What Does Customer Service Mean?

The summer before I started college, I worked at a satellite receiver company in customer service. While there, I learned one important lesson. Always, always apologize and take responsibility for the problem. Customers are calling because the product failed. So it's the company's fault.

The computer repair company which is servicing my laptop has not learned this lesson. Yesterday, I called to check on the status of my computer.

Me: I'm calling to check on the status of my computer.

Customer Service: It takes 24 to 48 hrs. for a diagnosis to be made.

Me (not pointing out that it was around that time): So, you'll contact me when a diagnosis is made?

Customer Service: No. The company you bought your computer from will contact you.

Me: Okay. Could you make a notation in the file or ask the techs to test the system and verify the repair before the computer is sent back?

CS: We always verify the repairs.

Me: Okay. Well, this is the second time my computer has been in for the same problem.

CS: Clearly something else went wrong with your computer after it left here.

Me: Uh, my computer has the exact same problem that it had originally.

CS: (silence)

Me: Right.

CS: Anything else I can do for you?

Me (biting back the words "I'm not sure you've actually done anything for me"): No. Thank you.

It would have been nice at some point for the customer service agent to say, "I'm sorry you're having a problem." Or even, "I'll send the techs a note to do a thorough check."

Instead, the CS reps are hostile. As if it's my fault the computer isn't working. In any case, I hope that when I get my laptop back, it works. (This time they told me it would take two to three weeks to get it back--and that's without a diagnosis of the problem. I'm beginning to feel like they're trying to punish me so I'll give up and buy a new laptop.) But if the laptop comes back after all this time and still isn't repaired, I'll be contacting the better business bureau.

Computer Repairs, Round Two

There's no normal blog post here today because my computer, which I got back from repairs on Monday night, still isn't working. (I actually wrote a funny post about it--but the computer chewed it up and spit it out.)

I called tech support yesterday, and they categorized me as a "failed repair." I tried to find out what that meant, but no one seemed to be able to explain it. Apparently, I'm waiting on a "decision" from the higher ups. Maybe they're deciding to actually fix my computer. That would be nice.

In the meantime, I'm missing everyone (readers and other bloggers).

This photo has nothing to do with my post. But it's gorgeous and it's Wednesday--we all need a moment or two of escape. Maybe it will keep me from taking a sledge hammer to my computer. This photo is from Wikimedia Commons, and it's their Picture of the Day. The photographer is Arcalino.

Writing Without My Laptop

I still haven’t gotten my computer back. It was supposed to arrive on Friday, so techno-daughter could help me fix the computer over the weekend. But, hopefully, it will arrive today and I can begin the process, just without someone to hold my hand through it.

But I’ve learned something. No matter how hard it is to write. I will write.

I wrote long hand. On lined notebook paper, on scraps of computer paper, and even on polka-dotted yellow Snoopy paper.

I wrote without my writing routine. Which was really, really hard. Like most writers, I have my routine—my first drafts are written on the couch where warm Eastern light streams through the arched window. Editing is done on my bed where the room is cool and Northern light filters through a hexagonal window. Okay, I’m a little odd. But I’m not the only one. Edith Wharton wrote in bed and everything had to be just so. When she traveled, she had hotel staff move the bed so that light from the window fell “just right” across her paper.

I transcribed my scribbles from paper to the lame computer (and I’m very thankful for it) with the titled screen while sitting the peeling faux leather chair—where I am currently writing this blog post.

So, I’m telling myself that this very extended no computer time has actually been a blessing because I’ve learned patience and I’ve grown in my understanding of myself as a writer…yeah, I’m not buying it either, but that’s what I’m telling myself.

N.B. Tomorrow Screwing Up Time is going on sale at Amazon for 99 cents!

This isn't my window--no laptop, no way to process and upload photos--but  I love the way the light comes through . I think I could write there. It's a bed and breakfast in Tallin. Photo by Nieuw, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Computer Repair: What I'm Doing for the Next Two Months

My computer is fixed and on the way home. Normally, this would be a good thing. It’s not.

The techno-loser at the under-warranty-repair-place called me:  Miz Keller, it turns out that it’s not your motherboard. You have a corrupt operating system.

Me: Oh.

Techno-loser-repair-person: So we need your permission to wipe your computer.

