I fought the computer and the computer won.

I spent about an hour and a half on the phone today, first with Charter and then with Apple, trying to figure out why in the world our internet connection was moving about as slow as molasses in January - to use an over-used Southern expression. First I talked to a really nice guy at Charter, who ended up telling me that our megabytes and gigabytes were, in fact, running up to par, and the problem lay not with our internet service, but with our computer. He very helpfully gave me the toll-free number to Apple, where another very nice and very patient guy helped me figure out that we really didn’t know why our internet was so slow. We got stuck when I couldn’t remember Aaron’s password to get into Systems Preferences. He then emailed me some instructions that I was to follow to reinstall our Safari, which I assured him I could handle. As soon as we hung up, the internet went down entirely. I called it a day and went for a long walk out by the lake. When it comes to computer innards, I feel about as comfortable as a Republican sitting next to Al Franken at a dinner honoring Spike Lee.

Aaron is bummed today because he talked to a gallery who think they can sell only his representational work, something he did for about two seconds six months ago. They like his stuff, but the majority of his work might not be a good fit for them, sales-wise. I always feel bad in situations like this, because I don’t know that much about art or the art world, and I feel like I always end up saying stupid things along the lines of, “There, there. There, there.” I feel pretty useless. I always try to relate his disappointments to how I would feel if someone didn’t think my writing would be a good fit for their publishing house. So many people love Aaron’s work. I really believe that one day he is going to hit it big. When that day comes, I want a maid and a Lexus. In that order.

How we came to live with a crazy bitch

Aaron and I decided one day, seemingly out of the blue, to get a dog. We had a wedding coming up in a few short months, I hated my job and was desperately seeking better employment, and we’d just moved into a two-bedroom house on the other end of town. We didn’t think we had enough going on in our lives. Stress levels were only at about a 9.5 out of 10 and we needed something that would really set us over the edge into extreme hypertension.

We’d talked previously about getting a Boston terrier. Aaron’s grandfather had always kept Boston Terriers, one who had been killed by country singer Billy Dean’s dog. It was the family’s claim to fame. Boston Terriers were good, solid, dependable dogs, dogs that might bark only at strangers, dogs that were kid-friendly (if we ever decided to do that), and needed only to be run around the back yard once in a while for exercise. We wanted something uncomplicated, squat, docile and easy-going. Instead, we got a leggy, high-strung drama queen.

One Sunday, as we drove around the countryside, Aaron turned to me and said, “Let’s go by the pound. Just to look.” I said, “Sure, just to look,” and we both knew we were going to by parents by the end of the ride.

We entered the pound and looked at all the cute puppies, crazy pit bulls, and lethargic mixed breeds who knew better than to depend on their looks and so instead were trying to come off as well behaved. A black and white medium sized pup sitting with her back smushed up against the bars of her kennel sat looking at us with feigned casualness. Aaron was drawn to her immediately. “Let’s ask to see this one,” he said, as I made goo-goo eyes at a small ball of fur on a top kennel while trying to keep my knees from getting snapped off by a Doberman that seemed to be frothing at the mouth.

We stepped outside into one of two visiting areas that looked like small preschool play centers. We stood nervously as an employee brought the puppy in and set her onto the floor. She immediately wet the floor and jumped up onto Aaron. We petted and played with her while the guy told us that she was about three months old and had been found wandering around out in the cold. They’d named her Heidi, and he couldn’t believe someone hadn’t already snapped her up.

He left the room and gave us some time alone with Heidi. Aaron and I looked at each other and nodded. We couldn’t wait to get her home. We notified the guy, who grinned happily and brought us a sheaf of papers to fill out and sign. After filling out all contact information and our veterinarian’s name, completing a short essay on what we would do in case of emergency, drawing a diagram of where we planned to house her, and noting the amount of food we would give her, in ounces, we handed the clipboard back and stood awkwardly as the guy asked us a few questions. “Do you promise to always have a plan for leaving the dog in a responsible person’s care if you have an emergency that keeps you away from the house?’ he asked. “We do,” we responded.

“Will you give this animal the best care you can, assuming all responsibility for its well-being, recognizing that it is unable to properly care for itself?’

“We do.”

