If Tim could, he would totally get a new car every year, or maybe even every six months. His idea of fun is spending hour upon hour trolling car dealerships, reverently patting shiny new bumpers and stroking soft, supple leather seats.
Myself, I would rather run naked through a brier patch filled with poison ivy while being chased by a rabid dog than shop for a new car.
And that is why we make a perfect couple. After almost eight years, it was time for me to get a new car, and, rather than endure the whining, pouting and snarky comments that bringing me car shopping elicits, Tim pored over car magazines and the internet, and narrowed my choices down to two, I picked one, and we both drove off the lot happy as little clams.
The bubble of happiness lasted exactly two weeks before it burst.
I was actually enjoying my new car, specifically the "keyless entry" feature before it all went south. No more digging for keys in my purse like I was trying to tunnel to the center of the earth. No more patting myself down looking for the keys as though I was in a Macarana dance off. Now, I simply had to have my keys and with one touch of the door handle, beep--unlock. Beep, beep--lock. It was....magic.
So last Monday, I stuffed my keys into my pocket, grabbed the dry cleaning with one arm, the dog with the other, my purse with my elbow, and my reusable shopping bags with my teeth and headed out to run errands.
Bank? Beep. Beep, beep. Dry cleaners? Beep. Beep,beep. Christmas wreath? Beep. Beep, beep. Dog park? ----Hmm. No beep. Perplexed, I shifted the dog to the other arm and tried again. ----Uh oh. Not good.
I checked all the doors, but they were securely closed. I double-checked the trunk where I had put my purse. Firmly shut. I brushed my fingers across the handle yet again. No beep. I tried another handle. No beep. Another hand. No beep. My knuckles. No beep. An elbow, nose, chin, knee and big toe. Nothing. Chloe's paw, her tail, her nose, the tips of her ears. No beep.
Aggravated, I got back into the car, pushed the button and it started up just fine. Huh. That was strange.
I got back out and tried my touching routine all over again, except this time, I included the five basic ballet positions, a downward dog, part of a pussycat doll routine and a few moves I once saw at the Cirque du Soliel. Still no beep beep. Not even a beeee.
By now, I was starting to draw a small crowd and Chloe was looking at me the way I looked at my mom when I was 12 and she danced the hustle at a relative's wedding; equal parts horror, fascination and alarm.
I gave one last valiant effort by removing the actual key from the electronic "key", but even that wouldn't lock the car. Okay, so now even and old-fashioned, unsophisticated key wouldn't work? How does that happen?
Since the dealership was less than a mile away, I decided to head over there before one of the people watching decided to call either the men in white coats or the police to take me away (Honest, officer, I swear it's my car.).
As I pulled into the lot, the salesman just happened to be there with another customer.
"Hey! How's it going?" Big, broad smile.
"Not so good. My key stopped working."
"Let me see," he performed the same voodoo rituals I had done, to no avail. "Oh dear." Not such a big smile now. Meanwhile, his customer suddenly remembered elective brain surgery he had been putting off and fled, er, I mean left. "Take it around to the service bay."
When I arrived, the mechanic was waiting for me.
"Let's see what we can do," he declared jovially.
Yeah. You're smiling now. We all start out that way. But you won't be smiling for long.
He took the key from me and...beep. Beep, beep.
No way. Uh uh. That did not just happen.
But then he got cocky and tried to show off by making it happen again. This time though, silence...
Frowning, he tried again, and again. No beep.
"Give me a few minutes," he said, walking away and shaking his head.
I decided to take the dog for a little walk while he was gone and returned to find him writing me a voucher for a cab home.
"It's the strangest thing," he scratched his head, "the computer is saying the car doesn't even recognize the key. Do you have the spare key with you?"
Uh. No. I don't usually need two keys to run errands. "Sorry," I shook my head.
"We'll send you home in a cab and call you first thing in the morning. Do you need anything out of your car? Because it's locked and we can't get in, and if I use the actual key, the alarm will go off and we can't turn it off."
