One Two Five-O Let It Go

After much ado, I finally took approximately ten minutes on Saturday afternoon to pack up my hard drive. On Monday, The Barrister delivered it to the post office and sent it on its two-day priority way.

Today, I received the estimate - $1,250. One thousand, two hundred, fifty dollars. One-point-two-five-K. Twelve fifty (no decimal).

Now I know why I didn't send it. Something told me that it wouldn't be recovered so easily. That there would be a catch to the free evaluation and no-data-no-fee policy. That the fatal click was, in fact, fatal.

I called Mom, and then The Barrister. I choked up a bit talking to The Barrister. Partly over what I'd lost. And partly because I couldn't stop thinking about the fact that I could've backed it up. That I knew it was dying. And yet, I didn't do anything.

I was talking to The Linguista about it later in the day.

"I'm sorry about your hard drive," she said. "Just think of it this way - you didn't lose your best writing because it's yet to come."

I half-smiled. "It's not the writing so much as the pictures."

"Of Dillon?"

"Yeah...of everything. Irreplaceable things. Wilmywood. But I've got no one to blame but myself."

"Well," she said. "I'm Buddhist, but you could always blame God."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah...or maybe just think of it this way. It's God's really cruel way of telling you to let it go."

I know she was kidding, but I still thought about the implications of it, were it true. The laptop was given to me as a graduation gift a summer early so that I could write my thesis on it. And I did. I wrote my thesis - the culmination of my need to "pursue the writing thing." I'm not saying that I'll never write, because I believe I will. I am saying there was a certain way of pursuing it that I exorcised myself of during grad school.

Then there was after grad school - a time of soul-searching. Of trying to find happiness that eluded me again and again. Of writing the same thing about myself and to myself over and over and over again in journal entries. I started the blog and stumbled my way through finding my way. I wound up back home, single, jobless, clueless. I found my job. I found The Barrister.

So perhaps The Linguista is onto something. Perhaps that this cataclysmic hard drive failure is more than motherboard deep. Perhaps it is time to let go of the memories I'm holding onto so tightly. Consign them to the cyber morgue - may they rest in peace - and let myself go in peace.

Hard Drive Goes the Hard Way

I heard the ominous whirring. The fan gunning and wheezing to a stop. But I ignored it and pressed onward. I could feel it dying every time I turned on the computer, its arduous start-up process. And it was made all the more pitiful by the broken hinges that meant I had to prop the lid on the couch arm to use it.

For Christmas, Mom gave me a ridiculously large external hard drive for backing up my photos. I left it in the packaging under the table by the bed until the night that the whirring turned to clicking.

Oh, the click of a withering hard drive.

I panicked, willing it to turn on just one more time. Just long enough for me to plug a USB in and drag all my precious files to safety. But instead, they drowned in a sea of rhythmic clicking. Like a life preserver tossed into a tempest, Mom (who's quite tech savvy) tried to reboot from the system disk. Alas, there was no hope. And so, I sat there on the couch, with my hand on the lid of the laptop and thought of all of the photos of Dillon and Reese and Wilmywood, all of the half-started stories and poems, all of the downloaded-only music, sinking down through the cyberspace abyss.

I carried it to the mall to a rather chaotic looking little shop where a harried Asian lady attempted to start the failed piece of crap. Instead of success, she shook her head sadly and repeated, "I don't know. It's the hard drive. I don't know." And I thought to myself, Don't say it again. And two weeks later, she declared it a lost cause.

I had flashbacks of the Sad Mac and poor Carrie Bradshaw's lost files. The Barrister guided me out of the mall while I alternately tried to console myself and contemplated quickly dispatching myself in front of a moving vehicle. I sat in the car, the hunk of plastic and circuits tucked inside the Belk bag that held my newly purchased "fat" shorts (adding insult to injury), and looked out the window. I felt stupid. Hard drive failure had happened to me at work. And I knew that the laptop was on its last leg. I remarked nearly every time I started it up that I needed to back it up. Instead, I let myself down.

Now, the hard drive is sitting on the dining room table, deftly removed from its casing by my mom. There's a box in one of the chairs. There's some packaging materials I've tossed on top for when I get ready to ship it to the ridiculously high-priced data recovery center. There's probably a thin film of dust on it - it's been weeks.

So why I haven't I sent it? I don't know. It's not that I don't want those memories back - I desperately want to be able to look again at the photos I took of Dillon at the playground the day before the hard drive died and the pictures I took at the work retreat and the autumn leaves at last year's trip to Valle Crucis and mine and The Barrister's Valentine's Day and, perhaps most desperately, the pictures I took of the Grace Street apartment that can never be replicated. I want the words I never finished, and the drafts of my thesis that lead me to what I published. And yet, if I don't send it, they are still alive, somewhere in cyberspace limbo. And if I do send it, I might have to hear that they're gone forever, little bytes of life vanished as though they never happened.

Emotional Pickpocketing

Yesterday was the Rockstar's last day. Last week, I went to his farewell outing - a bowling extravaganza filled with shouts and razzing and toasts and a definite sadness tinging the whole affair. A part of me absorbed it...felt sad because he is leaving, and after a year, I'd like to think I could call him a friend. But it was also the memory of all that I went through last year seeping from the corners of my mind. As the departure was unfolding, I could see little flashes of my own life layered over his. When he hugged me yesterday, and I wished him luck, I felt like I was talking to myself a little bit...a little bit letting go of that person I was then and wishing her luck as she tries to become the person she is now.

***
More and more lately, I've been feeling the quiet beginnings of the panic. The disrupted stomach. The irrational anxiety of anticipating "it." I went to the doctor last week who asked if I wanted to up my dosage. And I said no, I should try and do this. I should try and do this life thing without having to adjust my medication up and up and up. So I'm pushing through, pushing up the threshold of discomfort and willing myself to work through it, one deep breath at a time.

***
I turned 29 earlier this month. And while I flogged my coworkers for the lack of festivities surrounding my birthday, it was really me that caused the disappointment. It was really me who didn't celebrate myself. It was really me who let my birthday be a reminder of all the things I'm not, all the things I lack, instead of all the things I am and all the things I have. What an empty feeling to be consumed by absences on a day that should be spent building a totem of great memories and accomplishments.

***
My laptop has been a source of immense frustration of late. One of the hinges has cracked and the lid won't stay upright, falling instead into an almost horizontal position. On top of that, some part of Microsoft Office is malfunctioning, auto-launching, and utilizing 99% of my CPU capacity. And it's like, Really? Is everything in my life broken?

***
Yesterday, on the drive home, I felt restless. I shifted in the seat. I peered through the grubby windshield at the searing cerulean sky. I saw a few blue-black crows perched in the naked branches of a dying tree. It felt like someone might cue the classic Sergio Leone whistle in the background. It was a showdown between me and waiting. It's been so long on this precipice, me perched, angled forward, looking for what's next. And held back by the gravity of all that's happened. I'm waiting for something - something good and hopeful. Something that gives me an indication that there is a way out of this valley of the shadow of death and not just endless wandering.

***
We start looking at the weekends coming up through the end of the summer and the fall and planning out who has to do what when and where. I realize how scheduled we are with this and that family obligation - things I would normally look forward to, but now seem like just another outing that will perpetuate our togetherness. I could stay home, stay away, but even the thought of it starts the guilt to gnawing away at me. In my mind, coulds and shoulds and wants and needs get so tangled up that I don't know what to do. So I stay tied up in where I am right now, resenting all the hands on the other ends of the strings that are pulling me in every direction.

***
Despite my bravado, I realized the other day that there's almost no chance that I'll even be married before I'm 30. And that's okay. Really. It is. I know that. But sometimes - just sometimes - I want to let my guard down and say that's not how I imagined things.

***
Last week, I had a really, really super important client meeting with the client I landed awhile back. I thought everything went well. I was nervous leading up to it, felt pretty A-game in the midst of it, and relieved as soon as the meeting participants filed out the door. I headed from the office to have a beer with some friends. I missed a call from my boss while I was in the bar. I called him back to find that at least one of the participants was disappointed and felt like we didn't deliver. And that fragile euphoria came crashing down around me, and I felt 16 tons of disappointment fall upon my shoulders.

***
This weekend, I woke up early to go to the salon with Anna, and when I got back home, I said, "I have to take a nap." And it was true. I was bankrupt.

With every passing day, it seems there's emotional thievery going on. These unexpected strains slip in and steal little pieces of me. There are those things that I face everyday that I know I'm going to spend my time and energy and willpower on - some that I even choose to exert some emotional funds for. But these stealthy hands that swipe my reserves are tearing me down a piece at a time, leaving me penniless. I'm utterly broke, with nothing left to give and not even enough for myself.

Getting a Sense After Eight Weeks

Mouthing off: jargon deciphered - noodle, offline, sidebar, inoculate, POD, pman; the correct company name when I answer the phone (even though I want to say the old one)

Noise, noise, noise: high hat notification on The Exotic's email (that drives me mad), dumpster emptying on Fridays, click-clack of the overhead fans, sonar beep of The Goofball's phone, music on The Rockstar's computer that I can barely hear but often sounds like electronica chanting at the end of the day

Taste buds: Peaches for fried chicken, green beans and mac & cheese (listed as a vegetable), chi-chi new dive by the art house theatre serving up overpriced prosciutto and grass clippings doused in olive oil, pastries from Black Forest Bakery, free(!) Maggiano's one day in ATL, only French vanilla creamer for coffee, Grape Laffy Taffy and Aztec Punch Starburst from the candy dish

Sniff: occasional chicken odor drifting from nearby poultry operation, stale sweat from the Dirty Film boys despite cooling weather, odd smell of cabbage in the ladies' which The Violinist and I determined was highly abnormal in the bathroom, old wood and machine oil from the freight elevator, Italian bistro cranking up for dinner every night when I leave

I Spy: my picture on the website (ick), other people reading Perez Hilton during the day, very drab blue background on the laptop I warily use each day, a growing number of folders on my desk containing information that I'm supposed to understand, three stalls in the ladies' but I will only use two of them - the third to me...well, it's just off limits for no apparent reason, red brick out the window, hope for me yet(??)

Inquiring Minds Want to Know

The illustrious Megs has kindly consented to interview me (because I kind of asked her to). And now, you have the dubious honor of asking me to do the same. Here's how:

1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions of my choice.
3. Then, you should update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You have to include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you get to ask them five questions.

Number 1: Quick! The house is on fire! Excepting the obvious people & pets, what 5 things do you take?
1. Fuzzy Fur, the well-loved if not somewhat dishevled teddy bear I've had since I was six
2. Photo albums - I'm counting these as one gigantic armload
3. My black BCBG heels - don't tell the other shoes, but they're my favorites
4. The laptop, since it's got a lot of life history living in it
5. The original Clue movie poster Tom bought me - irreplacable!

Number 2: What is the best or weirdest reconnection you have made via the internet?
Hmm. I'd have to say the best reconnections have been the blogs. I've been able to keep in touch with some folks from high school and grad school via the blogs - it's nice to be part of the little e-neighborhood.

Number 3: What is your most hated word?
I really, really hate the word "pus." There is no context in which the word pus is good. It sounds horrible. It looks horrible on the screen. It is horrible. Oooh. Shudder. Pus.

Number 4: Tell me something funny you've never blogged before.
When I was freshman in high school, I was playing softball in P.E. with a Pakistani kid when we collided and he broke my nose. I was forced to sit in the field house with a 50-gallon garbage bag full of ice draped over my face while the coach called my mom to "come take a look" even though he didn't think it was broken. (This used to be a story I would tell like a party trick.)