Me: Oh, right. (Yes, I’m really clever.)  I made an image of my computer on an external hard, so I guess that will be okay. (I ignore niggling anxiety that tells me I’m missing something.)

Techno-loser (who no doubt knows what I’m missing): So we can wipe it?

Me: Uh, yes.

Techno-person: Thanks. (hangs up)

Niggling anxiety smacks me in the face with the truth of the situation.

I email techno-daughter at work. “My computer has a corrupt OS. They’re doing a wipe. I’m now in serious kim chee, right? Because when I restore the image, I’ll be restoring the corrupt OS, right?”

Techno-daughter emails me back while waiting for the work computers to compile(?) her new math equations so the work computers can reach programming nirvana: “Yes.”

Me: ACK!

Clearly, my scream was quite loud. Techno-daughter emails. “Don’t panic.” (Too, too late) “Just make recovery disks of the OS when the computer arrives. Then load the image. Then save every file you want to the external hard drive or Dropbox. Then, do a system wipe and recovery. Then, reload saved files.  No big deal.”

Me: Seriously. No big deal. If you don’t hear from me in the next two months, it’s because I’m still in the process of fixing my computer.

Friday Five

My computer is currently is the shop for repairs--apparently, it has a bad motherboard.

So for today's Friday Five, the five worst things about not having a computer.

1. Having to mooch a computer.

2. Remembering that mooched computer does not have my favorite's bar nor do any any of the sites I visit regularly "remember me" on the mooched computer, so I have to try to remember all my user names and passwords. Do you know how many combinations there are of the four or five user names I regularly use and the four or five standard passwords?

3. Mooched computer does NOT have MS Word, so I can't write!!

4. Mooched computer was rejected by my children because it's out-dated, has no useful software, and has tilted screen--I think I'm getting a crick in my neck.

5. Did I mention mooched computer does NOT have a word processor, so I can't write?!

I'm telling myself that it's a blessing because I can now get caught up on yard work. But I'm not believing it.

Renewing My Membership in Luddites-R-Us

Do you ever just feel like you’re never going to keep up with technology? Like once you think you’ve figured something out, some techno imp/evil nerd adds some new feature(s) just to make your life miserable. There are days when I want to renew my membership in Luddites-R-Us.

This week I discovered that the important phone call I was waiting for got sent to Missed Calls because the phone was plugged in and decided not to ring. (I mean, who told it not to ring?!)

Today, a friend posted about Facebook’s Message’s “Other” file. I didn’t know that FB had an “Other” file that it could dump messages in. I spent the morning “messaging” people whose messages got stuck in the other file and saying “sorry.”

So if you’ve left me a voicemail, sent me an email, messaged me, etc., etc., and I never replied, it’s because I’m techno-incompetent. Sorry. I’m trying.

The scary thing is that I’m the go-to-tech wizard for several friends/relatives. Yeah, my kids get shivers just thinking about it.

Web Spiders and Louboutin

Over the last month, I’ve been getting a truck load of blog spam. I know, I know, I could add a word verification. But I really hate those. When I see the random combo of numbers and letters, my brain turns the random assortment into real words. “Nmrado” becomes “random” when I type it in. (Yes, this is a great skill in Scrabble and Boggle. Not so much otherwise.) I’ve been known to get an “incorrect” so many times that I thought the system was rigged against me. Now I type those things in with only an index finger so my brain can’t fix it.

The odd thing is that the blog spam comments are only on one blog post. Now I’m sure there’s a sophisticated computer-tech reason that would explain it. Like the HTML code has an embedded 404 compiler error. (Yeah, that probably makes no sense. But I think imps run computers with their evil black magic anyway, which is why the computer always crashes before I remember to save my document on days when I’ve made impressive progress on my novel.)

Anyway, the real reason the post is spammed is that it’s titled “Bob the Criminal Strikes Again.” And the topic of the post was identity theft—someone (Bob the Criminal) filed a fake tax return under my husband’s social security number and tried to get our money. (BTW, the government still hasn’t fixed the problem. But that’s another story.)

So I believe that some criminal syndicate has an evil web crawler (known as web spiders—I love bugs— though not mosquitos or cockroaches, which are pure evil disguised as bugs) searching the web for vulnerable people. And the spider added my blog post because it decided than people who’ve been victims of identity theft are more likely to buy knock off Christian Louboutin shoes or Coach bags because they’ve had their funds sucked dry. But here’s the thing. I really don’t want to wear knock offs of $3000 shoes. (Are the real ones comfortable? Or made out of gold?)

