responded to Monistat.
I tried to put the setback in perspective. I hesitate to write these words because some sinister program is probably watching as I type, but honestly, bad as it is, a computer virus is really not so bad, relatively speaking. Compared with real viruses, like Ebola or Bubonic plague, a computer worm is insignificant. I might miss a deadline, but no one’s going to die if my laptop runs slow. No one’s going to waste away if I can’t check my email or trade a stock. No village will be flooded if I can’t pay my gas bill on time.
A writing buddy recently described her falling out with a hard drive. “It was horrifying,” she said.
Horrifying?
A strong word, even for writer who’s had her words erased.
“I know,” another writer commiserated. “I went through that last fall.”
They nodded, touched hands, and their misery made me wonder if we need hospice for dying computers and grief counseling for lost manuscripts.
To be safe, guard against overconfidence around computers, especially if you’re a writer. Think about it—the innocent looking Mac or PC knows our most private thoughts, to say nothing of the passwords to our bank accounts. They are spies, and they are everywhere.
Also, beware of mocking the chat room guys, even inside your head. As soon as I got the wirus fixed, my wireless went out.
Portrait of a Junk Drawer
A
S A KID I ONCE OPENED THE WRONG DRAWER AT A FRIEND ’ S house. Instead of the spoons her mother had asked for, I found a broken ruler, chewed pencils, and a padlock splattered with paint.
“Junk drawer,” the mom said. “Everybody’s got one.”
What a relief. We had a drawer at home that held hair bands, restaurant matches, and inkless pens. I’d assumed this was our family’s particular shame. Learning that other people suffered the junk-sickness was comforting, but still, I wanted better for myself. When I moved away from home, I tried not to repeat the pattern, but somehow ended up maintaining my own junk drawers in apartments and houses across the country. All the while I dreamed of an organized space with cubbies for keys, picture hanging hardware, and miniature screwdrivers. I’m not quite there.
We have two junk drawers now: his and hers. His catches manly items like lighters, electrical tape, and the occasional nut and bolt. Mine is for the stuff of daily life. I open it no less than ten times a day and I organize it over and over in my continuous effort to get it to close properly.
First, I root out garbage because trash gives respectable junk drawers a bad name. I don’t need an old church program or last May’s third grade spelling list. I toss cardboard boxes and brochures for $45 bottles of acai berry juice. Of course, not all trash starts out as such, but is rendered useless over time. What good is $3 off a car wash in 2004? Was I planning to time travel? I find idea notes for stories scratched off on index cards: Red Explorer-leaf pile playhouse-childhood dream with circus rat . That’s useful.
Some things inspire guilt, like my daughter’s crumpled artwork. While my firstborn’s early masterpieces hold a place of honor in a plastic tub somewhere, the second child will surely need art therapy later. There is the Scalpicin I bought before I realized the itchy scalp really was lice and not just some other irritant that, God forbid, the neighbors might mistake for lice. I debate where to put the telephone number to Poison Control (in case I splash nail polish remover in my daughter’s eye again).
Then there are essentials. Sure, I can live without the nutritional information for McDonald’s and Starbucks, but not my bent and faded Weight Watchers Points Counter. That stays. Also, Post-its, Sharpies, tape, and paper clips. These are musthave supplies in a well-stocked kitchen.
I finally reach the bottom of the drawer, only to find that uncapped pens have created inkblots that inspire me to peer deep into my psyche. Not good. The
I tried to put the setback in perspective. I hesitate to write these words because some sinister program is probably watching as I type, but honestly, bad as it is, a computer virus is really not so bad, relatively speaking. Compared with real viruses, like Ebola or Bubonic plague, a computer worm is insignificant. I might miss a deadline, but no one’s going to die if my laptop runs slow. No one’s going to waste away if I can’t check my email or trade a stock. No village will be flooded if I can’t pay my gas bill on time.
A writing buddy recently described her falling out with a hard drive. “It was horrifying,” she said.
Horrifying?
A strong word, even for writer who’s had her words erased.
“I know,” another writer commiserated. “I went through that last fall.”
They nodded, touched hands, and their misery made me wonder if we need hospice for dying computers and grief counseling for lost manuscripts.
To be safe, guard against overconfidence around computers, especially if you’re a writer. Think about it—the innocent looking Mac or PC knows our most private thoughts, to say nothing of the passwords to our bank accounts. They are spies, and they are everywhere.
Also, beware of mocking the chat room guys, even inside your head. As soon as I got the wirus fixed, my wireless went out.
Portrait of a Junk Drawer
A
S A KID I ONCE OPENED THE WRONG DRAWER AT A FRIEND ’ S house. Instead of the spoons her mother had asked for, I found a broken ruler, chewed pencils, and a padlock splattered with paint.
“Junk drawer,” the mom said. “Everybody’s got one.”
What a relief. We had a drawer at home that held hair bands, restaurant matches, and inkless pens. I’d assumed this was our family’s particular shame. Learning that other people suffered the junk-sickness was comforting, but still, I wanted better for myself. When I moved away from home, I tried not to repeat the pattern, but somehow ended up maintaining my own junk drawers in apartments and houses across the country. All the while I dreamed of an organized space with cubbies for keys, picture hanging hardware, and miniature screwdrivers. I’m not quite there.
We have two junk drawers now: his and hers. His catches manly items like lighters, electrical tape, and the occasional nut and bolt. Mine is for the stuff of daily life. I open it no less than ten times a day and I organize it over and over in my continuous effort to get it to close properly.
First, I root out garbage because trash gives respectable junk drawers a bad name. I don’t need an old church program or last May’s third grade spelling list. I toss cardboard boxes and brochures for $45 bottles of acai berry juice. Of course, not all trash starts out as such, but is rendered useless over time. What good is $3 off a car wash in 2004? Was I planning to time travel? I find idea notes for stories scratched off on index cards: Red Explorer-leaf pile playhouse-childhood dream with circus rat . That’s useful.
Some things inspire guilt, like my daughter’s crumpled artwork. While my firstborn’s early masterpieces hold a place of honor in a plastic tub somewhere, the second child will surely need art therapy later. There is the Scalpicin I bought before I realized the itchy scalp really was lice and not just some other irritant that, God forbid, the neighbors might mistake for lice. I debate where to put the telephone number to Poison Control (in case I splash nail polish remover in my daughter’s eye again).
Then there are essentials. Sure, I can live without the nutritional information for McDonald’s and Starbucks, but not my bent and faded Weight Watchers Points Counter. That stays. Also, Post-its, Sharpies, tape, and paper clips. These are musthave supplies in a well-stocked kitchen.
I finally reach the bottom of the drawer, only to find that uncapped pens have created inkblots that inspire me to peer deep into my psyche. Not good. The
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