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.

Grandma Lied. Coasters Are Bad.

Image by Old Shoe Woman via Flickr

And so, I am on my way home from work, with a blog post or two playing around in my head.

I get home and I am all set to write.  Actually can’t wait.  My PA makes me a coffee before she leaves, and the cursor is blinking expectantly on the screen, ready for my words.  My fingers reach for the keys.

And my phone rings.  I talk to my Dad, listening while my own sentences run through my head.  I can multi-task.

I get off the phone.  Billy Joel starts to sing what I think of now as an appropriate song, and I lift my mug to take a sip of by now luke-warm coffee, just the way I like it.

I’m going to write.  Billy Joel is singing.  I’m happy.  All is right with the world.

And then the bottom drops out.

No, really.

The coaster, sneakily stuck to the bottom of my mug, clattered onto my keyboard.  Because of my slightly delayed, over-zealous fright-reflex, my butt left my seat, my hand shook and I spilt the coffee on the keyboard.

Billy stopped singing.  All was quiet.  Well, except for me.

After making the air blue, I switched off my sticky computer and hung it upside down.

And then, not unlike the time I couldn’t work the blu-ray player, I called Sarge.

‘I’ve done it again,’ I said.  It was true.  The reason I have insurance on this computer is because I did the VERY SAME THING  to my old one.  It was probably the same coaster, too.  The technician said I blew the mother-board.   Which is just a nice way of saying I have too much sugar in my coffee.

My current computer is drying out in our boiler cupboard as per Sarge’s suggestion.

I am writing this in my notebook and then I will type it on his computer.

I have actually thrown out the offending coaster.  I hope my coffee mug is making a mean ring on the table.

If my computer doesn’t switch on again, I shall be cashing in on my coffee-meets-computer-mishap insurance.  That’s what it’s for.

You Look Happy, Were You Drunk?

Sarge with his sensitive eyebrows, and me with my eyes closed. I very rarely have my eyes open in photos. It's become one of those inside jokes I'm thankful for!

The American in me wants to have pumpkin pie later on today and cold turkey sandwiches tomorrow.

I am the kind of person who believes thanks aren’t just for Thanksgiving.  But in the spirit of the day, I’m going to share what I am thankful for this year.

My list every year is quite simple.  It doesn’t take much to make me happy, and I’m appreciative of what I have every day of the year.

That being said, these things have made this year extra special to me:

My family:  Thank you for providing me with all the love, support and material you can, any way you can.

My friends:  Thank you for keeping me in cheesecake, laughs, inside jokes and packing boxes.  I owe you a coffee/beer.

Sarge:  Thank you for everything.  Thank you for your love, acceptance, humour and books.  Thank you for putting up with my PMS and letting me sleep diagonally in bed.  Sometimes.  My life before you were in it was a different one that seems a million years ago.  I love you.

The Internet/Facebook:  Thank you for keeping me connected to friends and family and letting me pretend I can be in faraway living rooms sharing laughs and zucchini bread in less than five minutes.

I sent my mother some recent photos of Sarge and me.  First thing she said was, ‘You look happy.  Were you drunk?’  In two of them, yes.  She also said I looked peaceful, and that Sarge has ‘sensitive eyebrows.’

I was reminded of an exchange in one of my favourite films, The Truth About Cats and Dogs:

Abby:  I was mesmerised by his eyebrows, they say so much about a person.

Noelle:  Do they say ‘goat-cheese’ on them?!

Sarge does indeed have sensitive eyebrows, but they definitely don’t say goat-cheese on them.  Trust me on that.

I am peaceful, fundamentally happy.  For that, I am thankful.

Thanks for reading.  And Happy Thanksgiving, wherever you are.

Switch Off to Switch On

Remember when I said I couldn’t write in clutter?  Well, I’ll add to it.  I now believe the people who tell you not to write on a computer connected to the Internet.  Because writing doesn’t happen.  Facebook happens.

I used to say I couldn’t write without music on, either.  Now when music is on, I can’t hear myself.  I get so caught up in the next song, and then the next one, I forget the next word and then they stop altogether.

And so, I’ve started to switch the computer off.  The office is set up with my desk, and Sarge’s desk, our laptops and his printer.  And I write in the living room or kitchen.  In a notebook, a real one with pages and lines.  I’m currently writing in three real notebooks.  I write every day, and my writing day starts when I switch the computer off.  There is now a difference between writing time and typing time.  The longer the computer is off the more there is to type when I switch it back on.

