I Hate Myself And I Want To Read

I was breaking out in hives. Shaking. Clawing at my skin.

‘What the hell is this?’ I said to Sarge. ‘Red splotches. On my neck. Should I do this? I think I’m gonna be sick. Hold my hand.’ And then I grabbed his hand. Maybe broke his fingers. A little.

No, I was not peeing on a stick. I was not choosing table linens for the wedding dinner (which is actually the wedding breakfast, but never mind). None of those things.

I bought a Kindle. It comes with an existential crisis.

‘Do you think I should finish all the books I have before I buy one?’

‘Then you’ll never do it.’

‘Is that my answer? Do I even need one?’

‘Do you want one?’

‘Yes. ButIfeeldirty.’

Now. I have been openly hostile to e-readers. They are not books. They don’t smell like paper and ink. Real readers read books. So there.

A girl can change her mind. I’ve caught up with the times for a few reasons:

1.  Sarge likes to sleep. I do not. He can’t sleep with the light on, I can’t read without it. And when I read in bed, I sometimes drop the book on Sarge’s face. By accident, of course. Mostly. The last time it happened, he got a paper-cut. On his eye. I laughed. And then I felt bad.

He might have started to wear an eye-mask in bed. To block out my reading light and to shield his face from low-flying books. The mask is a kind of compromise. He used to fall asleep with a pillow over his face. Freaked me out a little.

‘Can you breathe? Are you breathing​?’

‘Oh, aye.’

‘Are you sleeping?’

‘Not right now.’

b.  The last time we went away, we really did take a book suitcase. On the last day, Sarge looked like this:

He wants to travel lighter. I do, too. Especially on the honeymoon.

iii.  My personal Amazon boy-cot didn’t last very long. Obviously. I worked for them for about 5 minutes/exactly a month. Or at least I worked for people who employed people to work there. And then I quit. It was all very Norma Rae. Not really. After I left, I wanted to see how long I could last without using them.

I will say that the end of my drought wasn’t my fault. I like it when my book-group books can be locally-sourced. Or something. If not locally, then at least from GreenMetropolis. I found our most recent book-group selection there, and then my order was cancelled by the seller. And it wasn’t available at the library. And so, I ordered it on Amazon. Without looking at the Kindles.

But, I was (trying to) read in bed last week, and I might have given Sarge another paper-cut. Soon after, I broke out in those hives.

‘The built-in light will save your eyesight,’ said Sarge.

‘And yours,’ I said.

The things we do for love.

Are you an e-reader convert? Do you still read real books? Am I evil? (Feel free to not answer that last question!)

Meet Truman

In an update on Coffeegate 2012, say hello to Truman Bubbles:

Sarge set him up with a celebratory marshmallow.

As you can see from the photo, Truman comes with a very safe, very wireless keyboard.

(The marshmallow was consumed very soon after this photo was taken.  I was worried about sugar-damage.  ’Have you learned nothing?’ I said to Sarge.

Regular blogging will resume tomorrow.  Right now, I must type up the pages of my handwritten Nano novel .

The name is in honour of Truman Capote.  The middle name suggested by Madame Weebles.

Please make Truman feel welcome, he’s a little shy.  I’m sure he’ll get over it.

Please Stay Tuned

Some of you may remember Coffeegate 2011.  Well, it’s become an annual event.  Earlier this week, I picked up my coffee with my left hand.  And promptly dropped it.  On my computer.  Again.  Maybe it was the weight of my engagement ring.  Or maybe it’s because I am seriously not left-handed.  At all.  Ever.

Anyway, the screen went black and coffee seeped between the keys before I could switch it off and flip it upside down.  I know what to do.  I’m a pro.  Obviously not.

I even tried to pull the battery out.  But it was stuck.  Probably held there by the left-over sugar from last time.  It was then I realised we’d run out of paper-towels, and so I had to use a touristy dish-towel.  It was decidedly non-absorbent and had a touristy poem on it.  Fail.

I then texted Sarge.  Not because I needed help.  But because he needed to know that his future wife is a moron.  He didn’t get the message.  I heard his phone go off in the bedroom.  He was at work.  Maybe he’s a moron sometimes, too.  We’re good for each other.

I updated Facebook on my phone, babbling about how much I need my own working laptop at the moment.  Because I do.  NaNoWriMo is coming up, the OU is online.  And then there’s the job-hunt.  Did I mention I was working on an application when The Dump happened?  I was.

Hemingway is drying out.  Again.   He’s still isn’t speaking to me.  I don’t blame him.  I haven’t been very good to him.  And now I’m going to replace him.

I’ve told Sarge I’m too embarrassed to take Hem anywhere to get fixed.  Again.  Especially not Sarge’s parents’ house.  No one else needs to know I’m a moron.  But now all of you do.  So, hi.

I’m writing this on Sarge’s laptop.  Which does not have a name.  I’m trying not to spend too much time on here.  I feel like a guest.

I’ve managed to read ahead in my counselling course-book and I’ve finished a few library books.  I submitted the application I was working on when The Dump happened.  Offline life is good.  More on that later.