A. Of course I need the stuff in my car, but apparently I can't get it, so why bother to even ask, other than to torture me and
B. What do you mean the alarm will go off?!!? You mean that would have happened to me at the park? Perhaps that is a little detail you should tell people when they buy the car? "Oh, don't ever use your key because that will cause the alarm so sound, deafening you and everyone else within a twelve block radius, but the upside is, there is no way to stop it."
As we walked by the car on the way out, it suddenly unlocked. Beep.
We looked at each other, startled, then tried a handle again. Beep, beep.
"Are you sure you don't have the other key?" the guy asked me.
Suddenly, it came to me, a hazy memory of dropping a key in my purse the previous week.
Oops. My bad. Chagrined, I reached into my purse and pulled out the key. Apparently, they key only locks the car from outside, not from in the trunk, and the key I thought was for my car was actually for Tim's.
"Maybe you could put a colored sticker on the keys to tell them apart," the car guy suggested, somehow managing not to laugh outright in my face.
Meanwhile, I was busy trying to figure out how I could blame the whole thing on Tim and wondering where I was going to get my car serviced from now on.
Showing posts with label technology. Show all posts
Showing posts with label technology. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
A Little Bit of Knowledge
Two years ago, my dad wanted an iphone. Okay, so he was dragged kicking and screaming into the store after his phone died and they told him that they had stopped making that model at about the same time the mullet went out of style.
Now as far as him being technologically saavy enough to actually use the iphone? Hmmm. How can I put this delicately? He was still balancing his checkbook with an abacus and using a dictionary from 1942 to look up the definition of "internet".
Needless to say, we were all a bit worried. He surprised us though by actually becoming fairly proficient on the device. And by that I mean he could make and receive calls and play Angry Birds. Eventually, he could even get on the internet. Sometimes.
Encouraged by his foray into the 21st century, we bought him a basic model ipad last year.
Suddenly, a whole new world opened up to him. Did you know you can get books to read? And there are weather apps and news app and you can watch the episodes of Desperate Housewives that you missed because you were watching the Food Network instead?
The biggest revelation though was that he could get email! Of course, the man didn't actually have a valid email account, but hey, that was just a minor detail.
I believe my mom was more excited about the whole email thing because up until then, she had been the sole point of contact with the outside world. I think the pressure of that awesome responsibility was starting to make her a bit cranky, as evidenced by small things she would occasionally let slip, like, for example, rapping my father over the head with rolled-up printouts while yelling, "Learn to print your own D**M emails!" But maybe not. I might have misread the clues.
Anyway, over the past year, a whole world opened up to my father. He became king of the free apps, arbiter of all discussions, source of all knowledge and grand-slam champion of Angry Birds and Paper Toss. He was Judge Judy, Einstein and Jeopardy champion Ken Jennings all rolled into one!
What time did my sister's flight land? Free flight Tracker app.
What 52nd rerun of CSI (Miami, NY, LA, East Podunk, is there a difference?) was on next Tuesday opposite the encore presentation of Mama Mia? Free TV Guide app, of course.
Who was the actress that played a hatcheck girl for three seconds of screen time in that 1934 movie starring those two actors that only ever made one movie He was on it with the free IMDB app.
No topic was safe. He was faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap to conclusions with a single swipe of his finger. He was free app man!
Now, my mother was smacking us on the head for getting him hooked on a device that had essentially become another appendage. "He's a couch potato," she complained. "I can't get him to go anywhere now." Yeah. And before the ipad, he was just begging to go to the symphony with you or shoe shopping.
Naturally, being the caring, concerned, dutiful children we are, after listening to her for the past year, we decided there was only one thing to do in order to help her out...upgrade my dad to the new ipad and give his old one to her!
Now, we did have to pry it out of his hands long enough to transfer all of his free apps over to the new one. And it was touch and go for most of the operation whether he would survive with his sanity intact or end up in Bedlam.
"Are you sure all the apps will transfer?" he asked for the 97th time on his 4,363rd trip into the room.
"Are you certain all my photos will be there?" he leaned over my shoulder for the 8 millionth time.
"Will I still have all my books?" he questioned, as he wore a trench in the floor pacing back and forth.
"Yes, yes, and yes. Geez, were you this much of a wreck with mom when I was being born?"
