Crash

My laptop is still in the shop. I called yesterday, and after about twenty rings, the techie picked up. Without even asking my name, he told me that it ALWAYS takes at least a week for repairs, especially if a part has to be ordered. Sigh. So much for the good intentions of DD’s boyfriend. I appreciate him trying, but it seems that even at the front of the queue, these things take more time than I had anticipated.

But there was more excitement today at work. Roofers came to do something, probably on the roof, judging by their name. They erected their ladder right outside my classroom, in full view of my very excited Grade 1 kids. You can imagine the work I didn’t get out of them this morning.

After recess, I was scheduled to spend 45 minutes in the kindergarten class. That’s always a lot of fun for me. Five-year-olds are amazing little creatures, and when they’re trying to figure out the French language too, there’s never a dull moment.

After my time with them was done, I headed back up the hallway to my classroom. As I came closer, a workman was wheeling the vacuum out of my room. Odd, I thought. Why would my carpet be vacuumed in the middle of the day? I entered my room and immediately noticed that it was bloody cold in there. Then I saw why: two of the four huge windows were smashed in.

The workman came back in. “What on earth happened?!” I gasped.

“We were on the roof,” the workman explained. “Somehow, the heavy rope on the ladder swung back and smashed the windows.”

Somehow. On a rainy day with no wind. From a roof with a metre and a half overhang. Somehow that rope managed to crash into not one, but two windows. Interesting.

Apparently it made quite a racket. The teacher in the room next door had come running in to see what was going on in my room, but fortunately, I wasn’t in there and neither were any kids. Glass was scattered all over the books on the shelves below the windows and all over the floor – hence, the vacuum. The workman told me that he had tried to shake out all the glass from the boxes of books, but he thought I’d better check them all, because it would be quite difficult to get every little shard. And not to worry, the glass crew had been called and would be there in half an hour.

It was more like an hour and a half, but the glass crew did arrive, remove the broken glass, and replace the two windows. In the meantime, I went back to the kindergarten class. It seems to be much safer to hang out with twenty-two five-year-olds than it is to be in my classroom.

And the new windows are filthy.

Addicted

I’m so frustrated!!! My wonderful new (as of August) MacBook is in the shop for repairs. I haven’t been able to access my blog since Thursday, and I can’t believe that I have become so addicted in such a short time!

On Friday afternoon, my lovely lappy will not start up. The flashing light to indicate that it’s sleeping is visible, but I can’t make it wake up. Darling Daughter is pressed into service, but she too is unsuccessful. She suggests that I have drained the battery (because apparently, even laptops need to be plugged in sometimes) and if that’s the case, it might take a little time to recharge enough to work. Fair enough, I think, and leave it plugged in while I trot off to the hairdresser.

When I come home, still nothing. But now we notice that the tiny green light on the adapter power cord isn’t lit, which indicates a problem with either the electricity source or the power cord itself. DD switches plugs several times, but still no light. Must be the power cord. Good thing the computer is still under warranty.

So off I head to the store where I purchased my MacBook last summer, armed with my MacBook itself and the suspect adapter power cord. I explain my problem to a very nice fellow called Sean, who says we’d just better check to see if the computer boots up with one of their power cords. To my horror, it does not! He even takes the battery out, thinking that maybe the computer is trying to use it instead of the electrical cord, but still nothing. I am right pissed off at this point, but what can I do? Obviously it is something more than a wonky power cord.

I sign my MacBook over to the store for repairs, but naturally their Mac techie isn’t in until Monday. “How long will it take?” I wail. “I neeeeeeeeed my computer!”

Not too long, Sean tells me. There are only two computers in the repair queue ahead of mine, and if parts are required, they will only take two days to arrive. Only. Are there no overnight couriers on this planet?

I stomp home. I’m mad. But as the weekend wears on, I get very agitated. I don’t know what to do with myself. I wander the house. I reread old magazines. I watch bad TV. I nap. I am bored. I am craving … my computer.

But I go to work on Monday and I have a computer there. During my lunch break (because God forbid I surf on company time), I try to get into my blog. I say try, because my computer keeps crashing. I can only get so far, then my browser quits. Every single time. Piece of junk three-year-old iMac! Doesn’t it know who I am? Doesn’t it know that I am in … withdrawal?

But all is not lost. Today I beg DD to let me use hers, “just for an hour!” In return, I promise to buy her a really wonderful Christmas present. She doesn’t really believe me, but she does toss me this bone before she goes off for a walk and leaves me to it: Her BoyFriend is a techie for the same company that currently has my MacBook, but at a different location. He has taken it upon himself to contact the techie at my location and ask him to work on my computer right away. Amazingly, this guy agrees and when HBF contacts him again to see what was going on, he is told that it was possible to boot up the computer so it’s not as serious as originally thought, and that some part is already on order and should be here tomorrow. Therefore I should get my laptop back tomorrow.

I blink and start to breathe normally again.

Hi, I’m Pinklea and I’m a computer addict.

Christmessed-up

I went with a couple of wimmin to the church craft fair and Christmas evening last night (I know – it’s way too early to think about Christmas – it’s only November, after all!). We’ve been doing this every year for about seven or eight years, and I must say that it truly jump-starts my Christmas season.

For one thing, there’s that panicky feeling of “Holy shit! It’s almost Christmas! What do I GET everyone???” There’s also the warm fuzzy feeling of “Christmas is such a lovely time of year. I’m so happy it’s back!” But the prevalent feeling for me is that glorious feeling of “Hey! I get to sing Christmas carols! In public!”

