“The piece is good,” my uncle has posted on my Facebook page. “But. . .”

Oh, no. My stomach lurches; I break out in a sweat.  I close my eyes, then look back at the screen.

“But your stuff is funnier.”

This, in response to a link I shared. A piece written by my brilliant buddy, Annie Boreson, of “Annie Off Leash.” 

If it wasn’t for the sweat, I might be able to pretend this isn’t happening. But it’s there, trickling down my neck, between my boobs, and pooling in my belly button. Each drop brings me one step closer to the reality I desperately want to deny.

I don’t agree with my uncle’s comment, but that’s not important right now.

What’s important is that Annie never, ever see it.

I look at my computer in the back seat. There’s no way I can boot up. Panicked, I hit “reply” on my phone, thinking I’m sending a message to my uncle. “Erase! Eras!” I type. Then, hands shaking, ”That/t’s my frends linkk!”

It immediately appears on my wall.

I’ve now exposed, illustrated and underscored the depth and breadth of my technological ineptitude. Worse, the message reads as if I posted the link simply because Annie’s my friend.

I wonder if suicide is legal in New Jersey.

My phone chimes again. ”I don’t know how to erase it,” my uncle has posted. “And it was a good story! I didn’t say it was un-funny. I just said your stuff is funnier.”

Do you know what this is? This is two adults from an earlier generation trying to navigate Facebook with their new smartphones. And it’s being played out publicly, on the World Wide Web.

I try telling myself that this kind of thing happens to everybody. That ten years from now, I won’t even remember it. And – being in competition with another friend over who does more stupid things – that I’m now squarely in the lead.

None of it helps.

Gripping the wheel, I pull out.

I feel a “whoosh,” and know exactly what it is.

My belly button just overflowed.

Now I have a phone that’s 2,800 times smarter than I am.

You know what disturbs me about this? The fact that I don’t care. It doesn’t bother me that my phone could register each calorie my cat ingests, critique my etiquette or give me trigonometry lessons in German. Instead, it brings me a vague sense of comfort. I know nothing of apps, but I do know they’re there, lying in wait to assist in my infinite hours of need. Lose a sock? I bet my phone could find it. Get a flat tire? It would summon a magic carpet. Running late for work? It could flip my time zone and all would be well.

Initially, I feared that I’d never comprehend my phone’s features. Now I’m equally concerned that I will.

At the moment I’m trying to figure out how to upload/download/whatever the fuck – the perfect ringtone.

Yes, I’ve once again been sucked into the whirling vortex of available ringtones. It’s a sickness, this need to dance or pretend I’m in a James Bond movie every time my phone rings. But it’s in me, this sickness, with no cure in sight. True, I haven’t sought one, BUT THAT’S NOT THE POINT. The point is, with the perfect ringtone, even a call from the I.R.S. could make me happy.

Downloading a personalized ringtone on my iPhone, however, is proving difficult. The process smacks of a Dean Koontz novel, involving measures like importing, converting, formatting, transmuting, transmogrifying, and inverting various versions of reality.

If I manage to succeed, I’ll have the ringtone of my dreams. But at what price?

This isn’t really about technology, I’m realizing. It’s a matter of identity, testing all that I know and hold dear about myself. Unchecked, I fear I might start employing shortcuts, embracing widgets and utilizing advanced settings. I could become familiar, even comfortable, with functions I enjoy considering beyond my ken. Next thing you know, I could be taking online courses on Twitter and agreeing that Kindles should be allowed to exist.

So. Self-image versus the ideal ringtone.

Which do you guess will prevail?

Presently, I’m at odds with my neighbor, E6.

E6, if you recall, lives next door to me. She has a handicap sticker — for, I’m told, the safety of her autistic son. A boy who does, in fact, exist, but around whom questions still remain.

That’s all I’ll say about that.

Like a previous tenant with a handicap sticker, E6 parks at the tippy-top of her space, leaving yards of room behind her, ensuring that nary a soul can park a split inch over her line. As a result, intimidated drivers park half a car length ahead of her, fearing they’ll get a $200.00 fine for encroaching on her space.