"Huh? What?" His fingers curled and uncurled subconsciously with the effort it took not to rip his beloved ipad from me and carry it off to the safety of his room. "Um. Yeah. Yeah. Sure. You're more important to me than an ipad," he mumbled, never taking his eyes off the screen."
Riiiight.
Finally though, the transfer was complete, and the man who, just a short time earlier hadn't known that safari wasn't just a trip in Africa was now teaching my mother how to navigate "app world".
"Sometimes she messes things up on it," he confided in me, "but don't worry. I get her all straightened out because I know all about how the ipad works."
And my mother? Oh yeah. She's also a couch potato. Hehehe.
Now as far as him being technologically saavy enough to actually use the iphone? Hmmm. How can I put this delicately? He was still balancing his checkbook with an abacus and using a dictionary from 1942 to look up the definition of "internet".
Needless to say, we were all a bit worried. He surprised us though by actually becoming fairly proficient on the device. And by that I mean he could make and receive calls and play Angry Birds. Eventually, he could even get on the internet. Sometimes.
Encouraged by his foray into the 21st century, we bought him a basic model ipad last year.
Suddenly, a whole new world opened up to him. Did you know you can get books to read? And there are weather apps and news app and you can watch the episodes of Desperate Housewives that you missed because you were watching the Food Network instead?
The biggest revelation though was that he could get email! Of course, the man didn't actually have a valid email account, but hey, that was just a minor detail.
I believe my mom was more excited about the whole email thing because up until then, she had been the sole point of contact with the outside world. I think the pressure of that awesome responsibility was starting to make her a bit cranky, as evidenced by small things she would occasionally let slip, like, for example, rapping my father over the head with rolled-up printouts while yelling, "Learn to print your own D**M emails!" But maybe not. I might have misread the clues.
Anyway, over the past year, a whole world opened up to my father. He became king of the free apps, arbiter of all discussions, source of all knowledge and grand-slam champion of Angry Birds and Paper Toss. He was Judge Judy, Einstein and Jeopardy champion Ken Jennings all rolled into one!
What time did my sister's flight land? Free flight Tracker app.
What 52nd rerun of CSI (Miami, NY, LA, East Podunk, is there a difference?) was on next Tuesday opposite the encore presentation of Mama Mia? Free TV Guide app, of course.
Who was the actress that played a hatcheck girl for three seconds of screen time in that 1934 movie starring those two actors that only ever made one movie He was on it with the free IMDB app.
No topic was safe. He was faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap to conclusions with a single swipe of his finger. He was free app man!
Now, my mother was smacking us on the head for getting him hooked on a device that had essentially become another appendage. "He's a couch potato," she complained. "I can't get him to go anywhere now." Yeah. And before the ipad, he was just begging to go to the symphony with you or shoe shopping.
Naturally, being the caring, concerned, dutiful children we are, after listening to her for the past year, we decided there was only one thing to do in order to help her out...upgrade my dad to the new ipad and give his old one to her!
Now, we did have to pry it out of his hands long enough to transfer all of his free apps over to the new one. And it was touch and go for most of the operation whether he would survive with his sanity intact or end up in Bedlam.
"Are you sure all the apps will transfer?" he asked for the 97th time on his 4,363rd trip into the room.
"Are you certain all my photos will be there?" he leaned over my shoulder for the 8 millionth time.
"Will I still have all my books?" he questioned, as he wore a trench in the floor pacing back and forth.
"Yes, yes, and yes. Geez, were you this much of a wreck with mom when I was being born?"
"Huh? What?" His fingers curled and uncurled subconsciously with the effort it took not to rip his beloved ipad from me and carry it off to the safety of his room. "Um. Yeah. Yeah. Sure. You're more important to me than an ipad," he mumbled, never taking his eyes off the screen."
Riiiight.
Finally though, the transfer was complete, and the man who, just a short time earlier hadn't known that safari wasn't just a trip in Africa was now teaching my mother how to navigate "app world".
"Sometimes she messes things up on it," he confided in me, "but don't worry. I get her all straightened out because I know all about how the ipad works."
