I wanna get off….
My God. It’s 9 in the morning and I’ve already coped with three nightmares.
Nightmare the First:
Anyone who believes that computers, at the base level, improve our lives needs to stop inhaling whatever they’re smoking!
This nightmare started last night.
At some point, I realize a bunch of incoming email is…well…NOT incoming. Eventually I figure out it’s stuff addressed to my corporate gmail account.
Understand: I don’t use gmail. Don’t use it because I hate the interface; don’t use it because I hate being spied on by a monopolistic corporation. To the extent that I MUST have a gmail account, I forward that account’s incoming to MacMail. So I don’t even remember the damn passwords; finding them involves a great deal of searching through a secret, coded document and finally changing the passwords.
After some hassle, I do get in and search all around trying to figure out the trouble. Not even sure the test emails are hitting gmail at all. Web Guru and I study it and bang away at it and crash away at it and still can’t find the problem. Finally — after two hours of fighting with the damn thing, and with damn MacMail, which has decided to get stubborn, I finally discover the problem: Google has unilaterally decided that anything coming from mac.com or me.com must be spam! It has derailed all my test emails and quite a few other things.
I mark these messages “Not Spam.”
Confer with guru. We’re both bamboozled.
I try again to mark the messages “Not Spam.”
AT LAST this does the trick.
Ducky. I’ve now wasted my entire evening wrestling with fucking Gmail. It’s 10 p.m. I have to get up and take the dog to the vet the next morning.
However, as one might have guessed…when thou hast done, thou hast not done…
This morning I need to print out an Excel file. To do that, I have to email it to myself (I could post it to Dropbox but that would make sense: let’s stay in Never-Neverland). The reason I have to do that is that fucking Apple has decided I can’t print from my laptop, and I’m working in the file on the laptop. So I have to send the file to myself, then get into it on the iMac (the only computer still speaking to the printer), open it, and print the germane section.
But…I can’t get into my MacMail on the iMac. Floating in the upper right-hand corner is a demand from Google that I enter a password!
Huh? For WHAT?
I start on this at 6:30. At 7:00 I call Apple help. The help rep and I labor with it for another 40 minutes (bear in mind that I needed to take the dog to the vet at 7:30).
Finally we figure out that somehow Google is hanging my MacMail and will not unhang it until I enter a password that I haven’t used in a good two years.
We sift through the NINETEEN SINGLE-SPACED PAGES of fucking coded passwords stored on my computer for this purpose.
Finally we find one that works.
You understand: to recover a password now, you have to tell fucking Google what your last functional password was. But…uhmmmmm…if you’ve lost your password, how the HELL would you know what it was????????
Before we ask to change the pw, though, I decide to make a guess that this thing actually is the current working PW, so we back out of the “lost my password” hoop-jump and try signing in with it…and it works.
As it develops, to make Google unhang MacMail, I have to sign into fucking Gmail and then close out of it.
Makes sense, eh?
Nightmare the Second
I’m now running way late to schlep the dog for this morning’s surgery. The dog is upset, because I’ve been TEARING MY HAIR for the past hour. I grab her, fling the unhappy beast into the car, and set out.
Fortunately, the few minutes spent on hold waiting for the Apple rep gave me time to wash my face, brush my teeth, and throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
We fly out the driveway and….
…come to a stop.
The vet’s office is about a 30-minute drive to the east of the ‘hood, through brain-banging traffic. To make things difficult, during rush hour we cannot turn east out of the ‘hood: the only viable main drag has a reverse lane that prohibits left turns between 7 and 9 a.m.
Thus to make a southbound drive I have to go north to Gangbanger’s Way, go east as far at that road goes, then turn south on the secondary arterial that goes, oh, maybe halfway downtown. Because this road doesn’t go all the way through, I have to turn east on the last major arterial that does go through to points east of the fucking Squaw Peak Freeway, whose construction blocked most of the navigable east-west drags north of McDowell.
At Main Drag NSE, traffic on Gangbanger comes to a DEAD STOP. I don’t know what’s going on up there, but no one can get through.