Okay, I just Googled a pair of $3000 suede crystal encrusted open-toed pumps. And I was all prepared to hate them. But, um, they’re really pretty.

Maybe those spiders know what they’re doing after all.  (They're from the Neiman-Marcus website.)

My Refrigerator Needs Fixing Too

If you were with me on Monday, you’ll know that I posted about our frustration with our ISP and buffering. (If you missed it, you can read the blog post just below this one.)

Anyway, last night I got a phone call from EPB. The service person said, “Missus Keller, I heard you have a problem with buffering.

Me, thinking, “How does he know?”: Uh, yeah.

Service Guy: We’d like to fix that for you.

Me, thinking, “The only way he could know is if he read my blog.”: Uh, hold on a minute.

During this time, I tell my husband what is going on. He’s thrilled—fist-pumping the air. At this point, I’m a little creeped out.

Me: Sure. We’d love to have our buffering problem fixed.

SG: When would be a convenient time for you?

Me, thinking, “Seriously, I get to choose a time?”: How about Thursday morning?

SG: Thursday morning it is.

So we’re scheduled to have our buffering problem fixed. And we’ll be able to watch every Yankee out and homerun. But I have to say, that it’s kind of Big Brother-ish. I know that there are a lot of data mining programs available to monitor uses of names, trademarks, etc., on the internet.

Some authors use them to be notified where their names and books are mentioned. But I haven’t. I really don’t need or want to know.

So while I’m really thankful that EPB wants to fix my problem, it’s a reminder that everything’s monitored.

 Hmm. You know what, I’m having some problems with my Roper refrigerator. The lights inside don’t work. We tried replacing the bulbs and that didn’t help…Of course, the fridge is probably 40 years old. But still, I’d love for Roper to fix it. Hello, Roper, are you out there?

Buffering Tonight

When we moved to Chattanooga six years ago and tried to set up an ISP, we discovered that our area only had dial up. Seriously. Only dial up. Thankfully, a couple of months later, DSL was ready and we switched. And that was great. Sort of.

Except for all the buffering. Forget streaming. Unless you want to do it at 2am. Still, it was better than dial up.

Then fiberoptic cable came to town. Articles showed up in the newspaper. Chattanooga was now the internet hot spot of the United States. We now had access to the fastest internet around. So we signed up.

So the EPB (I have no idea what the initials stand for. Maybe Electric Power Board.) technician came out. He put a sign in our front yard proclaiming that we were now a techo family. We had the fastest internet around. I think it was supposed to make our neighbors jealous. Honestly, I don’t think our neighbors cared.

After lots of cables were laid, we were hooked up. The technician gathered us together for a speed check. We formed a semi-circle around him and waited with bated breath. The data speed appeared. The technician cleared his throat. “Let’s do this again.” So he did. Our breath was less bated. Again, we got horrible numbers. He said, “Um.” I said, “Why are our numbers so low?”

Him: You have plaster walls. They cause trouble with wireless signals.

Me: But we’re in the same room as the router, so it doesn’t have to pass through or bounce off the walls.

Him: Yeah. So if you want high speed interest, try plugging your computer directly into the Ethernet cable.

(We did. The speed didn’t improve.)

Him: Hmm. Uh, when you all get a chance to record your internet speed on our website, don’t do it okay?

Me (wondering how many other people he asked not to record their internet speed): Okay.

So our internet speed is okay. We can stream. Usually. However, there is great gnashing of teeth when the guys are streaming Yankees’ baseball games and A-Rod comes up to bat, and the spinning circle of buffering purgatory comes up. So it buffers for thirty seconds or so. Then the game pops back up. And the guys discover that A-Rod hit a homerun, but we missed it. And we missed the replay too. (Yes, I know to the Yankees/A-Rod haters out there that’s the ideal way to watch a baseball game. But not at our house.)

We’re getting by with our high powered internet provided by EPB. (Maybe it stands for Exaggerating Promises Bureaucrats.) And we’re enjoying Julian Smith’s “Buffering Tonight.” Obviously, EPB is his ISP too.

Enjoy.