And my mother? Oh yeah. She's also a couch potato. Hehehe.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
...Again
It's true. Machines hate me. Near as I can figure, there must be some sort of networking site they are all hooked into that allows them to trade info on me and figure out how to make my life more difficult.
The latest machine to join forces with all the other evil machines in my life is the self-checkout counter at Home Depot.
The other day, I ran in to pick up three items. Three lousy little items. Naturally, they only had two check-out lanes open, both of which had lines that extended into the next state. Par for the course.
Why they even put in more than two or three lanes, I'll never know, because that's all that are ever open. Do they really think that taunting people who are holding hammers, saws and other assorted lethal tools with closed lanes is the smart thing to do?
Miraculously, the self-checkout lane seemed to be moving at a turtle's pace instead of a snail's, so I got in that line. Faster than you can recite volumes one to six of the Encyclopedia Britannica, I was at one of the machines swiping my first item. Beep. Into the bag it went. Second item. Beep. Also, into the bag. Third item. Beep. Onto the counter it went since the box was too big to bag.
And there is where the big 'ole fly landed smack in the ointment. The payment machine registered the item, but the large screen did not and the voice kept telling me to place the item back on the scanner.
Great. Dueling machines. Now they were no longer content to come after me one at a time. They were tag-teaming me.
I looked around for help from a store employee that did not have a computer chip running them. Several minutes of frantically waving my arms as though I were guiding a 747 in for a landing on aisle four finally attracted the attention of an employee who came over to see what the fuss was about.
"You didn't scan the last item," she explained patiently.
I pointed to the machine which indicated I had. She pointed to the checkout screen which said I hadn't.
Again, I pointed to the machine which said I had. Hey lady, just so you know, I can do this for quite a while before my arm gets tired. But something about the way I was baring my teeth at her must have made her rethink the whole competition thing, and she took out a passkey, scanned it, pushed some buttons, and indicated I should try...again.
There. That was all I wanted. Now was that so hard? I may not have said the words aloud, but she knew what I was thinking.
As she tried to make good on her escape, I scanned the item again, and...once again, it showed up on the payment screen, but not on the checkout screen. Boy, good thing I got help, otherwise I might be here all day. This time, I was less subtle in my request for help. I believe they heard me over in the next county.
Passkey in hand, the same woman came back...again, and repeated the totally useless steps she had already executed and...surprise! They didn't work...again.
Hey, maybe we should repeat the pointing exercises all over again too. They didn't work the first time, but, who knows, maybe twice is the charm.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that the self-checkout line now rivaled the line for Space Mountain at Disneyland, and, added bonus, it was all men who were thinking, "Dumb woman. She should have stayed in aisle two where she belongs and leave the technical stuff to the guys."
As they sighed and shifted from one foot to another, I did my best to place the blame where it belonged...on the demon machine.
"What's that?" I bellowed. "It's broken...again?"
Something about the way they rolled their eyes told me they weren't buying it.
"Swipe your card," the woman advised me, clearly at a loss for what to do next.
I knew in my heart of hearts that it wouldn't work, but I humored her anyway and swiped my card.
No reaction from the monster machine, so she swiped her card...again. This time, I actually think I heard satanic laughter coming from the machine.
"It's frozen," she deduced when nothing changed...again.
No. Really? I never would have guessed by the way the screens haven't changed in the last...hmmm...let's see...hour! Now for the million dollar question. Can you unfreeze it or not? She surrendered without even trying to swipe her card again and advised me to try another line.
Another quick glance at the line of men waiting for the self-checkout machines told me to not even suggest just moving to another machine. I think I saw a few of them fashioning nooses and fingering axe blades as though warning me what would happen if I even looked like I was contemplating such a move.
Shooting the devilish machine one last malevolent look, I headed for another line. I was so over the whole self-checkout thing...again.
As if someone knew I was skating on the edge, they suddenly opened another lane and I quickly got into it since it was the shortest one and only wrapped around the building six or seven times.
When I finally got there though, I had to hold my breath that things would go smoothly since I would have to deal with the same woman that hadn't been able to help me with the self-checkout ...again!
