Sudden Doom (and Cereal)

You could say I enjoy routine. I’d rather you not say it, though, because it makes me sound boring – like the “We really shouldn’t be doing this…” girl in teenage-joytrip movies. I promise I’m not Page Hannah in Shag, but I guess I’m not Bridget Fonda, either. I wouldn’t perform a public strip-tease to the tune of “Way Down South in Dixie,” but I’d consider giving my number to Jimmy Valentine. Maybe I’m Phoebe Cates. (Of course, if you haven’t seen Shag, none of this makes sense. Rather than change my metaphor, I’ll let you rent the movie. It’s a classic.)

My mornings in Honesdale all started roughly the same way. Wake up at 6:18; stumble to the computer; select an upbeat number from iTunes (such as “Stayin’ Alive” or “Ob-la-di, Ob-la-dah”); hum along and scan e-mail. Then, shower; dress; pay my dues to Clinique and Neutrogena; pour Grape Nuts. Always Grape Nuts? Well, 90% of the time. I got on a Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch kick for awhile, but the guilt nearly wrecked me. My parents instilled me with a reverence for dietary fiber, and I regarded the Cap’n as one might consider a jaunty drug dealer. In the end, I just said no.

I’ve tried to keep most of the routine since arriving in Murfreesboro. I sleep a lot later – so I don’t need the wake-up music. But the Hewlett Packard is still my first stop after rolling back the covers. I like to imagine that the man of my dreams has emailed me overnight, having noticed me in the cereal aisle at Kroger and asked around town for my name. He needs me to log onto IM immediately, so we can arrange a getaway in his private hot-air balloon, which will launch to the tune of “Sky Rockets in Flight, Afternoon Delight.”

And to think….he planned all of this while I slept!

This morning I found a note taped to my HP monitor: “You need to unhook your computer. It’s sick ☹ Mom” Had I been a cartoon character, a little exclamation point would have sprung over my head. Sick? Like, head-cold sick? Or one of those Oregon Trail diseases that ensured instant death? With a trembling finger, I powered my hard drive. Just as I feared: call off the journey West. My computer has dysentery.

I’m not a computer techie by anyone’s definition, but I know the BSOD. That’s Blue Screen of Death. RIP, HP. My first thought was: God, I’ve lost all of my MP3s. Second thought: God, please don’t make me face the HP support staff. I set a high priority on avoiding situations where I might feel moronic, and talking to tech support always shakes my IQ.

No offense to my computer-savvy friends, but I believe every IT department houses at least one Nick Burns. You know, the Jimmy Fallon tech support character on SNL: “He’ll fix your computer, then he’ll make fun of you.” As the BSOD flicked on and off, I could hear Nick Burns’ dry laughter, “You ignored the Norton Bloodhound message? And you didn’t install a pop-up blocker? Did you say you’re a Ph.D. candidate? At which school…the school of the technologically retarded? Ha ha ha.”

I had to give myself a little pep talk: you’re a good person with a bad computer….use those karate skills….fight or flight! Eye of the tiger! Float like a butterfly, whatever.

Half an hour later, I turned my hard drive over to C&C Computers. I then retreated to Barnes and Noble, where I impulsively spent $75.00 (Nick Hornby's A Long Way Down; Tom Wolfe's I Am Charlotte Simmons; Paul Feig's Superstud: Or How I Became a 24-Year-Old Virgin). If I’m gonna break routine, I’m gonna go all the way. Cue “Dixie.”

* P.S.: I’m now writing from Dad’s computer, on which I can't figure out how to create italics, check spelling, or change font. Don't laugh at me. If all goes well, I’ll see you again from my HP in a week. In the meantime, I’m off to California on a family vacation. Westward, ho! (Whatever “ho” means in that context.)