Monday, January 28, 2013

REMODELING

       The decision to upgrade/re-do/modernize/'go wireless' - *which I hitherto associated only with bras - sort of evolved.  It was most certainly not in the 2013 'game plan'.  No, that entity, inchoate at best, would never be tainted with even fleeting (and aren't they all lately) thoughts of things electronic.  Rather necessity called the shots - to a degree whereupon we just wanted to order a few - neat and often.

       (Along the way, though, there were perks.  For example, I developed a first-hand appreciation of what being "at the point of distraction" feels like.  And why, you must be thinking with hungry curiosity, would she consider this a 'perk'?  Or not.  But if you do want to know, here it is:  those with a proclivity toward pragmatism would no doubt reach the conclusion that "point of distraction" is not a good thing.  This same type of  thinker, then, will avoid going there.  Suffice it to say, for now, they could be wrong. But then what price pragmatism, or 'being right, or asparagus, for that matter)

       Necessity - with her boastfully ample artillery, was firing away at an alarming pace.  Machines - some not even visible to the naked eye but 'about' nevertheless - were invading, crowding even, space so recently rendered almost sterile in its tidiness after the holiday trappings were tucked out of sight.  It became necessary to 'deal' with them.  Do Tell and I had a meeting - just us two as the Shaman was absent - ". . . in my study!!" - which means one level (physically) down from the main living space, sequestered in the dimly-lit (by preference) carpeted bowels of what we call 'home', doing 'serious' business-type things with his staff of most likely cloven-footed, dusty, unshaven creatures who do his bidding, such as it must turn out to be.

       By contrast, Do Tell and I were packing away some mid-morning "strawberry cheesecake" frozen yogurt and deciding which of the far-too-many 'support' phone numbers we had acquired along with the invaders to call. 
"I told you the very first improvement to this house should be a top- notch, professionally designed, deep and un-swimmable moat - in the round.  That would have obviated the need for this meeting as the invasion would have been foiled and. . . "
"Enough!  Let's remember why we are meeting, which one of us is slimy and green and just get on with the 'support' endeavor."
"Touchy, touchy. . ."
"I'm ignoring that and calling, uh, oh yes, "Safeguard-and-don't-deal-with-any-impostors".  They did remotely fix his computer.  Must have been an impressive resuscitation after house guest left it at the point of near-meltdown."
"Whatever."
"We don't need reptilian attitude.  We need to get this little gem, Surface, to make friends with a printer."

       (And this, boys and girls, is where 'point of distraction' reared its ugly head.  I made the call;  suffered through repeating my credentials to several different people - all of whom spoke with a clipped, rapid, Mid-Eastern snip - and began to wander mentally after each "Thank-you-for-your-patience-I-shall-be-back-in-two-minutes".  There I was - happy, sitting alongside William Devane, as he flew his comfy whatever over teal blue amorphically-shaped bodies of water, interrupted by copper-hued mesas, and reminded his vast audience - world, as we know it - that when he's ". . . up here, I feel secure.  I'm not involved in the financial woes of the world.  That's because I buy gold every chance I get . . ." and I was safe and secure and happy, too.  "Last Stop: 'Point of Distraction'")

       I was finally speaking with Sam, the Head Supervisor.  Having called on my cell phone, I became irritable when Sam told me to take my "tab" - Sam's word for my Surface.  For the record, I assign the names around here and had already decided on Cole Porter's "Well Did You Ever" for Surface.  Moreover, "Well" was not because having been online when I first made this dastardly call, Well was now not able to get online, an event that followed the non-supervisor's instruction to turn Well off, count to 15, then turn it back on.  Though obviously not savvy, I am, unfortunately, obedient.

       Sam, at a loss as to my tone of annoyance - in addition to his dubbing Well "tab", he was instructing me to carry this paraphernalia downstairs - where we would be close to the router and, of course, have a better chance of resolving the 'off-line' issue.  Of course whether we succeeded would remain a SECRET BECAUSE THE CELL PHONE DOES NOT WORK DOWNSTAIRS, Sam-you-is.  Naturally I explained this potential glitch before 'going' anywhere and this ass, it came to pass, announced with unwarranted confidence, "Not to worry.  I shall call you on the land line."