“If you find that you made too hasty a decision today, cannot care for the dog, and must return it to the pound, do you acknowledge that you will not be due a refund in any form, that you will officially be branded Worst Dog Owners Ever by the State of North Carolina, and that a bumper sticker stating such will be sent to you in the mail which you must keep on your vehicle at all times?”

“We do.”

The guy then ended, “Having heard these promises you have now made, and believing that you look like a couple of pretty decent people, by the power vested in me by the state of North Carolina, I now declare you the Owners and Caregivers of Heidi.”

Heidi (who we immediately renamed Missy) ran through her pee and jumped on Aaron and me, baptizing us in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. I think I heard the guy in the next play area mutter, “Amen.”

What we have here is a failure to communicate

Today is Friday, which means tonight is date night. When Aaron and I were dating he came up with the great idea of setting aside one night a week for us to spend time together. He got the idea from his parents, who left him and his siblings with a babysitter and a pizza every Friday so they could regain some sanity (the parents, not the kids). Apparently he thinks he did this in exchange for having all day Saturday to himself, but I don’t remember it that way. I remember him offering it up as a way to ensure that we would have time to grow closer together, just the two of us. No matter what happened the rest of the week, this night would be reserved for only him and me. What Aaron didn’t realize at the time was that he could have told me straight out he was bargaining for Saturdays to himself and I would have jumped at that a lot quicker. I need my “me time”. It’s too bad Aaron married a woman who is so hard inside.

I only work until noon on Fridays. That means one whole hour less of light rock piped into my life. One hour less of Michael Bolton, Shania Twain, and that craptacular new song called “You’re Beautiful”, or something like that, where the guy seems to be attempting to sing a love song to some girl he saw for about 30 seconds on a subway. Instead, he comes across sounding like some horribly depressed loner who’s gone over the deep end obsessing about her and doing who knows what alone in his dingy, cramped apartment. Can’t figure out how that one made it up the charts; it gives me the creeps and makes me depressed all at the same time.

Other than the music, I like my job well enough. I go in at 8:00 and do data entry until my eyes start to bleed. Then I leave at 1:00 and rush home to do what I love, which is promote my husband’s art and write. The job helps pay the bills, though, and it’s a whole lot better than some of the places I’ve been, where I spent my time hiding in the bathroom from my boss, wondering if there was some type of lethal poison that, when eaten in a hot dog, could not be traced.

So, date night. I see that Aaron has mention Capote, but I, being the thoughtful and self-sacrificing wife I am, was really thinking more of seeing it Saturday since I knew Aaron didn’t get any sleep last night. When I called him on my way to work this morning and announced that I’d just seen it was playing at the Brew ‘N View, I failed to tell him this. And so we end where we began - with a slight malfunction in communication.

Hooray for Hollywood

It has been a beautiful day today, sunny and cool and perfect for hike in the mountains. Tonight are the Oscars, which Aaron will not allow to be watched in his presence. I’m into the Oscars this year, because I want almost everyone who is nominated to win. I want Phillip Seymour Hoffman to win because he’s such a great actor and is overweight and doesn’t seem to give a crap. I want Heath Ledger to win because, as I said to my sister once, “he’s the reason I get up most mornings.” I want George Clooney to win because he just seems like such a nice guy, almost sheepish, and I’ve been a fan of his since he was on ER. Aaron makes fun of his big hair days on Roseanne, but I don’t care. I want Reese Witherspoon to win because she’s so Girl Power. I want Felicity Huffman to win because she’s so down to earth. And I want Amy Adams to win because I’ve never seen someone able to pull off such a convincing southern accent who wasn’t from the South. Heck, I’ve seen southern actresses who couldn’t pull off convincing southern accents (think Julia Roberts in “Steel Magnolias”). All very vapid and flimsy reasons for people to win Oscars, but isn’t that what Hollywood’s all about?

But instead of watching the Oscars, we’ll be watching a Sherlock Holmes mystery on PBS. I’m into that, too. There’s nothing better than a good British mystery. The very accent just makes you feel smarter. I’ll probably fall asleep 30 minutes into it, though. I’m bad about that. Last night Aaron was watching what appeared to be a great movie on FMC. I missed the first 30 minutes of it because I felt I just had to get the laundry done. I finally sat down to watch it and was asleep by 9:00. I fell over into the corner of the couch sometime during my siesta so that my head was at an odd angle to the rest of my body. Aaron would poke me periodically and ask me why I didn’t go on to bed. He loves to torture me when I fall asleep on the couch. He waits until I hit a point where I’m so far gone I can’t possibly drag myself up and into bed. Then he will very, very lightly tickle me on the cheek or under my nose, causing me to wake with a start. It makes me really, really irritated. So angry that if I were more awake I’d pop him one across the jaw. But I am completely defenseless in my haze of sleep and can therefore only angrily mutter “SttoooooOOOOOpppppp!!”. This amuses him.