You Need a License

The other day, the desktop computer died. So Cal and I took it to a repair shop. Thankfully, it was a quick, fairly cheap fix. But while we were there, the manager got a phone call from an unhappy customer. By the end of the conversation, I was glad I didn’t have his job. Here’s how it went:

Tech store manager: Uh huh. I see. So you can’t get online. Have you checked the Ethernet cable?

Pause. (During which non-tech savvy person talks and the tech store manager takes our computer apart.)

TM: It’s the cable that looks like a phone cord, but a little bigger. Make sure it’s plugged into the computer.

Pause. (Tech guy works on our computer while murmuring helpful “Uh huhs” to the non-tech person.)

TM: So what’s on the computer screen?

Pause. (Tech guy removes our power converter and points out capacitor problem.)

TM: Um, yeah, so that’s the Microsoft home page. You’re actually online.

Pause. (TM continues to murmur “uh huhs” as he installs a new power converter.)

TM: When your computer was repaired the software lost your homepage. Can you tell me what your homepage was? (Brief pause.) You can’t. Okay. Well, it’s probably still under your favorites. Can you find your “Favorites?”

Short Pause. (TM begins plugging in the wires of our new power converter.)

TM: The favorites button should be a star on the bar near the top of your screen.

Pause. (TM, having now fixed our computer, attaches the case while murmuring “Keep looking along the bar at the top.”)

TM: Really, it’s there. Keep looking.

Pause. (TM runs our credit card.)

TM, his voice so even that you know frustration is seeping out of his pores: Okay. Well, why don’t you bring the computer back in and I’ll find your homepage for you.

Pause. (TM hands us our receipt.)

TM: Okay, I’ll see you then. (Hangs up the phone.)

Me: Uh, do you get a lot of calls like that?

TM: All day long.

Me: Wow. I’m really sorry.

TM: (His eyes wild.) I think before someone can buy a laptop or a desktop, they ought to be required to get a license—a computer operator’s license. 

Me: Oh, yes. (I nod, agreeing and wondering if I would pass such a test. Probably not.)

Giddy Trepidation

This morning I have a giddy trepidation. I’m going to start my next edit of the sequel to Screwing Up Time. I'm giddy because I’m about to start an edit that will make the novel closer to the ideal that exists in my mind. And trepidacious because I know I won’t achieve that ideal. Not to mention the fact that I’m trying to learn to use the new version of MS Word and failing miserably.


After I downloaded my documents into the new computer/Word, they weren’t there. Tech guru found them and moved them for me. And I have now been tutored in the proper method of moving files. But I’m not sure that I remember, even after doing it once or twice—tech guru is a follower of the “teach a man to fish policy” of computer literacy. But then tech guru showed me there were multiple ways to accomplish the assigning-the-document-to-the-correct-place task, now I’m confused. I’m claiming my stupidity is post-general-anesthesia confusion. Yeah, I know that was more than a week ago. But that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. However, this morning I somehow deleted all the page breaks in a 200,000 word document—thankfully not the sequel. And the tech guru who is currently at home can’t figure out what I did. This does not bode well. (Not to mention the fact, the dictionary in Word doesn’t recognize “trepidacious,” and I’m pretty sure I spelled it correctly.)  However, I’m assured by the tech guru that I will come to appreciate the new version of Word….I hope so. Otherwise, I’ll be transitioning from giddy trepidation to gnashing of teeth.

Not My Regularly Scheduled Blog Post

Today I don't have a regular post. Sorry. My new computer came--yay! But getting all my data transferred is way more complicated than I thought. (Thanks, computer-savvy minions, for all your help!)

In the meantime, I was interviewed by Kevin Domenic at the the Searching for Heroes blog. Check it out.

One more bit of information:  I got good news yesterday on my biopsy. Yay.

I Am Patient. Sort Of.

I consider myself a patient person. And I am really patient. Unless I’m provoked. Then, not so much. Of course, the definition of patience probably includes “even when provoked.” I like to forget about that part.

As a writer, I’m even more convinced that I’m a patient person—after all, writers can submit something and wait six months or more for a response. You see, I am patient.

But then the provocations happened. My computer is dying, so last week I ordered a new one (Costco had an amazing sale). And I didn’t find out until after I ordered it that it would take 10 to 15 days until arrival. But since my old computer is still working, most of the time, I tried to be grateful and tracked my computer via FedEx across China. (Which means, it was probably made by oppressed people in unsafe working conditions. Gulp.) Yesterday my computer made it to Alaska—now it’s on the same continent as I am!