      (William and I landed smoothly and I leaped down to stand by his side as he leaned an elbow on a glistening wing, smiling broadly such that his right canine tooth sparkled just like that of the superhero he is, and prattled on about the advantages of purchasing gold with one's hard-earned money.  As for me, being solidly-embedded in "the Point", I just grinned, glancing around occasionally to see if I could espy an iguana or, better, an asp, to toy with while luring it into William's wall safe.  I admired his wall safe, accommodatingly/accordingly - should opportunity slither by.)

       Did I mention I'd told Sam that I was post op and moving slowly, reluctantly, even?  I had.  Imagine my surprise, then, when I heard that demanding land-line ring at a stage in my transport mission that could not respectably be called 'half-way'.  Of course I was met with blissful silence as I trundled into the dungeon-study, encumbered with Well, manuals, writing tablet and pen.  In fact, the only bit of rescue equipment I'd not thought to bring was Sam's toll-free number.  And presumably company policy does not allow for re-dial because Sam remained a destructive memory until I returned upstairs, fetched his number and made another fateful call.

       (Back at the ranch, William and I cuddled on buttery-soft leather, discussing the fashion wisdom of investing in paisley suede chaps BEFORE I called the magic ". . . gold you want delivered when you want it."- number.  He seemed 'iffy' but brightened when I asked to see his wall safe, cleverly camouflaged behind a Woolworth Special 'Currier and Ives' number.  So engrossed was he - and squinting for having forgotten to grab his Ray Bans before opening the door to 'Goldshine Hollow' - that I succeeded in making my loosely-netted new best friend deposit just before William 'barred-the-door', as it were.  Hate to miss the fun but I had to bid 'the Point' adieu lest it became a pattern.)

      My second round of successive hand-offs was just as snippy as the first but my patience was rewarded when the now-familiar, clipped-hiding-immense-frustrational voice of Sam-the-Man made its entrance. 
Question:  "Were you able to get tab back on line?"
"I didn't know that was MY task.  I was amusing myself carting everything downstairs just in time to miss your three-ring call, Sam."
"I am begging your pardon?"
"I don't know what you are doing.  How about getting my Surface back on line?"
"I am going to give you a toll-free number to call.  These people will help you to get back on line.  I will call you tomorrow.  What time it will be good for you?"
"My granddaughter is playing basketball at 8:30 AM.  So you should call between 10 and 11 o'clock."
"That is not good for me.  I will call at 8 AM.  I will spend the night doing research on your tab and tomorrow we should be able to interface with the printer."

       I had nothing further to contribute to this dodge.  I called the toll-free number and was delighted to speak with a Surface expert who resolved the Internet issue in record time after a few questions about my exchange with Sam.  We chatted for some time and she resolved other issues as well.  Re: Sam, I told her he'd have to have wrapped his turban (Profiling?  Yes. Taking jobs away from our young people? Yes.  Accepting American aid/military support with impunity?  Yes.) rather tightly during the wee hours of research to figure out what she had done with such ease.  A bona fide professional, she ignored my asides and simply offered further assistance at any time.  (I guess that would be 10 or 11 AM if necessary.)

       And 'we've only just begun'.  We're moving right along to upgrading our router such that I don't have to stand next to it to receive a text on my cell phone.  Then we'll be taking said phone to its infirmary so we can make some changes on Face book.  I shan't make too many, there.  The most warm and loving respite from all of this technical madness came via FB on Sunday.  Quite serendipitous, really.  But in a matter of 45 minutes, I 'happened upon' five different, old friends - not even from the same era of my life - and took the time/opportunity to ". . .stop to wonder" how they were doing and how precious my thoughts and memories of them have and will always be.  Never forgotten - like "Green Eggs and Ham".  

       Sam I am not.  Later, Lorane. . . .

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