(Hi there! The little guy above is Hank. He is AI-generated; I make no apologies, for he’s too adorable to overlook. What you see around those wide, mischievous brown eyes may seem bizarre to some, yet it is my world—at least my writing world.)
Dinner is served—almost.
Everything was ready: vegetable-bean stew, a warm sourdough baguette, and olive oil for dipping. I settled at my portable writing table. The entire meal landed in my lap, spilled onto the chair, and ended up on the floor.
A fitting conclusion to a thoroughly imperfect day. To be fair, the trouble began much earlier.
Techno Gremlins, Possible Pixies, and Nurse Ratched.
A band appeared at the bottom third of my computer screen.
At the start of the day that ended with vegetable-bean stew on me rather than inside me, I was spread-eagled on the living room floor. A shiny white box with smaller white boxes and tiny arrows telling me which way to pull surrounded me. Hang on, though; this is the ending. I need to rewind. If you follow what I write today, you may be a genius, a great puzzle master, or an AI.
I believe this started with bona fide gremlins in my technical devices, or with devilish pixies who were genuinely angry with me, though I confess I have no relationship with pixies.
A glorious Retina display on my beloved iMac developed a gray mesh band across the bottom third of the screen. It had flickered two weeks earlier. I thought it was an aberration. No, no, no! I will never ignore a flicker again.
Enter the Apple AI gatekeeper, with no intention of letting me speak with a human. This one was formidable—very much like Nurse Ratched. Eventually, I escaped its custody. No fewer than six Apple technicians spent hours over several days investigating the problem. Diagnostics declared the machine healthy, yet the gray band continued its leisurely conquest of my screen.
Finally, an Apple expert pronounced judgment: "Your monitor is dying. The hardware, however, is perfect.” His solution? An external monitor.
I bought the one he recommended. It refused to communicate with my iMac. Apparently, the two had irreconcilable differences. Returning it required another expedition through customer service, several hours, and what remained of my patience.
Meanwhile, the gray band continued its advance upward on my screen.
My Hip Files for Retirement
My right hip, now eighty-three, has decided it’s served long enough.
A replacement is scheduled, and the medical establishment began preparing me for surgery on January 28, with an avalanche of phone calls, questionnaires, and requests for identification.
One form appeared to require a complete family history, possibly extending back to the Norman Conquest.
Then, my grandmother’s maiden name? Really? I suggested they consult the Ellis Island records from the late 19th century.
(Dear Granny, how I miss you, darling, and your lemon meringue pie.)
All the while, I kept working on manuscripts through an increasingly obstructed computer screen.
Ah, we approach the obvious end. After selling most of my belongings—wait! I’ve already done that—I bought a new iMac.
The new computer arrived in a magnificent box. Apple understands packaging. Every component has its appointed place, every fold its purpose, every little arrow its instructions. I had to sit on the floor, which was no easy feat, and follow the delicate arrows on the paper that guided me to each new part of the computer, each in a small white box that protected the main computer.
(Hence the white boxes and arrow comments at the beginning of this missive.)
Unfortunately, Apple had not consulted my hip. I couldn’t unpack while standing, so I lowered myself carefully to the living room floor. There I sat, surrounded by pristine white cardboard, delicate wrapping, and a computer that cost more than I cared to think about.
Everything was unpacked except for me.
I couldn’t get up.
My right leg had gone numb. For a moment, I sat perfectly still, frightened and near tears. Then I remembered I had another hip.
I rolled slowly onto my left side, reached for the desk, and pulled myself up. I was sore, shaken, and furious—but standing! I set the old and new iMacs side by side and began transferring my files—a process not for the faint of heart. Of course, I backed up my manuscripts and photographs. Still.
And then—
The old iMac’s screen cleared completely. Not a flicker. Not a gray band. Beautiful as ever. Apple had warned me this might happen temporarily. I looked from one computer to the other.
Neither offered an explanation.
The Bank Has Excellent News!
Meanwhile, the medical forms kept arriving.
Additional identification was required. I resisted for an hour, then began scanning what seemed to be every document issued to me since birth.
My printer stopped working.
I contacted what I believed was HP technical support. Somehow, I ended up speaking with a representative from another company, who offered no solution to the printer problem but enrolled me in a $70-a-month subscription—without my knowledge or consent.
At 10:30 that night, my bank called regarding a suspicious charge.
I contacted the company, and they explained that they offered an online ‘answer’ service. I explained that I hadn’t ordered it. Eventually, they acknowledged their mistake and agreed to refund the charge, as confirmed by the email.
I forwarded the correspondence and screenshots to my bank and asked them to keep my debit card active because many recurring charges were about to be billed.
The following morning, the bank called with their “excellent news.”
They had closed my debit card.
“Did you see the attachments in my email?” I asked.
“Oh, were there attachments?”
“Yes. Three big ones. In color, too.”
You know what I had to do quickly: change the payment method on each one.
Cherry Garcia & Potato Chips
You know what happened to the vegetable-bean stew. I had run out of patience and optimism. For a while, I stared at the wreckage. I cleaned the chair, the floor, and myself.
I shed a few tears. No grand revelation, no sudden gratitude for life’s little instructive surprises. I was tired. My hip hurt. I was hungry.
I had a new computer, an old computer that had apparently recovered out of jealousy, a printer that wouldn’t print, a canceled debit card, unplanned new debt, and a hip that had begun to issue ultimatums.
At least my manuscripts and photographs were safe. I made a cup of Earl Grey tea, wondering whether to laugh or cry.
At about nine o’clock, I opened a bag of kettle chips and a pint of Cherry Garcia.
I ate both. Together.
What else is a girl to do?
Perhaps it was the fudge chunks or the cherries in the ice cream. Possibly the salt with the sweet. Quite unexpectedly, though, I began to laugh.
About the Art:
”Hank” is AI-generated by my friend Ellis
Who is Menace? That would be me.