Oh, noes.

I'm very, very sad.

Yes. Sad. For my computer, she has betrayed me.

It's devasting, really. It's rather like having a knife plunged between your shoulder blades--her betrayal was that bad.

*sniff*

And yet. I still love her. I do. We've been through so much together. Novel writing. Poems. Short stories.

My blog.

I could have done none of it without her, and she has stood by me every step of the way. I love her, I tell you.

But then, about a month ago, she started to turn on me. At first, it was minor. Silly, even. A program locking up here. A program shutting down there. I worried, I fretted. I tended to her, and it seemed she might pull through.

And then, suddenly, she fell apart. Documents started to go wonky. Margins would change. Strange headers and footers would appear. I dealt with it all, until 28,000 *#*@! words up and disappeared.

I was horrified. What was she doing? Especially NOW? The most important time of my life, when I was slowly embarking on The Great Agent search.

Why?

Why?

But still, I was in love. I mean, my arms have worn a perfect white groove into her keyboard. She was mine. We fit. She was the chocolatey shell to my creamy Cadbury filling.

And then, I received one of the most important, most dreamed about requests for a document a writer could wish for. My heart stopped. Could she? Would she?

*sniff*

I prayed, I quaked, I hit send.

I won't go into details. I think my humiliation has been enough. I will say that what showed up on the other end of my email, well. No. Actually, let's just not say anything more.

*sniff*

The next day the Microsoft Guru had shaken his head sadly, causing my heart to sink to somewhere around my ankles.

"What you need is a sledgehammer," he pronounced.

"This is your professional opinion," I asked.

"Yep."

The professionals had spoken. She must go.

So this is it. The end. I cannot forgive her. And I can never, ever trust her again.

It breaks my heart, and I am very sad. But she must go.

*bursts into tears*

I will miss her, though. I will. Forever, or at least until the UPS guy gets her with my new one.

Because she's sweet.

Chocolate Consumed Today
1 Boston Creme donut.

All right, fine.

1 Boston Creme donut and 1 mini chocolate chip cannoli.

All right, fine.

1 Boston Creme donut and 1 mini chocolate chip cannoli and a hefty squirt of chocolate milk syrup.

All right, fine.

1 Boston Creme donut and 1 mini chocolate chip cannoli and a hefty squirt of chocolate milk syrup. Minus the milk.

Happy now? I told you I've been sad.

Books I'm Reading
Actually, I have been so sad and busy trying to fix all the wonkiness my computer perpetrated upon my word processing documents, I haven't done much besides feel sorry for myself. I did, however, pick up THE FICTION CLASS by Susan Breen, as I've wanted to do for forever. Now I just need to stop being so sad so I can read it.

What I Wrote Today
*sigh* I've been working on this revision for my novel. Let's just say it involves snotty elves, blood, and a trip to the E.R. Yeah,let's just leave it right there. *sigh*

Quote of the Day
*at dinner, discussing the humiliation my computer inflicted upon me*

Hubby: It's okay, really. People will forget what happened, one day.
Me: One day?
Hubby: Yeah. Okay, maybe like twenty years from now, one day. But still, one day they'll forget. And not laugh at you anymore.
Me (banging my head on the dining room table): I can't believe this, I just can't believe this. I've made a complete fool of myself.
Bob: (gets up from his chair, and pats me on the back): Don't worry, Mom. You didn't make a fool of yourself.
Me (looking up): Thanks, Bob. I appreciate that. You really believe that? That I'm not to blame?
Bob (sitting back down): Absolutely. I mean, no one, not even my mom, makes a fool of my mom. Or well, no one makes a fool of her, but her computer.
Me (banging my head on the table once again): Thanks, Bob. Really.

Pounds Lost Since DaisyJo Shamed Me Into Getting Healthy

Five.

Pounds Gained Since DaisyJo Shamed Me Into Getting Healthy

Seven.

Oopsie.

My Scary Neighbor's PJ's at the Bus Stop
Thursday A.M.- Bob and I, getting ready to go out to bus stop.

Me (clinging to the doorknob, shaking my head fervently, refusing to go outside): I can't do it, Bob. Not today, not tomorrow, not for the rest of my life. I swear, if I have to go out there one more day and look at her in those stupid Care Bear pajamas and plastic croc things with the wool socks, I will explode. I swear.
Bob: Really? Can I bring out the video camera then, because if you're going to explode, I want that on film.

Another Year, Another Shot at the Literary Gold
Do you hear that? Yes. That?

No?

Of course you don't. Neither do I.

Nothing. I've heard absolutely nothing about anything. I will say, however, consoling myself has its advantages. Weightloss is not one of them, though.

:)

The Best Way To Spend Your Birthday

Here is the perfect way to spend your birthday:

1.You wait until the weekend to celebrate, because the calendar gods screwed up and planted your actual birthday smack dab in the middle of the week. Vair lame.