I make an illegal right turn across the parking lot of an abandoned gas station, awakening a few camped bums who were hoping to sleep in, and then dart south on Main Drag NSE and east again on Feeder Street East/West, which proceeds to Richistan Avenue. There, I plan to turn north and then go east again on Doesn’t-Live-Here-Anymore Lane, which connects with the east-west road that (with any luck) will take me to Navigable Arterial EW.
Richistan Ave., not surprisingly, is jammed with people trying to get around whatever is going on up on Gangbanger way. I cannot turn north. I go south to my friend’s patio-home development, which I know has a generously sized entry with no gate. Swerve into a U-turn and peel north.
Ah, the joys of a six-banger…
Now I reach Doesn’t-Live-Here-Anymore and proceed fairly calmly toward East Major Arterial, where I start the long, LONG drive to 40th Street.
To get there, I have to drive to 36th, then proceed south through Upper Richistan (makes our Richistan look like a barrio), hang a left, proceed past THE most expensive private school in Arizona (dodging cops and cameras), then turn south on 40th and keep on driving, driving, driving.
The traffic was just horrific. On Secondary Arterial the nitwit in front of me decides to turn left and so, one would think sensibly enough, pulls into the two-way left-turn lane. I’m right on her tail, as everyone else is on everyone else’s tail. She gets halfway into the left-turn lane and then fuckin’ STOPS! With her rear end out in the oncoming traffic. I jam on the brakes and yank the steering wheel to the right and JUST BARELY miss the bitch, dodging back to the left to JUST BARELY miss the poor fuck in the traffic lane to the right of us. I mean, we’re talkin’ inches. Both ways.
Thank god for fancy skid-resistant brakes and reflexes that haven’t, after all, slowed down as much as one would expect in a 72-year-old broad. Probably the adrenaline rage hypes the reflexes a bit.
Ahead, the red light turns green.
And the line of traffic sits there. And sits there. And sits there. And sits there.
Finally the jerk at the head of the line notices the green light, gets off the phone, and goes forward. One car — his — gets through the light.
So we drive and drive and drive and drive and drive and FINALLY we get to the vet’s office.
He has about a half-dozen parking spaces, all of them full. I need to go to the end of a line that runs up the middle of the little lot and kype the space just being vacated by an exiting customer.
But some IDIOT has parked her car on the far end of the middle row: outside the parking spaces. She has blocked access to the spaces on the other side of the middle row.
Son OF a bitch!!!!
I now have to back and fill to get out of the parking lot, a seemingly impossible challenge. But in the process, I realize there’s a space directly behind me along the opposite wall, and if I just glide straight back, I can grab that space and be pointed out.
This apparently, is reserved for the vet. I do not notice the orange cones blocking ingress. So just roll over them.
About then the vet drives up. He now has to find a space to park.
I slither into the veterinary’s front door, evading eye contact. Drop off the dog. And flee.
Nightmare the Third
On the way home, it crosses my mind that I do not recall having moved the exterior doorkey holder out of its (ingenious) hiding place during yesterday’s garden-furniture refurbishing frolic.
Holy sh!t. This would imply that it wasn’t in its ingenious hiding place yesterday.
I worry all the way home. Fortunately the west- and east-bound traffic isn’t so gawdawful, plus by 8:30 the rush hour is subsiding anyway.
Once home, I shoof around and yeah…do find the thing, where it’s fallen unnoticed on the ground.
This relieves me from having to spend several hundred dollah changing all the locks in the house.
Nightmare the Fourth (and counting…)
Pending. Whenever I get up from this, I have to answer a client’s convoluted email about a transaction that happened almost a year ago and about which I recall almost nothing, then clean out the coded password log (that will take half the day!), then download data to create new spreadsheets that yesterday I proposed to build for WonderAccountant, by which time I will have forgotten to call the vet to check on the dog. Then drive to the vet and pick up the dog (assuming the aged dog survives this procedure)…through afternoon rush-hour traffic.