Digital Inspiration

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…”

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, I now believe, was talking about her relationship with an iMac. I have been without my beloved computer for several weeks now, and it was only when it finally came home from the Happy Mac people that I realized how much I’d missed it.

It never even occurred to me to try to write a blog on the puny little Barbie sized laptop that was tiding me over until my iMac’s return. It looked more like an accessory than a computer. Tuck a strap around its edges and I would have looked like one of those absurd hipster dudes with their ever so fashionable and functional messenger bags. Well, except smaller. And without a pubescent chin beard. Moving on.

I’m no slave to Apple. I’ve seen those people, and I can’t get my head around their devotion. It’s not that Steve Jobs didn’t have some killer ideas. Half the stuff I saw in the original episodes of Star Trek have come to fruition thanks to Apple designers. But I don’t own an iPhone or an iPad. I have an iPod, but only because my husband gave me one (and I do enjoy that sucker a whole bunch.) But this iMac has my heart not for its spectacular features (half of which I can’t identify) or its gorgeous screen resolution (which shows off every curve of my Jessica Biel wallpaper in brilliant clarity) or its lighting quick speed (faster than I’m capable of thinking, most days.)

No, my computer is my beloved because of its reliability. This machine has seen its 5th birthday, and it still runs just as beautifully as the day I first plugged it in. I once had a Dell laptop for about 3 years. By the end of its glitchy and miserable life, I found out the battery had been recalled in my model because they were exploding on people. But the iMac is a rock- steadfast in its operation and never needing anything but the occasional software update.

And thus, I discovered my creativity would not be summoned on a toy computer. When the iMac suddenly crashed on me, I panicked. I’d never HEARD of an apple computer not working, and certainly not crashing beyond the point of repair. I sent it off to be looked at, and was relieved to find out that the data recovery wouldn’t be a problem at all, and my iMac would be back in my possession in just a few weeks. (I could have had it back in about 7 days, but I’m also lazy, and reticent to cough up $300, even for the sake of my own creativity.) But during its absence, I couldn’t think of a single thing to write. No musings, no whimsy, no righteous indignation, nothing. It was as though the soul was silent. And man is that a scary feeling.

But all’s right in the world again, and I look forward to blowing up the interwebs with my silly sputterings again. Might take me a while to find the groove, but it’ll get found. And if worse comes to worst, there’s always another GOP debate around the corner to stir the vitriolic juices.

My Muse.

In Which, the Vanquished Finds Her Strength

It happened again. I got my ass kicked by the 12th month of the year. Just like every year since 1998. December – 14, Bourbonface – 0.

I’ve blathered enough on this blog about mom’s death just after Christmas of ’98, so I’ll spare my dear readers that useless noise. But I’d hoped that being aware, being “prepped” as I thought I was might make the battle a little less arduous this year. Lord almighty, how wrong I was.

This might have been the worst one yet. Deeper into the abyss I go every year. It used to just be a sort of melancholy. Then it was full on depression. Now it’s depression with a mean streak and a total lack of patience for anyone within a 10 ft radius. In short, I was a real bastard this holiday season. And to add insult to injury, we had to deal with an absurd cash-flow problem right around the holidays courtesy of some pathologically problematic clients. What better time of year to be cash-poor than at Christmas, when Apple and Zales and Lexus are reminding you hourly that you’re a terrible person unless you’ve purchased their crap for your family and friends?

But hallelujah, it’s December 28th. This miserable month is coming to its close. The real world will begin anew in just a few days, and this excruciating season will be just another unpleasant memory to file away. 2012 beckons with a siren song, its promise unspoiled, its potential limitless. I can’t wait to shake off this cocoon and emerge to face the sun, brilliant and life-giving. My hibernation is over. Spring awaits, and I run toward it like a lonely child to mother. It’s only moments away.

I got your war on Christmas RIGHT HERE…

Disaster has struck. But we’re not talking about financial ruin or campaign meltdown or any completely manageable problem. Nope. This disaster is beyond all containment.

It’s December. And even with a plan, and the best of intentions, and capable guides at my disposal, I’m an emotional trainwreck.

Moms should not die around holidays. Let’s get the president on an executive order for that. It screws people up exponentially more than just regular old dying. And lets put a moratorium on decorating with ANY holiday trinket or bauble that was ever purchased specifically to hang in a hospital room, shall we? Cuz for god’s sake, no one wants to look at a Christmas tree that was bought because it fit neatly on the sliding table in the cancer wing at Seton. And while we’re at it, how about we all get the hell over this whole ridiculous “War on Christmas” thing and just accept any friggin wish anyone wants to give us in December? Personally, I don’t give a shit if someone wishes me a Merry Christmas or a Happy Holiday or Festive fucking Ramadan. It’s a well wish. Smile and say thank you, you self righteous pricks, and then go about celebrating in whatever way you choose.

