Remember how I was all I love my shiny new computer and I will be writing on it all the time life is happy lalalala? Well, that was before life conspired against me. Two things happened to get in the way of all that shiny, happy writing:
Thing the first: the geniuses at the genius bar at the Mac store couldn't keep our PC running long enough to do the file transfers that they needed to do.
Thing the second: I spent yesterday on my couch begging anyone within hearing distance to kill me.
Let's start with the second thing first, just to confuse things. I am Patient X for the new plague. I mean, possibly. It's also possible that I just have some sort of crud that has given me a sore throat, a fever not high enough to cause alarm but still high enough to leave me alternately chilling and sweating, body aches, and clogged nostrils that randomly change which side will be clogged depending on the phase of the moon and whether or not Mercury is in retrograde. Of course, I should be painting Maggie's room. She has been living with her furniture all shoved to the middle of her room for a couple of weeks now and while she's used to chaos in her room, this is a little over the top, even for her. So instead of painting or writing or doing laundry or anything productive, I spent my day on the couch watching horrible daytime television, napping, and wondering if there was anything in the pantry that would taste good enough to warrant my moving from the couch. Turns out, no.
So. There was that.
There was also Thing the First. You know, my pretty, shiny new Mac being held captive getting all tuned up for use. The transfer was supposed to take a couple of hours. When we inquired about it, they informed us that they could not keep our PC running long enough to do the transfer. I have been complaining about this to my beloved for weeks. It would just randomly shut down in the middle of stuff. That's not frustrating at all, right? As often happens with my beloved, if it doesn't affect him directly for an extended period of time, he doesn't usually see the problem. Now, my beloved has many fine qualities, not the least of which is that he's put up with me for nearly 20 years, but this trait of, um, oversight shall we say, sometimes makes me crazy. Well, after enough whining (the children joined me in this endeavor) he sat down at the computer and made a discovery: Something Is Wrong With The Computer! And lo, there was rejoicing in our abode! So when the geniuses at the Genius Bar informed us of the issue and told us we'd have to have our PC fixed before we could use our Mac, well, you know, that was fun. If by fun you mean almost exactly like giving yourself paper cuts over your entire body and then taking a few laps in a lemon juice-filled pool.
You know what the PC repair guys said? Go on, I'll wait. Guess.
Apparently dog hair and CPUs do not like each other. Rather, CPUs do not like dog hair. Dog hair, it turns out LOVES CPUs. So now we have paid to fix our PC and are waiting to pick up the Mac. (I am typing this on my beloved new MacBook which he generously loaned while he was out overnight. He hasn't synched his work stuff on it yet, which is why I wasn't left completely computerless. Shut up, Spellcheck, it is too a word.)
So now I know two things: Apparently I keep a filthy house, and two, I have yet another thing to add to the fine print of the Dumb Dog's "For Sale, Cute Dog" sign. Hmph.