The latest machine to join forces with all the other evil machines in my life is the self-checkout counter at Home Depot.
The other day, I ran in to pick up three items. Three lousy little items. Naturally, they only had two check-out lanes open, both of which had lines that extended into the next state. Par for the course.
Why they even put in more than two or three lanes, I'll never know, because that's all that are ever open. Do they really think that taunting people who are holding hammers, saws and other assorted lethal tools with closed lanes is the smart thing to do?
Miraculously, the self-checkout lane seemed to be moving at a turtle's pace instead of a snail's, so I got in that line. Faster than you can recite volumes one to six of the Encyclopedia Britannica, I was at one of the machines swiping my first item. Beep. Into the bag it went. Second item. Beep. Also, into the bag. Third item. Beep. Onto the counter it went since the box was too big to bag.
And there is where the big 'ole fly landed smack in the ointment. The payment machine registered the item, but the large screen did not and the voice kept telling me to place the item back on the scanner.
Great. Dueling machines. Now they were no longer content to come after me one at a time. They were tag-teaming me.
I looked around for help from a store employee that did not have a computer chip running them. Several minutes of frantically waving my arms as though I were guiding a 747 in for a landing on aisle four finally attracted the attention of an employee who came over to see what the fuss was about.
"You didn't scan the last item," she explained patiently.
I pointed to the machine which indicated I had. She pointed to the checkout screen which said I hadn't.
Again, I pointed to the machine which said I had. Hey lady, just so you know, I can do this for quite a while before my arm gets tired. But something about the way I was baring my teeth at her must have made her rethink the whole competition thing, and she took out a passkey, scanned it, pushed some buttons, and indicated I should try...again.
There. That was all I wanted. Now was that so hard? I may not have said the words aloud, but she knew what I was thinking.
As she tried to make good on her escape, I scanned the item again, and...once again, it showed up on the payment screen, but not on the checkout screen. Boy, good thing I got help, otherwise I might be here all day. This time, I was less subtle in my request for help. I believe they heard me over in the next county.
Passkey in hand, the same woman came back...again, and repeated the totally useless steps she had already executed and...surprise! They didn't work...again.
Hey, maybe we should repeat the pointing exercises all over again too. They didn't work the first time, but, who knows, maybe twice is the charm.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that the self-checkout line now rivaled the line for Space Mountain at Disneyland, and, added bonus, it was all men who were thinking, "Dumb woman. She should have stayed in aisle two where she belongs and leave the technical stuff to the guys."
As they sighed and shifted from one foot to another, I did my best to place the blame where it belonged...on the demon machine.
"What's that?" I bellowed. "It's broken...again?"
Something about the way they rolled their eyes told me they weren't buying it.
"Swipe your card," the woman advised me, clearly at a loss for what to do next.
I knew in my heart of hearts that it wouldn't work, but I humored her anyway and swiped my card.
No reaction from the monster machine, so she swiped her card...again. This time, I actually think I heard satanic laughter coming from the machine.
"It's frozen," she deduced when nothing changed...again.
No. Really? I never would have guessed by the way the screens haven't changed in the last...hmmm...let's see...hour! Now for the million dollar question. Can you unfreeze it or not? She surrendered without even trying to swipe her card again and advised me to try another line.
Another quick glance at the line of men waiting for the self-checkout machines told me to not even suggest just moving to another machine. I think I saw a few of them fashioning nooses and fingering axe blades as though warning me what would happen if I even looked like I was contemplating such a move.
Shooting the devilish machine one last malevolent look, I headed for another line. I was so over the whole self-checkout thing...again.
As if someone knew I was skating on the edge, they suddenly opened another lane and I quickly got into it since it was the shortest one and only wrapped around the building six or seven times.
When I finally got there though, I had to hold my breath that things would go smoothly since I would have to deal with the same woman that hadn't been able to help me with the self-checkout ...again!
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Three Times is the Charm
My ipod nano died last week, so I decided to upgrade to the itouch and have some fun. Apple seemed to think I needed exercise instead.
Monday, I went to the store, which was, as usual, jammed. First, I talked to somebody in an orange shirt, but they told me I needed to register with somebody in a blue shirt, who told me he would have somebody in an orange shirt help me.
Okay, since I was already talking to an orange guy, why did I need the blue guy again? Gee, I remember the good old days when you could walk into a store and get help from anyone regardless of the color shirt they were wearing.
But, I followed protocol and was assigned an orange guy, only not the original orange guy who had led me to the blue guy. Oh no, another orange guy who had to come from across the store. (Was it something I said?)
I explained to new orange guy that I wanted the itouch and a case. Did they have one with a clip?
He shook his head regretfully as he led me over to an entire wall filled with nothing but cases and told me no.
No? Seriously, you have, hmmm, let's see, one, two, three...six million different cases here and not one for the itouch with a clip? It never occurred to anyone that like every other ipod in here, someone, somewhere, someday, might want to attach their itouch to them?
"Well, you could put it in your pocket," he offered helpfully.
Wow. My pocket. And how many engineers did it take to come up with that solution? I continued to scan the endless collection of cases, sure that this guy just had to be wrong, as I threw a withering glance in his direction.
"What about this one?" I asked, tapping a leather case.
"No, that's only for the iphone."
"Okay, how about this one?" I pointed to another likely candidate.
"That's for the old itouch. You have the new one, but here's the one I use," he volunteered, handing me a silicone sleeve. "I love it."
Yeah, because you have pockets. Accepting defeat, I took his suggestion, purchased my itouch and left, shaking my head in disbelief.
The next morning, after charging my new toy, I successfully downloaded my music, but couldn't download my photos.
Time and time again, my new touch told me it was "syncing", but failed to do so. I tried resetting, I clicked on every possible option and button they offered. I even tried to download the new 2.2.1 program they told me I needed. Nothing. Nada. Zip.
I looked online for help. I watched tutorials. Still nothing. Nada. Zip. But I now knew more about the itouch than I ever wanted to, and frankly, I'm a little bit worried that I may have had to get rid of some vital information, like the names of the top ten finalists on American Idol to make room for all that new information.
Gritting my teeth over the pain I knew it would cause me, I turned to my final resort...the helpline.
Miracle of miracles though, the Apple helpline was...helpful. Within a few minutes, the woman was able to tell me that Mr. orange guy had sold me an ipod that not only had some problems, but that it didn't even have the latest programs installed. She made me an appointment for that afternoon and suggested I return it for a new one. Done.
So once again, I trudged back to the mall and fought my way through the crowd to the help desk, where a blue girl told me I needed to check in with an orange girl with a laptop in order to be sent back to the help desk where somebody blue would help me. Arrrrrgh! And what color shirt should I see for the newvous breakdown I am about to have?
Within a relatively short period of time though, I had my new "updated" ipod and was about to be happily on my way when blue girl told me that my case was not designed for that model touch and I would be unable to use earphones with it. Arrrgh and Grrrr!!!!
Did I still have the box? Yes? Good, then just bring it back and exchange it. I began scoping out the store looking for the orange guy from the day before, but luck was on his side and he wasn't there. I had thought of a new place for his ipod besides in his pocket and wanted to share it with him.
And so, back I went on the third day to exchange my case. This time, I bypassed the orange, the blue and the help desk and went straight to the case wall on my own. After searching for a while(let's just say I was thinking of changing my name to Rip Van Winkle when I was done), I finally saw what I was looking for...the Holy Grail...an itouch case for my generation itouch with.....wonder of wonders, a clip!
Hah! Take that, orange people.
I seized the next person I came across and, refusing to buy into their colored shirt fixation, shoved my receipt under their nose. I told them I was exchanging one case for another and gave them the evil eye when it looked like they might try and palm me off on another "color". Fortunately for them, they backed down and quickly made the exchange.
As I left with my new itouch snuggled into it's new clip case, I paused to wipe a tear from my eye, sad that I would have no reason to visit for a fourth day in a row.
Monday, I went to the store, which was, as usual, jammed. First, I talked to somebody in an orange shirt, but they told me I needed to register with somebody in a blue shirt, who told me he would have somebody in an orange shirt help me.