So I felt like I was doing pretty well in the patience department. Until yesterday evening.

Multiple times before and right after my surgery, my doctor told me that I’d have all the biopsy reports on Tuesday. Great. I marveled at how quick it would be—surgery late Friday afternoon, results on Tuesday. I even Googled response times for this type of biopsy and discovered that a week was quick. I wasn’t going to have to wait a week. Yay! I could handle a couple of days. So I didn’t worry. I waited. And if I’m honest, I spent most of the time asleep. Who knew you could sleep 12.5 hours out of 16 without the help of medicine?

So Tuesday came. I made sure my cell phone was fully charged and the volume was turned up. I ordered the minions to pick up the home phone if it rang—they like to ignore the phone. (What is it with young people these days—they don’t like to talk on the phone? They only communicate through emails and texting.)  Fully armed with all possible communication devices, I waited. All day. At four o’clock, I called the office. I got the answering machine. Apparently, they don’t answer the phone after 4pm. And the recording announced that any messages will wait to the next business day. Oh, and by the way, they don’t work on Wednesdays. You know how they say when someone’s angry they see red? I think I saw pink.

In case, the doctor is confused, here’s some advice. You don’t say, “I’ll get the results to you on Tuesday” and then not call. Especially when post-surgery, the doctor discusses your problem and says to you, the patient, “Wow, I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

You don’t say, “I’ll have someone from the office call and schedule your post-op visit for next week so you can be cleared for regular activities,” and then not have anyone call.

In all fairness, they probably didn’t call because the results weren’t back. I know when I worked as a cytogenetic tech while I was in college, anything that came in Friday afternoon waited until Monday. Not necessarily because we were lazy or were eating cake (though someone always brought cake, cookies, etc., on Fridays), but mostly because we were trying to get all the stuff that was already late finished before the weekend.

So I’m waiting. I no longer see pink. I’m having fun watching my computer travel from Anchorage to Memphis. And I’ve got my doctor’s office phone number ready and waiting. Because Thursday at 9:00am when the office is opened, I’m going to be their first phone call.  

Post-Modern Angst

My computer died. Well, hopefully not my laptop itself. I think it's my power cord. My son Jacob, who was born to be an electrical engineer, jury-rigged the cord, which gave me another hour or so. But now it's totally dead. And since laptops are fussy about powercords, I had to order one, and it won't be here until Monday. In the meantime, I'm mooching my family's computers. Right now, I'm using the desktop that Matt and Jake use. (BTW, do you know how many typing errors you make when you're using a weird keyboard?) And, of course, none of my bookmarks are saved on this computer. So I'm trying to remember passwords, links, etc. (I have a file of all my passwords, but it's on my computer. Really dumb mistake.) And who actually remembers their Facebook or Triberr passwords? And my Amazon author account--um, I guess I won't be checking my sales figures any time soon.

What makes it worse is that when my Google and Twitter accounts got hacked, I changed all the passwords to a really obscure, random alphanumeric combination. But I didn't change all my passwords everywhere...the trick is remembering which is what. And it's even harder to recall the passwords when the minions are tapping their feet saying, "Could you hurry, please? I have a lot of stuff to do."

Monday can't get here fast enough. And if it's not the powercord causing the problem...let's not go there.

Irony

A month ago I was talking to a friend who is a linguist. We were discussing the cultural aspects of language, and he brought up irony. He asked me how I would explain irony to someone whose language didn’t have a term for it (i.e., it’s not part of their cultural milieu). I tried to explain it and failed. I told him that I’d have to consult my trusty M.H. Abrams, A Glossary of Literary Terms. (I adore that book!)

Later I realized that the best way to explain a term is by example. I’m teaching MacBeth right now and it’s rife with irony. For example, after Duncan’s murder, MacBeth wonders what will clean the blood from his hands. Lady MacBeth says “a little water.” Yet, she’ll be the one washing her hands saying, “Out damn spot” by the end.

