(Pause for a moment: last night my computer died. One second it was alive and healthy and my constant companion (I know it’s weird—don’t judge) and the next second, nothing. It makes me VERY sad. And we are absolutely in no position to be paying to fix anything or buy anything new, so that kinda makes it worse. Double bad with a dash of awful. Frowney face.)
Must go on. Let’s see if the computer works now. Maybe magic elves fixed it during the night. No? Stupid lazy elves.
Must eat breakfast. Crap. We’re out of coffee. Today sucks already. It’s only 7:41. I hate 7:41. It’s the worst time ever. But I will breathe and do all my zen-like let’s-not-be-a-crazy-person exercises. I’m the master of my thoughts. Ha. Take that, crappy day.
Ugh. I’m sleepy. Want to sleep so bad. And I’m sad about my computer. I wonder what they’ll say when I take it into the Apple store later. You know what is almost as great as sleeping? Taking care of a toddler. Wait…no.
I’ll be helpful for Stephen since I can’t check my RSS feeds and putter around my own computer. I’ll set up his back-up drive. Yay for me!
Why the F isn’t this stupid drive working?!
Read some of “A Room of One’s Own” and get mad that it used to be socially acceptable for men to beat their wives. Wonder what good it does to get mad about it now.
Make a snack for me and the kiddo. Toasted flat bread with cinnamon and sugar. Go to the bathroom. Oh, perfect…the kitchen is full of smoke. That’s exactly what I need. Love it. Hope that none of the neighbors see the smoke and panic.
Watch a little “Shaun the Sheep” because I’m too depressed to be a good parent. Get upset about not being a good parent. Read more “A Room of One’s Own.” Get mad some more. Sheesh.
What’s that on your belly, kid?
Gosh dangit my freaking kid is breaking out in hives. She has a decently severe egg allergy (but did NOT eat any egg, so wtf?) so the idea of potentially needing to stab her in the leg with an Epi pen is constantly looming. This is great. Perfect. PERFECT. Give her some allergy meds. Cross fingers.
Hives subsided. Dinner eaten. Off to the
executioner Genius bar appointment.
It smells like perfume at the mall. In the big, open concrete hallway. There’s only three other people here. Is that her perfume? Or does it just smell like that? It doesn’t smell bad, but if that’s her—dang. That’s a lot of perfume.
Check into “triage” at the Apple store. That was the word she used. I lug my necrotic laptop onto the counter.
That girl has one of those tattoos of just words in a script font on her bicep. That seems like a very uncomfortable place to get a tattoo. Not that there’s a comfortable place to jam a needle repeatedly.
It might be the logic board. She tries to start it up. Her hair looks better than mine. It doesn’t start up. She says if it fails a certain test, the repair is covered. (!!) I can breathe a little.
Yep, they check it in for the $500+ repair, that is being done at no cost. This is much better than a lack of coffee, a kitchen in flames and unexplained hives. Her hair looks great. I like her tattoo. Things are gonna be okay. Well, this one thing is gonna be okay. Might be okay. Possibly. Fingers crossed.