Yes, E6 would call the police to set those wheels in motion. Had I been aware of that, I’d have known my request would not be well-received.

Last week (a particularly brutal parking week for me) I worked up the nerve to approach E6. ”I hope this isn’t obnoxious to ask,” I said, ever so politely. ”But would you consider moving back in your parking space, just a little tiny bit?” I made the universal hand-gesture for “little, tiny bit.” Then, meekly, I added, “You’re so close to your line, other people are parking a half a car length above you. . .”

“Don’t tell me how to park,” E6 cut in. ”That’s my fucking spot. If other people park like assholes, that’s not my problem.” She went into her apartment and slammed the door in my face. Then she began to scream.

As tirades go, hers was impressive. It continued for twenty minutes, and was rife with the terms fuck, bitch, goddamn asshole, harassment and police. Also notable was her repetition of the phrase, ”It’s not my fucking problem!” Given her volume and the thinness of our shared wall, she might just as well have been in my kitchen.

Annoying, it was. Still, up to that point, it all rolled off my back.

Then E6 shouted the question that sealed both of our fates: “What kind of fucking idiot cares so much about parking?”

What kind of idiot, indeed.

I had an answer to that.

My letter was reasonable, respectful and mild. I knew that would make her batshit crazy. The opening was downright conciliatory.

After expressing regret for any bad feelings between us, I mentioned how many tenants have moved out of our building because they couldn’t take the parking anymore. I then relayed my own trials. (Trudging two and a half blocks in cold, wind, rain or snow, lugging my overnight bag, gym bag, laundry, pocketbook and computer, accidentally dropping shit on the sidewalk as I go. Feeding a meter just to stay at home. That kind of thing.) Near the end, I implored E6 to put herself in my shoes.

Upon discovering the letter, E6 she had a conniption. Even more satisfying, her husband took my side. Every time he spoke (his words were too low for me to make out) E6 shouted, “No! NO! Fuck that! I’ll park however the fuck I want!”

It was a sweet moment for me. Still, it’s nothing compared to what I have planned.

The next time I see E6 in the hallway, I’m going to bid her a cheery hello.

If her hands are full, I’ll offer to carry something.

Best, I’ll hold the elevator door open for her. Midway to the lobby, I’ll offer her a gift certificate for a day at the local spa.

That, my friends. That will be her undoing.

To be clear, this isn’t a matter of ego – providing my father the opportunity to say, “I hear your son made it into Harvard, Phil,” then puff out his chest and crow, ”My daughter’s Pope!” Rather, I believe it would be the fruition of a dream that’s danced in his subconscious since the day he decided to procreate.

Don’t get my wrong; my father isn’t dogmatic or preachy. But if his foot was run through a chipper, he’d still sweat being late to mass. Growing up, this applied to my sister and me as well. Plus, wherever we went on vacation, there just happened to be a church (if not Catholic, something close) right around the corner from where we were staying. Plus, I was made to attend CCD until I was 17, by which time 98% of my peers had been liberated for upwards of 3 years. And most illustrative, I am a proud product of the rhythm method of birth control. (“Come on,” my mother urged. “Cheating once won’t matter.”)

So yes. If I was Pope, my father would be delirious.

I assume the job comes with perks. Superior medical insurance covering both optical and dental. Minions poised to make a Starbucks run anytime you wish. The chance to go to work naked under a robe. An inviolate, collective delusion that you’re patient, tolerant and composed.

It sounds lovely, but I’m not sure I can go through with it.

Please don’t judge me for this. Popedom is just so. . .involved. I’d have to figure out what the fuck Twitter is  improve my Twitter skills – a task daunting in and of itself. More, I’d have to familiarize myself with the Bible, ditch my beloved cat-eye glasses, and be nice to children.

My personality simply isn’t conducive.

Compounding all of that is my host of unanswered questions. Can you buy tampons in Vatican City? As Pope, can you say fuck? If not and you slip, are you whacked with a ruler and whisked off to confession? Can you wear nail polish, go shoe shopping or read “The Joy of Sex?” And, most importantly, can you blog?