Cheerio, dahlings. And may the best Reese win.

Where livin's easy and the life is good

We ended up watching the Oscars. The world’s greatest detective was a repeat. Aaron thought Jon Stewart was consistently funny. He also was pulling for Phillip Seymour Hoffman, but went to bed too early and didn’t see him win.

I, on the other hand, valiantly stayed awake until 11:00 pm, until just after Reese won it. I was so proud of her. I think I can safely say that if it weren’t for “Legally Blonde”, my life would be a shambles.

I am always slightly ashamed of myself for being so enamored with the stars. I think it’s a malady with which many women struggle. My friend Amber, who is one of the smartest and hippest women I know, buys People Magazine and hides it from her husband. I used to work with a company who printed People. They promised to send me a free copy each week but failed to do so. When their contract came up for renewal, I went with another vendor.

Aaron enjoyed the awards, I could tell. Halfway through the ceremonies he told me he wanted to become famous. Then we practiced what we would say to all the interviewers as we walked down the red carpet. It made me a little less embarrassed that I’d been practicing my Oscar acceptance speech in front of the bathroom mirror a couple hours earlier.

Must see TV

Tomorrow we are nixing our Directv in favor of basic cable and high speed internet. We won’t save any money, but instead of paying a bunch of money to flip through 300 channels for two hours a night, we’ll be paying a bunch of money to surf the net in style and pare down what we watch.

Last night, Aaron was flipping through channels as I washed dishes. “Man!” he exclaimed. “There’s nothin’ on!!” I told him he’d better get used to it, since in another couple days he’d have even less to choose from. He reminded me that would be a welcome relief, since all tv had to offer anyway was a bunch of crap.

So instead of paying for more of nothing, we’ll be paying for less of nothing.

Basically, we watch NBC and PBS at night. During dinner we watch The Simpsons on FOX. On Thursday night, we watch “My Name Is Earl” and “The Office”. Other than that, we both have our own shows we enjoy. Aaron likes “Mythbusters” on Discovery, for which he will soon have to find a replacement. I find “Mythbusters” only mildly interesting from time to time. It seems all they ever do on there is measure each other’s farts and blow things up. Sometimes they blow up each other’s farts. Aaron says it’s all in the name of Science, and I should be glad someone out there is teaching kids that science can be fun.

Waiting for Godot

The cable guy is supposed to come out anytime from 1:00 pm to 5:00 pm today to install our internet and basic cable. It’s 3:30 right now.

I’ve been working on my Application for Employment for a local publishing company and cracking and eating pecans. They also gave me a copyediting and proofreading quiz that is due back on Monday. It isn’t terribly difficult, but I’m nervous about making stupid mistakes on it. I had my mother come for lunch and proof it with me. She noticed some things I didn’t, and I noticed some things she didn’t. The way she threw around words like “gerund” and “participle” amazed me. I can look at something and tell you if it is correct or not, but she can remember the actual term. She taught elementary school for over 15 years.

There’s a difference between old school and new school grammar. My mother suggested commas where I wouldn’t put them. Nowadays, we newfangled writers and teachers don’t like to see a lot of commas. But her way was probably technically correct. I decided I’d play it safe and go old school. You can really argue a comma in a lot of different situations. For instance, would you put a comma in the following sentence?

“For a settlement I will suggest either getting a new bicycle or having the old one repaired.”

Mom said a comma should technically go after “settlement”.

Let’s have some Friday afternoon fun. I’ll give you a few sentences from the test, and you see if you can figure them out. Correct all errors in spelling, grammar, and punctuation.

1. The mechanic adjusted our carburator but it was only at out insistance that the distributor was examined by him.

2. Its bad if not worse than last year.

3. Facing a big-league pitcher with a bat on your shoulder and trying to hit his delivery, is another vital experience in gaining an understanding of the game about which you are trying to write vividly.

