Of all the things that got me riled, grumpy, and unsettled, this one hit the top 10. Reading the writing on the wall, my husband had said, “Now’s the time,” and he sent the tech on over.
I knew he was right. After all, it had blue screened twice. However. There were a number of programs that were critical to keeping this transcriptionist operating at peak efficiency, and there were always glitches, it seemed, in the transition.
A couple of urgent phone calls and a weekend tech visit later, I hopped on over to Facebook to share my angst with my friends. “Switching computers,” I sighed, “could almost make a frontal lobotomy sound like a good time. Almost.” Predictably, they laughed.
“Agreed,” someone said. “It’s like a dentist with no Novocaine.”
Yes. It was. And it was the one thing our technician had failed to do. Next time, I thought, I’d tell him to hit me with a hypodermic, and it’d go better for everyone involved.
Poor Mr. Schrock. As if my red-alert stress level wasn’t enough, he’d ended up grocery shopping alone, thanks to my computer issues, on a Saturday night. Well, not alone exactly, for that brave man had kindly taken three of the boys along.
You’ll guess which ones I mean. Those three starving children? Who begged for chips and ice cream and honey bears and peanut butter cereal? Yeah. He took them. To his credit, he survived, although I suspect that by the time they were finished, that one little medical procedure was sounding — well, almost like a good time.
And about that “good time.” I’m a little nervous about taking him on my upcoming expedition. You know, the one where I enact the “Woman on a Mission to Find the Perfect Purse Because the Black One I Currently Have is Totally Unsuitable?” That’s the one.