Try it.  The Internet will still be there when you get back.

Your call is not important to us, please hang up.

You know what I hate?  Using my credit card over the phone.  Or putting any number longer than a local or international number into a phone.  Because that requires entering the number in before the automated voice says:  I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that, try again.  Well, of course you didn’t catch that.  It wasn’t a ball.  Or my shoe, hurtling towards your head.  You don’t even have a head.  You are a machine.  May I speak to a real person, please?

Talking to a machine is driving me so nuts that I’m talking to a machine.  Figure that out.

And then the machine ‘connects you to an advisor’.  But there isn’t a connection, really.  No, there is no human understanding.  But there is classical music.  However, this is not a put on your best clothes and get carried away by the symphony for a few hours kind of experience.  This is sitting in your robe and doodling circles on an envelope while having tinny shit shoved in your ear.

By the time you hear a voice, you realise that in your boredom and frustration your circling pen has made a hole in the envelope.  Through both sides.  And then it dawns on you that all the automated voice said was:  Your call is important to us, please hold.  Hold what?  My head, so my brain doesn’t leak out my ears?  Ok, I think I will.

And you know the voice doesn’t really care.  It automated.  But what it’s really saying is: Your call is not important to us, please hang up.  You are one of a million people on the line right now.  We don’t want to help you.  In fact it would help us if you took your problem to the internet.  (I did, the internet told me to call and listen to crappy music for three hours).  And it always amuses me when that suggestion doesn’t work.  What about the times when you’re calling about your internet connection?  Well, I would visit the website, if I could get online, which is why I’m calling.  Well, that wasn’t the reason for my call today, but I’m sure someone out there is on hold for that very reason.  That person is annoyed because he or she is being told to ‘visit the website’.

I’ve worked in call centres before.  Ok, one.  I do know that the actual humans on the phone do their best.  And if I haven’t lost the power of speech/hung up by the time I do get through to one, I’m nice to them.  Partly because I’m so very excited that the music is off and I’m talking to a human.

I’m writing this in the office.  There is a wall between me and the phone.  We have decided we need some time apart.

Which way did they go, George?

I met Sarge on his lunch break yesterday.  For lunch.  It felt quite decadent, eating at a restaurant in the middle of the afternoon, while not being on holiday.

I might not be on holiday, but I still don’t know where the hell I am half the time.  Geographically/directionally speaking, of course.  This isn’t because I’m new to the city.  I lived in Glasgow for more than four years, in the same neighbourhood for nearly three of those, and I was just settling in when I decided to leave again.

I’ve always said, if I can’t see it from my house, I don’t know where it is.  I have an idea, but I don’t really know.  It doesn’t help if I’ve been there before, or even if it’s my house.  If someone needs directions, I get someone else to give them.  If I give directions, and the person doesn’t get lost, I’m pleased with myself for three whole days.  And I call it a fluke.

When someone tells me where something is, starts in with ‘Left here, right there…’ my brain fries a little.  I have to feel for the writer’s bump on my right hand, in order to figure out left and right.  Sometimes I have to actually look at my hands.  Which I’m sure is a curious sight.  Taking the wrong turn has meant I go in actual circles, back where I started.  Like that one time where I went around the block only to discover that where I wanted to be was across the street from my flat.  That was a fun day.

People say it’s because I don’t drive (a car).  I think it’s the reason I don’t.

When I travel around places that aren’t my own damn city, I am never The One With The Map.  I’m sure I’ve lost friends, because people have counted on me to know where we’re going.  I haven’t actually lost people, I should say.  Although one or two have stopped speaking to me.

Other people think it’s cute, and I have added it to my list of personal quirks and joke about it as much as possible.

A few weeks ago, I renewed my mobile phone contract, and got an iPhone for free.  I didn’t really want one, and I wasn’t going to get one.  But it just appeared.  And even I can forget my morals for GPS.

I used it yesterday, to get to lunch.  I should mention that the restaurant is two blocks away from my flat.  But getting there involved lefts and rights, and so I followed the little blue dot on the map.  I was with my PA, and I even said to her at one point:  Oh, look!  The dot is MOVING.  (Remember ‘Follow the bouncing ball’? It was like that.  Only it wasn’t.)

I got there, with unfried brains.  Thank you, iPhone.

And now, I’m going out and getting (not) lost.  Again.