My phone has been eating calls and texts for about six weeks. Randomly. Just when it’s hungry, I think. Hungry for wreaking havoc.
Multiple text convos with Mr. OtherSuch have gone like this:
Me: [Garden variety question.]
He: [No response after appropriate amount of time.]
He: [Still no response.]
Me: ????????? + little-red-faced-emoticon
Me, calling him to get to the bottom of his disregard for me: “Why don’t you answer me? Do you not love me anymore? Why don’t you love me anymore?!!!!???”
He: “Woman, I answered you three times already. It’s your phone.”
Me: “Ah. Oh. Huh. Oops. Okay. So . . . what’d you say?”
Then there are all the texts I didn’t get, to which I couldn’t respond, because I didn’t know about them, and I am HAUNTED BY THE GHOSTS OF CONVERSATIONS MISSED.
About the same time the iSocialSabotage began, the desktop started gently notifying me that it is ready to retire. Warning messages about low disk space began appearing.
The Desktop and I have been through a lot together in the last six-or-so years. She predates The Child, has seen me through multiple bookkeeping programs, houses a ton of documents of a legal/financial/rental nature, and holds over 15,000 photos taken since Sophie Belle was born. I know why she’s tired, but I’m not ready for her to retire. And I know she’s a she because hello, always-on-duty workhorse.
So I deleted some unused programs, bought us some more time. Compressed everything compressable to salvage some space. Deleted unnecessary files for a few more moments.
Then, last night, she told me that it’s time. After the latest program and file deletion, she’s down to less than 100MB of space. She can’t even edit a photo because there isn’t enough free memory. She barely had the energy to tell me she’s fading. I thought briefly about setting the document and photo files to be saved only on the external drive, to free up another bit of room. I don’t want her to go! Except for that virus incident a couple years ago (which totally wasn’t her fault) we’ve had a fantastic relationship. Mr. OtherSuch told me, as I scrolled through the list of potentially-deleteable programs, that I’m just delaying the inevitable.
He’s probably correct.
But he doesn’t love her like I do. Hasn’t cried over her keyboard during a midnight writathon, come *this close* to spitting water on her monitor when a laugh caught him by surprise, fussed for countless hours to reconcile financial statements or wondered how a child could possibly be as beautiful as the one in the Photoshop workscreen.
I don’t want her to retire. And I dread replacing her. But I guess I should, before I lose her in the middle of a senten—-.
Like that. That would be a bad goodbye.
So. Desktop shopping. From The Desktop. Which feels kind of traitorous. Except, I guess, that if she didn’t want me to be interviewing candidates for her replacement she wouldn’t have turned in her notice. She’d have just walked out one day.
I’m more than a lot concerned about data transfer to a new desktop. Everything is backed up (I think. I hope.) to the external drive. I’ve wondered in recent months whether I should also be uploading to a data storage service. (Anyone use one of those? Carbon*ite or something similar?)
But wouldn’t you know? I’ve been consumed since yesterday evening with making the final preparations for my dear friend, and who do you think gets jealous?
It was sitting on a nightstand, hadn’t been touched all morning and hadn’t even had the ringer turned on yet. (I try not to un-silence it before 9am; the quiet time is nice.) Then The MotherSuch called. I picked it up to answer just as it transitioned from a ringing buzz to a constant, minute-long buzzing seizure, feeling in my hand like a junebug trying frantically to make its escape. And then it died. Dead. Dead, dead.
I tried charging. I tried rebooting. I tried ignoring. I prepared for a trip to the iDoctor. The Desktop gathered all of her available resources to help me Google for a solution. “Hard reboot” they all said.
So I kept trying to reboot. A dozen times. Fourteen. Sixteen.
The eighteenth reboot attempt worked. Seventeen identical attempts and then it decided to revive just as randomly as it had decided to die.
That’s the problem with young technology these days. It wants to be loved and appreciated instantly, doesn’t want to be troubled with earning respect. iEntitlement Syndrome.
One needs a timeout, the other wants a timeout.
Tuesday. I had intended to spend today, the first day of complete at-homeness in over a week, to work on The Child’s birthday invitations and edit photos for a rental advertisement.
Not to be, apparently.
Not to be.
Instead I’ll be somberly interviewing The Desktop’s successor while mollycoddling the iPhone.
It rains, it iPours.