaches and asks if your latest book is out. You smile proudly, point to the stack of unsold books on the table, and give her your well-practiced pitch: “It’s a kind of Gone with the Wind meets ‘King Kong’ set in Fresno, featuring a love story between a feisty former nun and a muscle-bound rodeo clown, who overcome a nuclear war, barely escape death by quicksand, and achieve happiness as Telemarketers.” She puts your book down, says she only reads chick-lit cookbooks, and heads for the free snacks.

Hey, don’t feel sorry for me. I love every minute of it. Try to come to my next signing. There will be free snacks...

Danville vs. Seattle

Life is slow in Danville this summer. At least for me. At least compared to life at Seattle Grace. Seems like all I’ve been doing is watching videos of old TV shows. Like “Grey’s Anatomy.”

I’m not usually a big TV watcher (yeah, sure), but I often have it on for white noise while I work. Now that the kids are gone, I need it to replace all their screaming and fighting. Helps me concentrate.Sure, sometimes I watch a few intellectually challenging shows. Like “So You Think You Can Dance” (ask me anything about Paso Doble). But the main reason I don’t get attached to shows is simple: They get cancelled.

“Studio 60” with Matthew Perry and Bradley Whitford? I loved that show. Now it’s gone. Remember “Surface,” the one about aliens coming to town (or was it “Invasion?”) Anyway, they were both cancelled. This year I got hooked on “Jericho,” where Johnny Depp-look-alike, Skeet Ulrich, tries to save his town after bombs destroy the rest of the country. Cancelled. At least until a bunch of fans sent nuts to the network as a form of protest. (Not me. Cashews are expensive.)

If you ever want a show to go off the air, ask me to watch it. The shows that get renewed are the ones I miss. “American Idol?” I can’t tell Kelly Clarkman (sic) from Simon Cowbell (sic). I missed the boat on “The Office” too. Every week over Family Sunday Dinner my kids discussed the latest episode, while I tried to chat about “Knights of Prosperity” (cancelled).

Desperate to be included, I finally joined “The Office” midseason. Now I have a crush on Dwight Schrute. (Where can I get one of his bobbleheads?)“CSI”? Missed it. “My Name is Earl”? Nope. “Lost”? Too much like “Gilligan’s Island.” But the worst mistake of all was my hunch that “Grey’s Anatomy” was just another “E.R.”/”Scrubs”/”House” (another hit show I managed to miss) with a bunch of angst-ridden interns who accidentally kill innocent patients. One episode was enough to give me an undiagnosed illness.

With summer slowing to a crawl and nothing new on TV (aside from Dr. Phil: “Your Lesbian Grandmother is Sleeping with Your Terrorist Boyfriend – and YOU DON’T CARE!”), I broke down and rented the first two seasons of “Grey’s Anatomy.” OMG, I’m totally hooked. Seriously. Meredith, Christina, Izzy and George are like my new best friends. McDreamy is well, dreamy. And I even like Bailey and Burke.

I want to move to Seattle, go to med school, and hold a live bomb inside a chest cavity so it doesn’t blow up – until the cute bomb squad guy shows up. I want to discuss the relationships between Meredith and Derrick, Meredith and George, George and Callie, George and Alex (whoops), and Meredith and all the men in Seattle.

But once again I’m lagging. Everyone else has moved on. They’re all watching something called “Ugly Betty.”Oh well, wait until the new season begins. I’ll be on top of the best shows this year. Can’t wait to try “Farmer Wants a Wife” (a group of city girls move to the country to compete for the heart of one farmer), “Kitchen Nightmares” (hot tempered Hell’s Kitchen chef goes on the road to help restaurants in crisis), and “Lady or a Tramp” (a group of rude and crude party girls are sent to charm school to learn how to behave like ladies.) Plus that show based on those Geico cavemen.

I may live in Danville, but thanks to my TV, I can go to Seattle Grace, Wisteria Lane, and what’s left of Jericho any time I want.

Tahoe Vacation

I spent New Year’s Eve in Lake Tahoe, along with most of the population of Danville and perhaps the rest of Northern California. If you’ve ever been up there during the holidays, you know how crowded it gets. And how cold. And how far, far away from home it is. For me, these are all issues I had to deal with, since I have a touch of Enochlophobia (fear of crowds), Frigophobia (fear of cold), and Agoraphobia (fear of leaving a safe place).

It seemed like a good idea at the time—that being after a couple of glasses of wine. We felt lucky to book a “rustic cottage” along the north shore, practically the only accommodations available during the New Year’s weekend rush hour. We should have known that the “cottage” would be smaller than a walk-in closet and more “rustic” than the homemade playhouse in our backyard. That was also an issue for me, since I also have a touch of Claustrophobia (fear of small spaces) and Ataxophobia (fear of rustic places). At that point, all I needed were a couple of clowns, (Coulrophobia), a big fat spider (Arachnophobia) and a dead squirrel (Necrophobia), and I’d have had to relocate to the nearby hospital (which also would have been an issue since I have a touch of Nosocomephobia.)

While I may be exaggerating a little about the phobias, I’m not exaggerating about the size of the cottage. The double bed filled the room, leaving little space for the shower stall, which was the size of a cupboard. It could only fit either a human being or a bottle of shampoo—not both. Didn’t matter. I couldn’t raise my arms above my shoulders to wash my hair in the tight space. The thermostat offered two settings: freezing or roasting.

As for the rustic amenities, there was one overhead light with 10-watt bulb, one bedside lamp with a five-watt bulb for reading, and a TV that mostly featured reruns of “Law and Order: Year One” and “The Pelican Brief” in Spanish. The self-labeled “resort” promised Internet service, but the connection kept shutting off in the middle of my search for various phobia spellings.

While most people were in Tahoe to ski, snowboard, and snowmobile, we came to celebrate a relative’s milestone birthday and watch our grandson’s first experience in real snow. However, like his grandmother, Bradley seemed to have Chionophobia (fear of snow). He didn’t care for all that white, cold stuff. Nor did he didn’t care for the snow boots, mittens, or padded snowsuits. And he especially didn’t want to slide on a slippery saucer. Maybe he got a heads up when I did the splits in my pink Uggs the first time I stepped on the snow.

My mini-vacation to the snow went downhill, so to speak, from there. Finally we packed up our suitcases, checked the “Beat the traffic” site for the best route home, set the GPS to “Danville,” and took off, leaving friends, relatives, and Northern California’s most beautiful natural resource behind.

Still, I was glad to come home, even to burst solar panels, a flooded backyard, and a raccoon break-in (they ate all my Christmas chocolates!) Best of all, my phobias are cured! Except for Oeno-rusti-cotta-chiono-phobia (fear of drinking wine and then booking a rustic cottage in the snow), of course.

Retirement Dreams

I don’t know how you retired people manage. My husband has been out of work for a couple of days, due to the weather, and I’ve already asked him to find his own apartment.

How did it come to this? I remember, as a young bride, resenting the fact that he had to go to work every day and we couldn’t be together 24/7. Funny what 37 ½ years of marriage does to a couple.

The first day home, after reading everything in the morning paper from the front page dateline to the last Frys ad, he hovered over my shoulder as I worked on my column and asked the classic question, “Whatcha doin'?” Odd, since he’s never been particularly interested in my writing. That’s how bored he was. I suggested he finish one of the projects he’d abandoned over the past two decades, such as changing a light bulb, figuring he should keep up his skills, since he’s an electrician. Or maybe he could clean out his closet and get rid of worn-out T-shirts that read, “Impeach Nixon” and “First Annual Devil Mountain Run.” Or how about getting that condemned backyard playhouse up to code before our grandson hired a personal injury attorney.

Moments after I began listing all the things we need to have done around here, he switched on the TV and surfed nearly 200 channels until he found a must-see show on the History Channel called, “Modern Marvels: Distilleries.” Then, over a beer, he got out a bunch of fake paperwork he found in his closet, spread it all over the kitchen table, and occasionally ruffled a paper when I turn to check on him.

When I called his bluff and asked him what he was “working” on, he gave his standard answer: “Taxes.” He always says “taxes” when he wants to stop a conversation. He knows that if I say anything more, he’ll give his usual speech: “Well, if you didn’t spend so much money, we wouldn’t have any taxes.” Inevitably, it’s all my fault.

After more shuffling of papers, he soon had several mountains of receipts, checks, and bills strewn about the table, barely leaving enough room for his three TV remotes, his beer, and the leftover Halloween candy. I suggested that, instead of keeping his tax materials in a plastic Target bag, he enter them into the computer like other people so the entire process is easier at tax time. He said he couldn’t find the TurboTax program I bought him last year or the Quicken program I got him this year but he planned to find them soon and get organized.

Unable to take any more of this, I headed out to pick up a DVC schedule, hoping he might sign up for a mini-class like “What To Do With Your Life When You’re Out of Work For a Few Days” or “How to Keep From Annoying Your Wife When You’re Home All Day.” When I returned, I found him lying on the couch killing robots with lightning bolts, racking up the top score against a bunch of nine-year-old competitors.

At that point I sat back down at my computer to finish my column, which would practically be the sole support of the family until his work picked up again, and wondered what I was going to write about next week, after I’d murdered him with one of his own Xbox cords. I do hate to lose a good source of material.