2.You ask Bob, your too-smart-for-his-own-good son, how old you are in case anyone asks. When he tells you (and he will, saying you're 37) you'll look at him, confused, and say "Are you sure? 37? Really? Because I could have sworn old people were 37 and I'm not old." Bob will then reassure you that you are both 37 AND old. Huh.

2.You make your entire family take you down to the North End in Boston to buy you lots of food. You decide you might even let them have some, too, just for taking you down there. You might also just keep it all for yourself. It IS your birthday, after all. They can get their own birthdays.

3.You open your Mom's cards to you in the car because it's a viable distraction from Hubby singing along to the country music he insists on playing. Even though it is YOUR birthday and he knows better.

First birthday card:



4.Opening cards will turn out to be a big mistake. You, however, tell Hubby he must turn off country music or you will blow up card and plaster it all over house for his viewing pleasure. This works. The cards do render you temporarily blind, though, and lead to the horrific obsession that Hubby's bum might one day end up resembling the card. At which point you'll inform Hubby that if that happens, you will leave him.

5.When you arrive at the restaurant in the North End, your brother won't have shown up yet. It's only around noon, which is still the middle of the night for him as he is still young enough to want to party more than get a good night's sleep whereas you, at 37 and old, want nothing and I mean nothing more than a good night's sleep, except for your Hubby's butt not looking like that guy's butt--all of which means he's still hours away from rising for the day. So you order lots of wine and appetizers and wait for him to show up. And he does, finally, but not before parking in some tow zone marked for North End residents only. Though no one will care but him by this point, because you've had lots of wine and appetizers and that's his problem.

6.Lunch will take over two hours and your pants will somehow end up no longer buttoning and you'll get freaked out by the picture of John Walsh which hangs in the bathroom as you always do when you go there-it's just too freaky how he stares at you like that in the middle of such a private moment. And your mom will obsess over the gigantic painting on the back wall of the guy in the suit straddling the blonde woman on her hands and knees and she'll keep asking if anyone can see if there's a whip in the picture. But finally, it WILL end, and you'll just about manage to sneak out the front door when someone in your family will rat to the let's-just-call-him-eccentric old man who owns the restaurant that it is your birthday.

7. Let's-just-call-him-eccentric old man will chastise you for trying to sneak out and will then hug and kiss you and tell you that you must stay and make you stand up by the bar with your whole family while you wait and when you try to argue he will chastise you again and tell you to be quiet for once and wait two minutes until he comes back.

8. Which of course he does, with a cannoli with a candle on top and he makes the entire restaurant and staff sing and you must hug and kiss him and everyone and then he tells you the secret to a good life is to eat and drink and love, so eat the damn cannoli already. Which you do, with help from your whole family. At the bar. In front of the whole restaurant.

9.You will chase the cannoli with major shoe hunting in the shopping district, buying pastry at Mike's Pastry, and eating a chocolate-covered chocolate chip cannoli at Starbucks down by the wharf with a White Chocolate Mocha Latte. And your mom will look at it, horrified that something so sinful could actually exist and go, "You're not serious, you're not going to eat all that." Of course, you are. Serious. But you can't answer, because your mouth is too full.

10.Finally, you will head home. Because your brother and father have long preceded you there-the pansies-- your mother will need to drive back with you, squished in the back seat with your two sons. And she will cry true, copious tears and shriek in disbelief at the utter ridiculousness of it all as Hubby spends the entire ride telling her of his great plan to buy a trailer and take his family camping this summer. Including you, his wife. Who would rather have HER butt look like that guy's butt than go camping.

Silly man.

And that, my friends, is the ten steps to having the best birthday ever. When the time comes, and sadly, Bob says it will, every year, may yours be butt-free and cannoli-filled. :)

New Chicken Needed

Hubby poked his head through the doorway.

"What do you want?" he asked. "Why are you hollering for me?"

"We need you to hold the chicken," I said.

He looked at me funny. "But. I don't see a chicken."

I pointed to the lump on the floor. "He's right here."

Hubby kept looking at me funny. "That's not a chicken. It's a cat."

I shook my head. "Sure. Usually. But right now he's pretending to be a chicken. And we need you to hold him."

"And why do I need to hold him?"

"Because we're trying to hypnotize him, and he's not cooperating."

"He's supposed to be compliant," said Bob, our nine-year-old, who'd been unsuccessfully trying to soothe the chicken as I performed the hypnotizing stuff. "He's just not getting into the whole being a chicken thing, you know?"

Hubby stared at us. "You're not serious."

"Of course we are," I said. "I'm just bummed it doesn't seem to be working. The book said it would."

And it's an awesome book-The Boys' Book: How To Be The Best At Everything by Dominique Enright and Guy MacDonald. Especially the chapter on how to hypnotize a chicken. We've tried twice now, and it hasn't worked. I just wish we could have gotten the cat to be a compliant chicken. Seriously? How cool would that have been. And even cooler? The next chapter. How to lose your head.

I have threatened Hubby he will be our next volunteer on that one.

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

Can't wait.

(Just joking, Hubby, I swear. But, you know, next time you hide my Cadburies...)

My noncompliant chicken: