Intervention

Sometime over the weekend, the computer at work crashed - and did a thorough job of it, to be sure, it won't even start much less provide internet access - and we are so disgustingly technology dependent that there's nothing I can do without it. I explain this to Michael, call the IT folks to schedule an intervention for late this afternoon, and resignedly head home. It means going back this evening but it can't be helped. I do my best to be optimistic but it's yet another body blow when the tentative diagnosis of a failed hard drive is confirmed almost immediately.

I will not, will not, WILL NOT wonder what else can go wrong. Apparently it's interpreted as a challenge.

I spend the in between time with an old Bette Davis movie and the three dogs. The tiny one has adapted so well, he now feels free to chase, straddle, ambush and generally harass the kitten. She, in turn, stalks, swats and ferociously feints at him. It's loud, enthusiastic, a tad obnoxious and almost entirely playful so aside from warning him that she could easily knock him into next week and reminding her that he has teeth, I don't interfere. I'm not going to be the least bit surprised if they end up best buddies.

When I get back to work, things have not gotten any better. Our trusty IT girl has vanished with the malfunctioning hard drive in tow and Michael is in a state over the mail. The forwarding order from three weeks ago has still not taken effect and there's no telling how many checks are out there in the postal service never-never land. When you can get them to actually answer their telephones, the post office employees are drearily indifferent to our missing mail dilemma and their collective double speak sets my nerves on edge.

I leave Michael to his muttering and set out for home where I can close the door and hug my dogs.  I think reality needs an intervention.