Sarge is going to rescue everything on my hard-drive.  Tomorrow I’m going to smile sweetly and hope the gadget gods honour my insurance.  And I’d like one of these for Christmas.

What should I name the next computer?  I have an idea, but I’d like to hear your thoughts.

I hope to have the new one up and running soon.  Until then, stay tuned and talk amongst yourselves.  The bar is still open.

On my Christmas list!

Tea And Technology

This was taken at Loopy Lorna’s  Tea House.  No, not my house.  I’m more a coffee person.  Sarge and I were taking a break from wedding cake shopping.  Sarge was timing the brew using the stop-watch on his mobile phone.

I was highly amused.

Do you drink tea or coffee?  How do you take it?

Do you use technology in interesting ways?

Scenes From The Mall

I was at the mall for five hours yesterday.  No, I don’t have a job there.  And I came home without a book.  Since my mall trips usually revolve around Starbucks fixes and buying books in bulk, my extended stay is worthy of note.

Sarge and I have had rival mobile phones since I got an iPhone two years ago.  Didn’t want it at first, but because I hadn’t upgraded for years, I got one ‘for free’.  The dudes in the shop practically threw it at me.

They threw me another one yesterday.  Only this time I asked for it.  I now have an iPhone 4.  My Siri is a dude.  This confuses me, because Siri is a girl’s name.  But whatever.  It’s just a phone, people.  A very cool phone, but still just a phone.

I signed my name to lots of bits of paper yesterday.  Then I left both phones in the shop so my contacts and photos could be transferred to the new phone.  That would take an hour.

So I went shopping.  I might have bought what my mother would call a ‘cute top’ for the engagement bonfire this weekend.  I may have discovered I am a whole two sizes smaller than I was at Christmas, the last time I bought clothes.  I may have sat, phoneless and bookless in Starbucks. With a tall hazelnut latte and a skinny (yes, really) blueberry muffin.  I haven’t been trying to lose weight, but it may as well stay gone.

I went back to the phone shop.  ‘Another hour,’ they said.  ‘Lots of photos, over a thousand,’ they said.

893, I thought.  Because my phone is with me when my digital camera is not.  And my phone takes better photos.

And so, I went off in search of yesterday evening’s dinner.  And there was nothing skinny about the chocolate mousse I picked up for dessert.

I circled back to the phone shop.  ‘Three minutes,’ they said.

And then my phone rang.  The new one.  It was Dad.  The conversation went something like this:

‘HelloDaddyI’minthephoneshop.’

‘Did you get my message?’

‘No.’

‘Have you read your email?’

‘NoDaddyI’vebeeninthemallForAllTheTimes.’

‘Oh.  Carry on, my dear.  Have Siri call me later.’

I signed some more bits of paper and took both phones home.

This is what happened when I tried to ‘train’ the new one:

Call Dad.

Call Dave?

Um, no.  Please don’t.

Text (Sarge).

What would you like to text (Sarge)?

I’m texting using my voice!

Text Izuzu my voice?

Well, maybe.  I have always wanted to do voice-overs!

Check the weather in Edinburgh.

Check in with Bro?

I wish, Siri.  Thank you.

What time is it in New York?

The time in NYC, USA is 11.41 AM

Buy Doritos.

I can’t do that for you.  Sorry to disappoint you.

That’s OK, Siri.  You’re just a phone.  And I should probably have grapes instead.

Image via CrunchBase

 

Wedding Planning With Skype

Skype Technologies S.A. logo (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

And so, my birthday dinner was also what we liked to call the In-laws Summit 2012.  (Trust me, I have done braver things.  Like eat cheese in the presence of my future husband.)

In the spirit of togetherness, Sarge suggested we bring Hemingway to dinner so my mother could tune in via Skype.  We did not.  But it made me laugh thinking about it.  And Sarge got major points with Mom when I mentioned it to her.  She also thinks it’s a good idea for a Skype commercial.  (Contact me for my rates.  Ha!)

While this post is not product-placement, I have been using Skype a lot more since The Engagement.  I showed my mother my ring by flashing it in front of the screen.  She then showed me her not-so new dog, Dolly.  Dolly spends her time eating socks and terrorising Mom’s other dog, Daisy.  But that may be another post.  One that I might call ‘Lorna Has Two Sisters’.

My mother and I have another appointment while she knits a shawl that I may need to camouflage my football-player shoulders in what may turn out to be a strapless wedding dress.

It was Skype and hot beverages on our respective continents  for a three hour conversation with a friend to discuss what she might sing at our reception.  And Benedict Cumberbatch.

I also used a screen to tell one of my bridesmaids in New York that she, along with the others, can choose their own dresses/suits/clown costumes.  Because really, on the day, all I want to do is show up and get married.  And in terms of shopping, I have no desire to recreate the food-poisoning scene in Bridemaids.  Although, I did have bad Chinese food once.  But that may not be another post.

Getting back online, my mother thinks I should take Hemingway dress-shopping so she can suck in her breath at all the right moments.  We shall see.  Or Skype.