That last one’s a doozy. There are so many things wrong with it, I don’t know where to begin.

Missy's near miss

I almost killed our dog a few minutes ago. Time after time, I’ve let her off her run in the backyard to make her own way around the back of the house and through the back door. Today, I didn’t have a box of treats with me like I usually do. And I should have noticed she was a little more hyper than usual, but it didn’t really register in my mind.

As she rounded the corner at top speed, an alarm went off in my head. I picked up speed myself and followed her, yelling at her to go right inside. As I got to the back door, I didn’t see her in her usual place, waiting for me. My heart sank. That very same moment, I heard an incredible screech of tires on the road in front of the house. A huge work truck was bearing down on its breaks as hard as it could. I saw a flash of black and white. For a split second, I wondered if I should call her or not. I couldn’t tell where she was in relation to the truck, and I thought calling out to her might make her run back in front of it. Then I saw her; she had run directly in front of the truck and, scared to death, had kept running, as though she were leading the way as it skidded and slid behind her. It probably saved her life.

“MISSY!” I yelled, “GET BACK HERE!” But she didn’t need me to tell her. Terrified, she had already bounded back up into the yard and onto the front porch. I hadn’t even had time to make it to the front yard yet. The truck went on down the road. I locked Missy onto the front porch with a baby gate as I tried to find our hidden key. There was no way I was going to let her out of my sight to go back around through the back door.

I let Missy in, where she jumped up on the couch. Then she headed toward the back door, which was still open, but thought twice about going out again. I quickly closed that door and then sat down. I called Aaron. As I sat out on the front porch, telling him about it, I could smell burning rubber. The truck had left marks all the way down the road in front of our house.

Missy has been sitting on the couch ever since, peeking out the front window from time to time. I’ve been alternately tearily telling her how much I love her and gruffly chastising her for running away.

I’m gonna have to do some yoga to relax.
Monday, March 13, 2006

The day the music died

Today the piped-in soft rock in my office cut off suddenly for FIVE WHOLE MINUTES. There I was, tapping away on the keyboard, entering the address of a very nice man who had just been explaining to me how he’d suffered from the gout on and off for the past five years and how he was going to have to sue his insurance company over the car wreck he’d been in, when “I Know This Much is True” began to sound really scratchy. Then it cut out in some places. I started to get hopeful. I finished my call, hung up, and began opening an envelope when suddenly it struck me. It was quiet. Too quiet. The girl whose office I share had gotten up to use the copier. All around me, I heard papers rustling and phones softly ringing. The music had stopped! I wanted to shout for joy at the sudden peace I’d found in the middle of a Monday. I instantly began to cheer up.

I could just imagine the Main Music Controller in the Music Control Room begin to panic. “EVERYONE TO THEIR POSTS! EVERYONE TO THEIR POSTS! GOOD LORD, PEOPLE, THIS IS NOT A DRILL! WE’VE LOST THE MUSIC, I REPEAT, THE MUSIC HAS BEEN ABORTED!!” In my mind, I saw men and women running back and forth, papers flying everywhere, a siren screaming in the background with red lights flashing. I imagined the Main Music Controller running up to a man cowering at his desk. “THE MUSIC HAS BEEN ABORTED! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MAN, GET AHOLD OF YOURSELF! IF WE DON’T GET THE MUSIC BACK ON THESE PEOPLE MIGHT START THINKING FOR THEMSELVES. FOR THEMSELVES!” And then he slapped him soundly across the face.

I chuckled to myself just as my office partner came back. She gave me a funny look out of the corner of her eye. At that moment, “Take It To The Limit” came on over the speakers.

I could just hear all the guys up in Music Control breathe a huge sigh of relief.

Situation Averted.

Diversity Training

Yesterday I took a class on diversity training during my morning job. A lot of the people I work with seem really nice, but since I only work there part time, I don’t get to talk to them much, so I was hoping that by going to this class I’d get to meet some new people. That didn’t happen, but here are some things I learned during Diversity Training:

1. Women control 80 percent of the spending in most households.
2. The Hispanic population in western North Carolina has increased by 129 percent in the past five years.
3. Never, no matter how hungry you are, should you gulp down a huge bowl of chili 10 minutes before attending an hour-long Diversity Training class, during which there are no bathroom breaks.