But as good as literary examples are, real life ones are better. Yesterday, my daughter came home from her computer programming class. She said that class always gets interesting right around 5pm when the computer announces that the system will be shutting down in two minutes—right during the middle of the professor’s lecture. And it takes the professor about ten to fifteen minutes to get the whole system rebooted afterwards. It’s the third week of classes so the professor is getting very frustrated. He hasn’t been able to fix the problem. So yesterday he asked the class if they knew what was wrong. One student told him that the university computers are scheduled to reboot at 2am, and for some reason the computer system clock in the Java 2 class was set to the wrong time—2am instead of 5pm. All the prof had to do was reset the clock to the correct time. But the prof didn’t know how to do that. The student told him to right click the clock in the bottom right hand side of the screen. However, English is not the prof’s first language. And so he wasn’t able to reset the computer’s clock. A programming prof who can’t reset the computer’s clock—that, my friends, is irony. (Kind of like mathematics profs and students who can’t multiply—but that’s another post.)

I expect Ariel or someone else will have compassion on the professor and show him how to reset the computer’s clock before next class. I have to admit, the incident makes me feel much better about my computer skills, or lack there of.

Updating the System

Jacob is a senior in high school this year. And he’s going to take a dual enrollment Calculus 2 class. Originally, he was going to take it at the community college where he took Calc 1. However, in an effort to save money, the community college decided to cut one hour per week from the class. (Yes, per week, and the prof still had to cover the same amount of material—can you say impossible?) Then, to cut down on paperwork, they made the homework and tests “on-line.” In other words, the computer grades everything. Problem. A computer can’t read your work. They overcame that hurdle by making the homework multiple choice. Yes, Calc 2 homework is multiple choice. I won’t even go into what they did for the tests.

Obviously, the community college was out. So we enrolled Jacob in the University dual enrollment program. After I heard the cost and picked myself up off the ground, I said, “Okay.” We don’t want him waiting another year before taking the class. Then came enrollment.

I expected the community college to be horrid at enrollment. (This is a college that forgot to send all the nursing students grades to the nursing board, so they could take their board exams. Oops.) I expected the university to know what they were doing. I was wrong.

Apparently, they don’t know quite how to do dual enrollment. We filled out all the paperwork, and they processed it. Jake tried to sign up for a class. He wasn’t a student. I called dual enrollment. They called the “tech people.” The tech people said it would show up in 24-48 hours. It didn’t. I called dual enrollment. They called the tech people. The tech people promised they’d fix it when they “updated the system that night.” I know that excuse. When I worked at Harcourt, that is what the tech people always said, and then it wasn’t fixed. I think “we’ll update the system tonight” is geek speak for “I’m tired and I’m grabbing a beer on the way home, so bother me tomorrow.” Eventually, when there were only two spaces left, the problem got fixed. Sadly, Jake didn’t get the prof or time he wanted, but he did get the class. And we thought that everything was hunkey-dory. Until we tried to pay for the class.

Jake’s bill was $3491. For one class. The rounds of phone calls began again. It turned out that the computer people mis-coded Jake. And, of course, it would take a computer system update to fix. (Maybe some day, someone can explain why this is necessary.) Just when I thought it was all over, the dual enrollment advisor told me, “Um, just so you know, it’s not my fault, it’s the State’s fault, but the class is now $200 more. I’m really sorry. It’s not my fault.”

Lovely. I wonder what else is waiting around the corner.

Revenge Is A Dish Best Served Cold

If you’ve been reading my blog for a while, you know that I have a love/hate relationship with WalMart. I love their low prices (especially now that food prices are obscene). I hate just about everything else from the crazed WalMart hide and seek players (nothing like having a 60 year old scruffy man jump out from behind an aisle to engender fear) to the cashier computers that quit working after all of your purchases have been rung up and the machine has to be rebooted and you have to start from scratch.

Normally, Cal makes the WalMart trek with me, and we call it our WalMart date. But Cal was out-of-town this Saturday and I had to do it by myself.  I steeled myself for the experience. I hit the gardening section first looking for jalapenos and basil plants. (I tried growing basil from seed, but the stupid squirrels dug through my pots, ate the seeds, and tossed the expensive dirt all over the place.)  At any rate, I found jalapenos. And discovered that WalMart is not always cheaper. They wanted $5 for a single jalapeno plant that they’d forgotten to water—no thank you.  The basil was the same.

My next stop was the photo center. I had about five photos that I needed to print up for the church bulletin board. We frequently have a handful of photos that need to be developed so Cal says, “You go find groceries, and I’ll do this.” For which I am grateful (you’ll see why in a minutes). But he was gone.