I’m going to spend the next 10 days baking breads and cookies, wrapping presents I spent too much money on, doing my level best to be cheery and compassionate and drinking too much wine each night to avoid being short tempered with the husband and minions. But Christmas, this year and every other year, can kiss my ass. It’s been an abomination since 1998, and it’s been relentless in its attack on my well being. And stories of Wal-mart pepper spraying and deficit spending on iPads and BMWs do nothing to make me feel better about the season. So bring on your cheer, your prayers, your greetings, your new year’s resolutions. I welcome them all. Just know I’m ill equipped to accept them properly. Cuz I’m some broken goods right now, feeling my way through the end of the calendar, and hoping for a resurrection sometime in January.

Happy whatever.

Longing

Sonia “Toni” Alexis Smith Van Meter

11/10/1949 – 12/30/1998

Happy Birthday Mom.

Last Night’s News: Perry takes big dump on stage

I’m a little disappointed this morning. Despite being a proper progressive, I was really hoping Governor Perry would make a better showing at this whole presidential run thing. I’ve got a few things hinged upon his success, and don’t think for a second that doesn’t make me feel all kinds of dirty, but it is what it is. Or rather, it was what it was.

Thank you, Governor Perry, for unleashing your staggering incompetence on national tv last night. Again.

He’s not done, not by a long shot. He’s a stubborn old bastard, and I hope he hangs on long enough to sell a few of the books we’ve got coming out next week. But last night’s “oops” moment is the kind of thing that gets one immortalized, and not in the way a presidential hopeful wants. I’m just one of thousands of consultants, journalists, and pundits online this morning breaking down and assessing last night’s gaffe. And I’ve no doubt that even in the wake of Joe Pa’s epic collapse this week, the news cycle will have Perry’s verbal misstep replayed over and over until we can’t stand the sight of him anymore.

I’m not sure what’s more frustrating for me– the fact that I never considered that his popularity in Texas wouldn’t translate on a national stage, or that this bumbling buffoon keeps kicking Democratic ass in Texas. He’s got the Lone Star state absolutely wired, and yet he can’t figure out how not to look like a jackass when standing next to people just as crazy and unqualified for the presidency as he is.

I’m still pulling for you Dude. I know your addled brain is just a symptom of national campaign life. And it’s still a long way to Iowa and New Hampshire. But I’m pulling out my emotional investment. You can keep breaking my heart at the state level, but on the national, we are so over.

Trivialities

There’s a construction site across the street from my office. The contractors have taken over an entire road’s worth of street parking, and half the time they’ve got delivery trucks and cement mixers hanging out in the street with a flagger waving traffic through one lane back and forth. Most of the time it’s not a big deal, at least for us. Our biggest inconvenience is occasionally having to wait an extra minute or two to either get in or out of the complex. I imagine the project is slightly more trying for the several massage therapists who have had to soundproof their offices against the booming noises of dump trunks and bulldozers. But my life has been impacted only in the most modest fashion by the builders. Of course, that doesn’t stop me from sighing heavily and rolling my eyes when I have to wait around for an 18 wheeler to back its load up and get the hell out of my way.

That’s what happened to me this afternoon when I was suddenly reminded of a story I read a while back. A nanny was hired by some moneyed socialite in Los Angeles to tend to her needs around the house. One of the tasks the nanny was to perform each day was to bring 2 glasses of sparkling water to the socialite, one in the morning, and one in the afternoon. The morning glass was to have a slice of lemon with it. The afternoon glass, a slice of lime. The nanny, being young, middle class, and completely unimpressed with the trappings of wealth, confused the fruit garnishes on her second day and was promptly fired for her incompetence. As she left the property she tossed an off-handed remark to one of the other housekeepers. “Why in the world is it such a big deal whether it’s lemon or lime in her water?” The housekeeper responded, “When you have this much money, you sometimes have to invent things to be annoyed about, because so few real problems exist in your world.”

As I sat impatiently drumming my fingers on the steering wheel waiting for the truck to move, I realized I was behaving like the absurd character from the story. Poor me– I’m driving home in a comfortable car from a job I love, to a man I love, to eat a delicious dinner, in my beautiful home, in a fantastic city where I have lots of friends and tons of opportunity, and I’m getting exasperated because I have to wait an extra 90 seconds to leave the parking lot.

That feeling was not a pleasant one. There are tiny annoyances in every day, in every life, in every socioeconomic status, but I don’t have to give them headspace. Let’s see how long I can hold onto that thought before the next inconvenience threatens to ruin my good mood.

Details sometimes matter. But not always.

R.E.M.

I would gladly sever a toe for a good night’s sleep. The last few days have been brutal. Between anxiety dreams about wildfires, presidential candidates, and haunting moments from my past, and being awakened at 3am by dogs and unfamiliar sounds, I haven’t “woken up” feeling rested in over a week.

Starting to get a little batty here. And there’s little I despise more than being out of control of myself. This might be tolerable if I were doing something that was keeping me awake at night, but I’m not drinking too much, I’m not staying up too late, I’m not sucking down caffeine. I’m doing everything right. Cut me a break, brain. This is as much for you as it is for me.