You see, after the craft fair, this church puts on a dessert and coffee evening, where there’s lots of new people to meet, wonderfully decorated tables to drool over, a motivational speaker or two to listen to (sometimes, to be quite honest, I tune out to this part), and we always get to sing a few Christmas carols. I LOVE CHRISTMAS CAROLS! The schmaltzier, the better! Give me Bing Crosby doing some old standard like “White Christmas” any old day! Well, okay, maybe not ANY old day, but certainly any old day starting about mid-November.

So, there we were, singing “Joy to the world”. The words were written in our programs, because, let’s face it, most of us only know the first verse, and we were singing all three of them. And there, in the third verse, were the words “And wonders or His love”. OR His love? Have I missed something here? Is it a choice? I never knew!

I was still puzzling over that when we launched into “Hark the herald angels sing”. I remember thinking, Thank goodness it’s the angels singing this one, and not the angles. But wait … there in the second verse … “Hark the herald angels sing, Gory to the newborn King!” Yes, Gory.

Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but even non-Christians probably wouldn’t wish anything gory on a newborn, would they?

Mastercard of my domain

I recently received a letter from my bank letting me know that, since my current credit card (hereafter known as “Mastercard”) would expire at the end of the month, a new one was on its way. Then I received another letter that contained my new Personal Identification Number. At last I received a third letter that actually contained the new credit card.

As you are no doubt well-aware, there is a sticker on new credit cards exhorting the owner to activate the card immediately, either by phone or on-line. So, being relatively computer-savvy, I got onto the website in order to do this. Much easier on-line, I figured. No wonky phone lines or strange accents to deal with. Except I needed a password. Which I could set up quickly. If I transfered to another site. If I answered just a few questions first.

Screw it, said I. I made the phone call. Should be quick and easy, I thought. Just navigate through the voice prompts. No need to deal with real people.

But no. The system would not recognize my numbers. Press 0 for a service representative, the computer voice told me. So I did. And waited.

Eventually, a friendly-sounding fellow came on the line wondering how he could help me today. Well, let me think … no, stick to the topic, it’s about the credit card.

I explained that the system wouldn’t recognize my new credit card number, expiry date and those three numbers on the back that you’re often asked to supply. He asked me a few questions to verify my identity. After he asked me my birthdate (which was about the fifth question), he stopped and said, “I’m sorry, I can’t get any further with my level of clearance. I’m going to have to forward you to someone with more authority.”

I was back on hold. Of course, I got frustrated after a few minutes and hung up. A few minutes after that, I decided that I must have entered some erroneous number somewhere along the line, so I attempted to go through the whole activation process again. Again it didn’t work. Again, I was directed to a service representative. This time, I had to explain my problem again, adding, somewhat sheepishly, that I’d already been at this point but that I’d HAD to hang up because something else required my attention (like they haven’t heard THAT one before). But this time, I hung on while my problem was transfered to – SECURITY.

Yep, I was now a security risk. However, a smooth female voice spoke to me this time, asking me many of the same questions I’d already been asked, and a lot more. She even wanted to know how long I’d had my Mastercard (longer than you’ve probably been alive, was what I wanted to reply). She too stopped when I told her my birthdate.

“We seem to have a different birthdate on file for you,” she announced. “I’ll just change that right now and unlock your account.”

“How could that happen?” I spluttered. “Really, I’m me, I’m not lying – hey, wait. What date do you have for me, anyway? Am I younger?”

She just laughed. “Your new Mastercard is now activated,” she said by way of reply. “Your old one is now invalid, so please destroy it.”

I still want to know: am I too old or too young to have my own Mastercard?

Cheers!

Darling Daughter’s boyfriend has invented a new drinking game. You know, those games where when someone says a particular word or makes a particular gesture everybody must take a drink. This one has to do with Porsche Guy and his … um … how shall I say this delicately? … verbal quirks.

I must first establish that I really do adore PG, that he’s one of the most interesting men I’ve ever known, that even the very first time we met (way back in the 80’s), we had the most amazing conversation. As wonderful a conversationalist as he is, however, he does have a few pet topics and phrases that keep coming up again and again and again and again … and I’m sure you get the picture.

Anyway, our game is that everyone must take a drink whenever he:
1) starts sermonizing about Porsches
2) begins micro-analyzing any topic
3) uses the term “overrated”
There are more, but these are the most likely to occur in an ordinary conversation.

On the weekend, we were at a brunch with a number of people who have all known him for many years. When I announced the game and the rules, there was immense hilarity, and of course, immense denial from PG, who insisted that he didn’t do any of those things any more than anybody else. (There was also concern that we’d all be smashed in a matter of fifteen minutes, so we thought we’d better stick to coffee once our champagne and orange juice was gone.)

We were not into the game for more than ten minutes when the first incidence of over-analyzing occured. Right in the middle of PG’s sentence, somebody yelled, “Drink!” We all howled with laughter, and had a drink. He laughed just as hard as we did, and didn’t go back to his subject.

About five minutes later, PG pronounced some band “overrated”. We again burst into laughter and lifted our glasses. Not long after that, the topic turned to cars, and I just KNEW he’d bring up Porsches. Which he did. So we laughed again. And we drank again.

This went on all afternoon. PG was a great sport about it (you gotta love a man who can laugh at himself!), but the best thing was that everything truly was entirely unscripted. He really does talk like that as frequently as that! He honestly wasn’t deliberately steering the talk to those topics just to be funny, he was just being himself.

And now I live in fear of him inventing a drinking game about me.