I eyed the computerized photo kiosk warily. (I have a very sordid history with photo kiosks—they don’t like me.) The printer was HP manufactured. I like HP. They made my laptop and it always works properly so I trust HP.  I approached the kiosk and insert my media. It recognized my media. Excellent. I pushed a button. Nothing happened. I gently pushed the button, allowing maximum contact between my finger and the touchplate. Nothing happened. I jabbed the button. The screen ignored me. I jabbed it over and over. Nothing. I wanted to curse the machine and all of its ilk. But this is not the first time this has happened. For reasons I can’t fathom, touchscreens don’t work for me. They never have. (Cal and the kids find this uproariously funny. I don’t. Especially when I crash the whole computer system—it’s happened more than once.) This is why Cal or one of the kids always runs the kiosks. But I was by myself. I tried it again. Nothing. Then I spied a special pen on the side of the kiosk. I grabbed it and touched the screen. Voila. The system lived. I got everything inputed and the machine printed my receipt. I took it to the photo cashier and paid for my photos. So far, so good.

I went back to the kiosk to scan my receipt and get my photos. I scanned. The machine told me to see a sales associate. I scanned again. (Clearly the first scan was an error.) Same message. I tried it multiple times. Same message. I snagged a sales associate, who scowled at me. I explained the situation. She scowled more. Then she asked if I’d paid for the photos. I said, “Of course,” and showed her my receipt. She scowled more deeply. “You shouldn’t have paid for them first.” I thought about telling her that’s what the machine told me to do, but I figured she’d only scowl more.

She found the salesperson/tech guru for the photo department. He looked up my photos, which didn’t exist. We reinput my photos. Which still wouldn’t exist. In fact, after me no one’s photos existed.  The Hispanic man behind me shrugged and rolled his eyes. The tech guru told us that his wasn’t his fault. He ranted about the evils of HP. I pondered whether it was my fault. (Back in the day, I worked at Harcourt. And I crashed the company intranet. Apparently, the IT guys traced it back to my computer. They had to reboot the entire system from tape drives and an entire day’s productively was lost. The third or fourth time it happened, my boss sent me to the eleventh floor to hide while the tech guys came to my office again and had a hissy fit.)  I decided the WalMart tech guru didn’t need to know my history. At this point, I was waiting for a break in the HP rant so I could ask for my money back. Then, my photos appeared. The tech guy shoved them into my hands. I said, “Thanks.” And I hurried again from the kiosk before something else happened. It wasn’t until later that I realized that the photos were missing the tops of the heads of people.  (It wasn’t that way in the pictures that I took.) I think it’s a conspiracy. I think the Harcourt computers shared their stories about me to other computers. And they’re all eeking out revenge. 

The Wisdom of Computers

Yesterday I told Ariel about a site that I’d heard about that analyzes one’s writing and finds an author whose work is similar.

Now I’m skeptical about such things. I understand that a computer can decipher sentence structure and word choice, but how can a computer program analyze voice? It’s that elusive quality that makes Lizzy Bennett “sound” like Lizzy Bennett. (FYI, for my male readers--Lizzy is the heroine of Pride and Prejudice.) But back to voice. It’s the facet of a story or novel that makes you suspend disbelief so that the world of page becomes real. And, in many ways, it’s the mask that the author hides behind. A good author does it so well that you forget there’s an author at all.

But Ariel was eager to try the program out. So she took chunks of my writing—blog posts, novel chapters, etc., and plugged them into the system. After the program chewed through the text, it popped out the writer that I was most like...drumroll, please....The writer that I’m most like is Steven King. Yes, that Steven King. I’m not big on horror because, well, I have nightmares. But I’ve read his book On Writing, and it’s fantastic. But the issue is that I write Young Adult romantic comedy/fantasy (at least, that’s what a knowledgable source tells me). Okay, so that didn't work out too well.

Perhaps what we needed was a second try. Maybe the text Ariel picked was unusual. She ran another hunk of text through the system and I came out as Chuck Palahniuk, yet another horror writer according to Wikipedia.

I was about to decry the follies of computers until Ariel plugged one final chunk of text into the program. This time I came out as J.K. Rowling. Yep, those computer analysis programs are really great.

