Saturday, February 28, 2004

Okay. Today's blog is all about: How much can I write before my computer has a seizure and commands me to shut it down. So far so good. For a week now I have not been able to doing any surfing of internet, checking of mail or anything computer related with my computer. It's been almost like an imposed Lent. And if I had to think up somehting that would be a really, really big thing to abstain from it would be writing and playing with iPhoto.

This is somehow stressful...writing and anticipating being cut-off at any moment...naturally, the computer has chosen to cooperate, and I may be lulled in to a false sense of security and actually try to accomplish somthing meaningful...THEN I would be shut out and all my precious work would be fried in the cyber pit of doom.

And now that I am being granted time to write, I cannot think of anything to say. I am tired of campaign ads. I am looking forward to the Oscars, but I have no particular favorites. William's ankle is back to being messed up. He twisted it badly in Hawaii and we thought it was healing okay, but now it has *popped* and won't straighten. Definitely going to have that looked at. Geoff took my car to tennis and now I have to think of domestic projects to accomplish, rather than behave as though going to the market is crucial...My cousin sent us the Avon answer to bug bites, which was super thoughtful of her and timely, since Alex is getting bit when he plays in the yard. One of his bites blistered and swelled like a huge grape...then it broke and the skin clung to the *especially made for blisters Band-Aid* I bought. Sad, and painful.

So why is my beloved Mac dying and forcing me to shut her down with alarms blaring, and then when I dare to publish a blog, which I anticipate will be a brief update, suddenly everything is fine?

I did get to make a slide show from the wedding pictures of James and Deanne's wedding, and for that I am extremely grateful. But I am a greedy non-techy woman, and I expect a computer to function always. My work chews through memory like a kid with a box of Captain Crunch, and I NEED to check email often. How else am I to know that there are plenty of caring citizens eager to sell me sex drugs, and home mortgages.

This machine hasn't let me do a damn thing for more than 1.75 minutes at a time, and now?! I could have written something beautiful.

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