Things are happening fast and furious in Duchess land. Pfft. Duchess my ass.
I sit bra-less, wearing years old sweat pants and one of The Norwegian’s shirts, drinking pinot grigio in an attempt to keep myself from tossing computers about willy-nilly.
Writers are a different lot. If the world lost internet connection and cell phones worldwide died tomorrow, writers would be the ones dancing in the streets. We care not for being reachable. Technology pokes holes in our souls. Writing should be fashioned with pen and paper, furiously, as words pour forth from somewhere deep inside. An antique typewriter teamed with Grey Goose and three lemon wedges is as far as any writer can see.
BTW, Grey Goose should pay me royalties. My local Safeway was out, yes, O-U-T the other day. Tried to bring a bottle to Contractor Girl to replenish the Lido Deck and had to settle for Kettle One. My inquiry was met with, “We can’t keep it stocked.” You’re welcome, Goose.
Today writers are offered little choice. We must create websites and brands and images and photos instead of exquisitely crafted phrases paired with beautifully hand drawn illustrations of stunning gardens with tall stone walls keeping the world out and our imaginations in.
Advisor Girl pronounces my antiquated Mac unworthy for website update and suggests I drag my ass into whatever century we are in. She says a Chromebook is perfect. It’s cheap. You can store everything in google docs–it’s in the cloud. Screw that. The only that should be in the cloud are cherubs. Ever the good pupil, I get said Chromebook.
Bring it home and it will not connect to my wifi. Samsung helpers offer little help. After a condescending twenty-year-old asks me again if I know my password, I remind him there is a working computer, an ipad and visiting technology lounging about my condo using said entry code. Probably got the damn password right. Asshat.
Next call is to my provider. Cox, you’re up next. An hour later, nobody’s got a clue why it won’t connect. People really get paid for this. I return Chromebook to store from whence it came and purchase a nifty little PC–all I need is something to float google docs since my Mac is so frickin’ old it won’t download google chrome, dammit.
Bring home this beauty and it does same. No internet connection. Thank God Oldest Chicken is coming for the Bama game tomorrow. Because if I try one more time to make this thing connect–don’t even go there. Yes, I’ve tried it. I may not like technology. I may believe it signals the end of human connection, romantic dinners and great old fashioned sex, but I’m not a complete idiot.
Yes, I’ve rebooted the system. Yes, I’ve entered the correct password. Yes, I’ve even looked it up in Keychain to be sure. Yes, I’ve connected the computer directly to the router to ensure the router is in working order. Ask me again, techy child, if I’ve tried turning it on and off.
At this point, choices are stop or throw any manner of computer technology against the wall. There is a reason for centuries we fashioned superior writing instruments and wove lovely papers for our missives, sprayed them with perfume and sent them to our beloveds.
There was a time we sealed envelopes with monograms etched on stamps. And you thought putting those little confetti things in invitations was new. Pfft.
And those who shared their words with the world did so in a dignified manner. Rarely did the ink pot find itself hurled across the room. There was no twenty-year-old ruffian to ask if we were using it properly. Sniff.
You can put your hankie up to your nose if need be. I understand.