This, my friends, is the pivotal question. Even if I was allowed, I’m not sure how “The Neurosis Files” would be received. Posts like, “The Mystery Of The Blue Ass,” “I Wouldn’t Kick Obama Out Of Bed,” and “My Cat’s Pussy” spring to mind. I suspect they’re more popular in New Jersey than they would be in Rome.

In my worst nightmares, my posts would assume a discernibly Papal tone.

That I could not bear.

Could you?

He has excellent posture.

I never got the chance to sleep with John F. Kennedy.

He doesn’t fart when anyone’s around — even the secret service men. He may want to, but has far too much class to indulge.

If he managed to get past the clutter in my front hallway, I’d owe it to him.

Witness to my parking situation, he’d surely abolish all of the handicapped spaces on my street.

I’d discover first-hand what time he gets up in the morning, and what type of sound he’s chosen for his alarm. Maybe I’d even get to hear his ring-tone!

He has great skin.

I’d feel patriotic in a new, sexier kind of way. I’d drape a flag across my headboard and feed him red, white and blue ice cream cake while humming the national anthem.

I’ve dreamed of massaging his ears.

I’d like him to meet my cat.

My boyfriend might finally respect me.

Diane had been dating her boyfriend, Brian, for a year. They were inseparable, in love, and, it seemed, emminently compatible.

From the time I met Diane, she made it clear, to Brian and to all who knew them, that she wanted to marry him after graduation.

Nearing the end of their senior year, Brian, easy-going and mild of manner, produced a ring. A year later, I attended their wedding with my own fiance.

A year after that, I told Diane she’d be receiving an invitation to my own wedding.

After congratulating me, she confided that she was sleeping with someone. Someone other than Brian.

I didn’t approve. But I said nothing.

Diane arrived at my wedding not with Brian, but with her lover.

To be clear: The invitation had been addressed to Diane and Brian Cravitz.

I was appalled, but said nothing.

My new husband and I honeymooned in Jamaica.

My most vivid honeymoon memory is of sitting poolside, obsessing on whether I should send Diane a thank-you note. And, if I did, what I would say.

I’ll tell you what I did, but first, what would you have done?

I bought them for $10 at a hospice thrift shop.

A hospice thrift shop? you ask, thinking, My God. Not only does she buy used shoes, but dead people’s used shoes.

Well, I’m not ashamed of either. Okay, maybe a little about them being used. But the dead part, not one bit.

Look. It’s not like I waited by the woman’s deathbed and wrenched them off her feet as she took her last breath. Or that she fought for them, leaving claw-marks down the sides (although, if there was ever a pair of shoes worth fighting for, these are the ones). And it’s not like I read the obituaries every day, hoping a woman with a closet full of Ann Kleins, Jimmy Choos or Guccis – and was a confirmed size 7 – has dropped dead. If that was the case, I’d be prying opal rings off of bony fingers and diamond earrings off of dry, shriveled ears.

I would never go that far.

I don’t think.

Say what you will. In the final analysis, I think this is what matters: If the dead woman had known me, she’d have wanted me to have them.

I know this as surely as I do that macaroni and cheese and Nutella won’t bring back my waistline.

I am the woman who, in better economic times, passed an obscene number of hours in shoe sections of every major department store (and Marshall’s Super-Shoe Outlets) from here to Idaho. (I live in New Jersey.) Who matched her clothing to her shoes, rather than the other way around. Whose computer screen-saver is a close-up of her cherished blue butterfly mules (purchased online four minutes after she learned she owed $1,300 in taxes).

I am also the woman who has developed Achille’s tendonitis, and is warned by her podiatrist not to wear high heels or flats.

This effectively retires 98.3% of my adorable shoe collection.

It is a barbed swizzle stick through my heart, causing anguish on par with that of my parking trials.

You know what I think?

I think if the dead woman had known me, she’d have left me all of her shoes, and a couple of scarves for good measure.

My computer is in the shop, where it could remain up to five days. My friend has lent me her old Mac.

Furiously, I’m writing this down.

“cm2076ADMIN. . .”