In the words of my mother, isn’t technology wonderful?

Have you ever planned an event using Skype?

Hemingway Thinks I Should Be More Interesting

I talk to my computer.  Depending on my mood, my headset and speech recognition are optional.   When I’m not apologising  for the coffee stains, procrastinating, shall we say, positively willing it to hurry up, or punching the keys, I’m dictating.  And sometimes, I’m misquoted.  Hemingway thinks I should be more interesting.  Or grammatically incorrect.

Some recent examples are:

I Said:  She wished she could speak French like French people.

He Heard:  She wished she could speak Brent like I was winners.

I Said: Quick and mysterious

He Heard:  Quaking and WRONG

I Said:  There was nothing mysterious about her.

He Heard:   There was nothing is doing well.

I Said:  She worked in a flower shop, and had a cat.

He Heard:  In working order and bed-head (found poetry?)

I said:  Whose idea was death-metal first thing in the morning?

He Heard:  Who’s idea was death-metal first thing in the morning?  (Interesting)

I said:  She stole her lipstick.

He heard:  She stole her relative’s take. (More interesting)

Has your computer ever misquoted you?

Image by Sean MacEntee via Flickr

How To Lose A Phone in 10 Hours

Proof of life before mobile phones. I really miss it. Image via Wikipedia

Let’s say you forgot your phone somewhere. Left it on your desk at work/in your locker/in a field/dropped it down a toilet.

This is what you might do while you waited to retrieve your phone, if you were in this purely hypothetical situation:

Call it.  Five times.   To make sure it isn’t in the house.  Curse silent-mode.  Stare at your bag, where your phone should be.   Lift the  bag and call your phone again, to see if you can ‘feel the vibrations’.  The only thing you feel is like an idiot.

Panic.  What if people are trying to reach you and your phone is whispering feebly somewhere, unanswered?  Let’s just say, as an example, that somewhere is on your desk at work, where you are not.

Get real.  You know your partner is indeed coming home.  No, he did not choose this night to get run over by a bus only because you don’t have your phone, and no one could reach you if he was in traction in a hospital across town.

Breathe, and feel free.  All the important people, parents/your decidedly unbroken partner/ friends/hospital staff have or could get your home number, and call you there.  Everyone else is on Facebook.  Even your Great-Aunt who lives in Florida.  Who is actually great, and really does live in Florida.  You are not disconnected.  From anyone.

Rejoice when your partner comes home.  For the purposes of this story, let’s call him Sarge.  Ask him to call your phone, just in case it hasn’t slipped under a book.  Because you just may live somewhere where everything lost can be found under a book.  No phone, lots of books.  Pretty good deal.

Aforementioned boyfriend might ask, ‘Have you lost your phone?’  And you might answer, ‘No, we’re on a break.’

Watch the news.  You can still do that, on something they call the television.  Senseless murders and stupid taxes still happen, phone or no phone.

Replace Angry Birds with Chopped, on this groovy thing they call the Food Network.

Go to bed and finish your forty-first book of the year.  You would know this if you happened to be counting them.

Stop reading.

The next morning, you might go into work.  On your day off.   Just to pick up your phone.  The one you may have left on your desk the day before.  Your co-workers may have been expecting you.  Because they read about your lost phone on Facebook.

This post is based on based on true events.  Maybe.

Hemingway Lives!

If you’ve been reading along, you’ll know about Coffeegate 2011.  You’ll also know that I call my computer Hemingway.  Turned out he did need a new keyboard.  Today, I came home to an undead Hemingway, complete with new keyboard and his own white chocolate cookies.  (Sarge says he has to share them with us, though.)

 

Hello.  What would you like to write today?

 

Waiting on Hemingway

Image via Wikipedia

As I admitted in a previous post, I fried my laptop.  Again.

I was all ready to cash in my coffee insurance, and was even a little proud of myself that I managed to do THE EXACT SAME THING a second time.  I was racking up crazy writer points.  To go with my Post-It notes and pens and frizzy hair.  Or something.

I had come to terms with the fact that my machine would stay fried, again.  I might have started lusting after Hemingway’s replacement.  Other people name their cars.  I name my computers.  That’ll be another crazy writer point.  See, I don’t even have to try.

I was more than a little surprised when Sarge said he might be able to fix it.  What?  No new toy?  Yes, my boyfriend is a computer geek.  Actually, a Senior Computer Geek.  Or something.

So he did this, and that, and the other thing made an intergalactic noise.

And so, on Saturday he took it to the Gadget Hospital, better known as his parents house.  His Dad took it to pieces, and apparently those pieces  were dried out in different parts of the house.

I may have stayed in my own house, having guilt-free cheesecake while Hemingway dried out.  Just maybe.

The latest report from the Gadget Hospital is that the 6 key is the only key that still sticks.  And this amuses me.  Because 6 is my favourite number.  6 is plucky, and stubborn.  And it needs to get unstuck.

Because as much as I  love playing country music on Sarge’s computer while he can’t stop me, I’ve had enough new technology.  I’ve realised that nothing can replace Hemingway.