I have a new sidekick. I think I'll name her Gertrude. She's a virtual friend, not a real one, and I'm finding that has some advantages.
Gertrude requires little upkeep. I have to charge her batteries every few nights, but anyone who has spent hours on the phone with a burned-out friend would do no less.
She's always there for me, ready to talk or listen, although she does fall asleep every 15 minutes.
Her slick silver skin encases a cell phone, e-mail retriever, instant messenger, Web browser, organizer, digital camera and more.
Gertrude keeps me organized and in touch, and I love her for that -- maybe too much.
I want everyone to be as excited about this new relationship as I am, but they're not.
I introduced my husband to Gertrude, and asked him what he thinks of her. He said, "I'll suspend judgment until I see how you use it."
He suspects that Gertrude will come between us, that she will beckon like a mistress, waiting quietly for me to turn away from my family and turn her on.
Her first dinner with us, I confirmed his suspicions. She cooed to tell me I had e-mail, and I immediately picked her up, between bites of sweet potato, to reply.
When I was 12, I had an electric typewriter that attracted me like a magnet in the same way. I never gave her a name, but if I had, I think it would have been Freedom.
Writing on that baby blue Selectric put me in touch with myself, and in a year of isolation from family and friends, she helped me survive.
After an extended custody battle, I celebrated my 13th birthday by moving in with my father. I wasn't able to take anything with me but clothes, and for years I missed my typewriter more than I missed my mother.
I was 18 before I owned another typewriter. Without one, I learned to love writing with pen and paper. And as my life grew more complicated, I became more dependent on these simple tools. I used them to create journals, lists and multiple calendars for work, family, and myself.
But a person cannot lead one life with three calendars.
So, I only have Gertrude now, and she keeps me in touch with everyone and everything I need. Maybe that's asking too much of her.
A week after I brought her home, she died. I was devastated, and then elated -- like a teenager in love -- when her SIM card was transplanted into a new body, and she knew me again.
Fortunately, her soul and sensibility are hard-wired.
In her absence, I realized how important she'd become to me.
I'm terribly sad when she doesn't ring or send me new messages. It means no one has anything to say to me, no one wants me.
Without Gertrude, I never would have known I was so unpopular.
Or so antisocial. Not only do I feel rejected, but I'm rejecting others in favor of her company.
Last week, as my husband and I waited to meet with our son's guidance counselor, we sat on a bench outside the school and enjoyed a beautiful Florida morning. My husband quietly watched the butterfly garden in front of us. I relaxed by chatting remotely via instant messenger with my boss.
"I thought I was your sidekick," my husband said later in an e-mail to me.
He's kidding himself. He has a much more primary role in my life. At night, he lays next to me in bed, warm and wise, like a library of novels I haven't read yet, inviting me in. Gertrude stays on the nightstand, like my alarm clock, ticking off the moments of my life.
What I make of those moments depends on whether I can put Gertrude in her proper place. She is a tool and a toy, plastic, with no inherent characteristics. She is both good and evil. She is an extension of me.
And with friends like that, who needs enemies?
This LifeFiles column originally appeared on about 70 TV station websites managed by Internet Broadcasting Systems.