“Yes,” my friend assures me. “It’s something like that.” Then, “If you run out of ideas, give me a call.”

“Okay,” I say. “But I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”

The interesting thing is, I believe this. I believe there is no permutation too complex or obscure to elude me. Not because I think myself clever – I prove otherwise as naturally as I breathe – but because I’m pathologically focused, batshit compulsive, and known for courting futility.

At this moment, I am also absent a computer. My BlackBerry is my sole technological bridge to the world. There are messages I’m not receiving. Statistics to which I have no access. Facebook “likes” I’m not on top of. And, because I’m unable to write posts or stories, my texts are becoming verbose.

A rat in a cage with a single lever, that which dispenses the very basics of survival, I continue to press. And press.

Could it be M1076welcomeuser1?

m1076WELcomeUser?

USERadmin4129?

cm4129user1?

I will figure this out.

They could take us all down in the beat of a heart.

They, my friends, are our friendly, neighborhood pharmacists.

Pharmacists know stuff about us. Sensitive, guilt-inducing, pitiable, intimate, disgusting stuff. Stuff that, if leaked — or announced over a loudspeaker – would unveil us as the unstable, physically defective, sexually inadequate losers we all are. Here are some of the things mine knows, or could surmise, about me:

I’m a wimp about tooth pain.

My bladder balks when I try to pee.

My legs itch after I shave.

I slept with the wrong damn person.

It’s not just humiliation to be feared, either. An angered pharmacist with a smidgen of creativity is a treacherous person indeed.

“Sorry, but your insurance no longer covers Zoloft, or any other antidepressant.”

“They’ve raised the copay on Viagra to $400.00.”

“I’m sure I told you there could be loss of vision, night terrors or incontinence.”

“If your heart medication looks different this month, it’s just the generic.”

Pharmacists.

They scare me.

What could yours surmise about you?

My apartment is at the far end of the sixth, and highest, floor. I emphasize this because when I venture out to move my car, do laundry or get my mail, my journey is longer than anybody else’s. Which makes me the tenant most likely to bump into, share the elevator with, or simply be seen by others.

Knowing this has not improved my grooming habits one bit. In fact, each day I’m struck anew by the depth of my apathy.

On many a morning, 8:59 finds me scurrying up the block or around the corner to my car garbed in any or all of the following, in myriad combinations:

One of my old, beloved, disintegrating sweatshirts, most likely inside-out and/or backwards

Worn thermal or pajama bottoms with paint or bleach stains and a highly compromised crotch

A pocketbook

My huge, fleece caftan

Leather gloves and/or scarf

Flip-flops

Low, zip-up snow boots with no socks beneath them

Makeup is absent. My hair is smooshed flat in some places, boinging out in others. Occasionally, it’s still damp with perimenopausal sweat.

I can’t motivate myself to care.

Only once since moving in has there been an exception.

It was a sweltering, August afternoon. Preparing to do laundry, I put on an old halter-top with. . .well, insufficient support.

In my defense, I was in a hurry. Plus, I didn’t feel like dirtying something cuter. And I wasn’t flopping when I put it on.

Walking at a reasonable pace, all had been well.

Then, leaving the laundry room, I saw the elevator door open at the far end of the hall.

“Could you hold that a minute?” I yelled to the super and her nephew, and made a run for it.

Of course, I did the run. The one where I bend my knees and take long, smooth strides, staying perfectly still above the waist to avoid floppage. But as I gained momentum, I felt things going awry. It began with a jiggle. Then my boobs started springing upward toward my face, freezing for a split second before my eyes before landing back on my chest with an audible, “Whoomp.”

The super and her nephew stared, agog, their eyes moving up and down with the action. Judging by their expressions, they could have been watching me bull-ride naked.

I slowed gradually, folded my arms across my chest, and walked the last few yards.

“Thank you,” I said demurely, as if I was someone they could ever respect again.

“Sure,” they answered as I got onto the elevator.

The elevator door closed. As I began my ascent, I heard the nephew say, ”What a sight that was!”

“Well, I wasn’t going to mention it!” the super responded.

They burst into peals of laughter.

Clearly, I need to improve the run.