Number 5: What is your all-time favorite song?
Oh, my, this is a very hard question. I'd have to say...well, I'm thinking of songs that I can hear over and over again without tiring of them. And a song that makes me feel warm and happy. Hmm. I guess I'm going to say - despite my love affair with John Mayer - "Tidal Wave" by David Gray, but if you asked me next week, it's probably say something different.

I Hate...

...cleaning hair out of the drain in the bathtub.

...the feeling of finishing a book I've been reading like mad to finish and realizing that it's over.

...the point in the late afternoon when I realize Saturday is over.

...trying fruitlessly to surf the internet for ideas for Christmas presents.

...never having anything worth eating in the kitchen because I am too lazy and inept to go to the grocery store.

...deciding I need a haircut and not being able to get an appointment for a whole week.

...computer problems.

...listlessly trying to decide what to do next.

e-Karma

It is entirely possible that for the last six to eight months that I've been...um...ahem...borrowing bandwith. It could be that my computer picked up a wireless signal, which I took to be a providential sign that I should not look a gift horse in the month. Happenstance may have it that I cancelled my paid-for service in light of this felicitous little signal. It might also be the case that I might have, you know, bragged about my free wireless internet access. Maybe I kind of smugly mentioned it from time to time many times over. So I guess it goes to say that I might have deserved the abrupt disappearance of said wireless network, leaving me destitute and disconnected. Maybe it's a clear cut case of got-what-you-deserved that I am sitting at an odd angle on the couch trying to hold the city's free wireless signal long enough to type this blog entry (sorry it's sans photos - I don't have the signal strength to search for them). And perhaps the moral of the story is there is no free e-lunch.

(However, despite all technical difficulties, more reflections on SLC and - yes! photos - coming soon.)

Return of the Sad Mac

Okay, so I got the Sad Mac back about a week ago, but today was the first day I had free to get it hooked up and reloaded with software. The technician called me late in the game to let me know he had been able to recover some documents. Just some. I'm glad I didn't get my hopes up. In 12 recovery attempts, the following was restored to my computer:

* Photos of horses that were tacked on to a client photo shoot by the photographer. The horses didn't even belong to the client.

* An ad from last year's Azalea Festival

* The Garden State Soundtrack

* A single photo from a recent golf course event

* A series of .docs that are incomprehensible gobbledy-gook

* Four photos of Kudzu

* Nothing at all relevant to my job

All is Lost: The Mac is Dead

For those of you who have been kind enough to worry over the state of my eMac, I am sorry to inform you that the Mac is dead. The Angel of CyberDeath called this morning to say he had issued an official DNR on my hard drive and pronounced it unrecoverable. Which means we all have to recreate our time input for the entire month of September(!) and that I've lost all email and documents created between end of May and now. A moment of silence please. Cue the bugle.

Sad Mac: An Update

Carlton, the Apple Superhero, called today to say that he's been working on my Mac all day. Unfortunately the hard drive is physically so locked up, he's been unable to connect to the computer and attempt data recovery. He's ordering a new hard drive and continuing efforts to resucitate the comatose eMac. More tomorrow...on As the Hard Drive Turns.

Sad Mac

For those of you who are PC/Windows users, you can't possibly know the fear inspired by the appearance of the Sad Mac. The Sad Mac is the agent of ultimate destruction in the Mac universe - the CyberAngel of Death, if you will. And today at work, the Sad Mac descended on my computer in the form of a blank gray screen. Despite attempts to revive from the startup disk, the Sad Mac persisted in the form of a red error message that the Mac Pro told me indicated a hard drive problem.

Unfortunately, our backup system has been down since we've been in the new office. Meaning I've potentially lost everything since May. The Mac Pro told me that data recovery was "ify" but I overnighted my little eMac to him anyway. It was all too reminicent of the Sex & the City episode where Carrie's Mac crashes and the tech guy says, "You saw the Sad Mac? That's bad." And, like me, she had no backup. But unlike me, she had great Manolo Blahnik shoes to ease her pain.