If you want to plug in your own work, here’s a link to the site. http://iwl.me/

The Great Under-Thirty Conspiracy

Do you know what I hate/abhor/become homicidal about? I loathe being twenty minutes into writing an email or blog post, and then for some reason my finger touches the wrong button and whatever text I’ve written disappears into the electronic abyss. Of course, there’s an “undo” button, but I type very fast and by the time the text vanishes I’ve typed a couple of letters. When I hit the undo button, a “d” or an “s” pops up.

I’ve spoken to the technological geniuses of my home about the situation. Their response is “you shouldn’t type so fast.” Right, that makes me feels better. This morning I was halfway through a blog post and the computer ate it. Who programs these text-eaters? I imagine it’s some skinny kid who’s almost 18 and has been working at Microsoft for 5 years. I don’t know why he wants to make my life miserable. But I’m guessing it’s something like the following: he stayed up too late and his mom had to wake him up to get to work on time. She had to nag him to shower. Then for breakfast she gave him oatmeal instead of Coco Puffs. Then, horror of horrors she ran out of the good coffee and made Folgers instead. (Being forced to drink Folgers would do it for my kids. Folgers would make them ready to lock and load. Actually, when we run out of good coffee, my children send very whiney emails to my mother begging for good coffee since their mother is poisoning them with the cheap stuff.)

At any rate, back to our skinny programmer. He determines to punish all fast typists who are over the age of thirty, of whom his mother is one. So he programs in a “short cut,” which is something along the lines of “double shift Z” or “shift alt.” Some combination of keys that pre-arthritic fingers stumble over. Then he laughs and tells all of his buddies.

A child (Jacob) reading over my shoulder just announced to me, “Hey, Mom, the short cut to delete chunks of text is ‘shift, page-down, and then hit any other key.’” How does he know that?! We don’t have a Short-Cuts Manual lying around the house. I’m sure it must be some great under thirty conspiracy.

Cro-Magnon Dude

Luke bought a Dell computer around Christmas time. You’d think that it should function properly for six months. But you’d be wrong. So, Luke spent time on the phone with tech support (please notice that it was not me or my computer—though there is a rumor going around that the reason Luke’s computer developed “hardware/software failure” is because I spent 16 hours on his computer. But I’m sure that’s a coincidence.) Anyway, back to the story. The on-line tech person decided Luke had serious computer issues that were actually under warranty and they’d send a tech guru to fix it.

The tech guru called me. “Uh, (unintelligible jabbering) computer (more unintelligible jabbering).”

Me: So, you’re going to come and fix the computer?

Guru: Uh, yeah. Three o’clock.

Me: You’re going to be here at three o’clock?

Guru: Yeah.

Me: Great.

Three o’clock comes and goes.

Three thirty comes and goes.

Four o’clock comes and goes.

Four thirty comes, and the phone rings.

Guru: (Slurred speech) Uh-I’m-coming-over-now.

Me: It’s a bit late.

Guru: (grunts) Did I say (grunts again) I was going to be there at three?

Me: Yes, you did.

Guru: Uh, yeah, I was in Alabama.

Me: Oh. (He doesn’t seem to realize this doesn’t solve the problem.)

Guru: I was in Alabama. (Does he think I have a hearing problem?)

Me: Yes. But the problem is that I have to pick up my van from the car repair any time now.

Guru: I’ll be right there. I’ll be fast.

Me: Okay. ( I end up having to give him directions again since he lost the ones I’d given him earlier.)

Half an hour later, the guru shows up. (Curiously, I don't think 30 minutes qualifies as right there.) He’s also frighteningly pierced and really does speak in grunts.

Of course, at this moment the UPS guy comes and drops off massive 100 pound carpets that my parents ordered for their house. And the repair garage calls and says I need to pick up my van.

This calls for quick thinking—there’s no way I’m leaving Ariel, Jake, and Matt at home with the Cro-Magnon dude. Even with Jez. I mean, Jez might bite him, and then she’d catch a disease. So, I left Luke home with them. (I left the truck at the repair place, paid for the van, and drove it home. Luke and I returned for the truck later.)

After a while, pierced guy announced the computer “healed” by a new motherboard, battery, and power converter. Luke showed the guru to the door. Everything went along swimmingly until Luke tried to use his computer. The battery would charge now, which was a good thing, but the computer claimed it had no audio device. And Luke got to spend the evening on tech support again—truly one of the joys of modern life. Okay, not really, but it was a joy for me since I wasn’t on the phone with tech support.