Okay, since I was already talking to an orange guy, why did I need the blue guy again? Gee, I remember the good old days when you could walk into a store and get help from anyone regardless of the color shirt they were wearing.
But, I followed protocol and was assigned an orange guy, only not the original orange guy who had led me to the blue guy. Oh no, another orange guy who had to come from across the store. (Was it something I said?)
I explained to new orange guy that I wanted the itouch and a case. Did they have one with a clip?
He shook his head regretfully as he led me over to an entire wall filled with nothing but cases and told me no.
No? Seriously, you have, hmmm, let's see, one, two, three...six million different cases here and not one for the itouch with a clip? It never occurred to anyone that like every other ipod in here, someone, somewhere, someday, might want to attach their itouch to them?
"Well, you could put it in your pocket," he offered helpfully.
Wow. My pocket. And how many engineers did it take to come up with that solution? I continued to scan the endless collection of cases, sure that this guy just had to be wrong, as I threw a withering glance in his direction.
"What about this one?" I asked, tapping a leather case.
"No, that's only for the iphone."
"Okay, how about this one?" I pointed to another likely candidate.
"That's for the old itouch. You have the new one, but here's the one I use," he volunteered, handing me a silicone sleeve. "I love it."
Yeah, because you have pockets. Accepting defeat, I took his suggestion, purchased my itouch and left, shaking my head in disbelief.
The next morning, after charging my new toy, I successfully downloaded my music, but couldn't download my photos.
Time and time again, my new touch told me it was "syncing", but failed to do so. I tried resetting, I clicked on every possible option and button they offered. I even tried to download the new 2.2.1 program they told me I needed. Nothing. Nada. Zip.
I looked online for help. I watched tutorials. Still nothing. Nada. Zip. But I now knew more about the itouch than I ever wanted to, and frankly, I'm a little bit worried that I may have had to get rid of some vital information, like the names of the top ten finalists on American Idol to make room for all that new information.
Gritting my teeth over the pain I knew it would cause me, I turned to my final resort...the helpline.
Miracle of miracles though, the Apple helpline was...helpful. Within a few minutes, the woman was able to tell me that Mr. orange guy had sold me an ipod that not only had some problems, but that it didn't even have the latest programs installed. She made me an appointment for that afternoon and suggested I return it for a new one. Done.
So once again, I trudged back to the mall and fought my way through the crowd to the help desk, where a blue girl told me I needed to check in with an orange girl with a laptop in order to be sent back to the help desk where somebody blue would help me. Arrrrrgh! And what color shirt should I see for the newvous breakdown I am about to have?
Within a relatively short period of time though, I had my new "updated" ipod and was about to be happily on my way when blue girl told me that my case was not designed for that model touch and I would be unable to use earphones with it. Arrrgh and Grrrr!!!!
Did I still have the box? Yes? Good, then just bring it back and exchange it. I began scoping out the store looking for the orange guy from the day before, but luck was on his side and he wasn't there. I had thought of a new place for his ipod besides in his pocket and wanted to share it with him.
And so, back I went on the third day to exchange my case. This time, I bypassed the orange, the blue and the help desk and went straight to the case wall on my own. After searching for a while(let's just say I was thinking of changing my name to Rip Van Winkle when I was done), I finally saw what I was looking for...the Holy Grail...an itouch case for my generation itouch with.....wonder of wonders, a clip!
Hah! Take that, orange people.
I seized the next person I came across and, refusing to buy into their colored shirt fixation, shoved my receipt under their nose. I told them I was exchanging one case for another and gave them the evil eye when it looked like they might try and palm me off on another "color". Fortunately for them, they backed down and quickly made the exchange.
As I left with my new itouch snuggled into it's new clip case, I paused to wipe a tear from my eye, sad that I would have no reason to visit for a fourth day in a row.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From the Tree
My sister, Pat, always says I am technologically challenged. That my be so, but I come by it honestly. My parents both have issues with technology too.
Case in point: my mom and her ipod.
Now, generally speaking, my mom is usually pretty savvy with anything that makes music. She uses her computer to scan, do arrangements, burn CDs and even compose her own music. She had Bose speakers before Hammacher even suggested to Schlemmer that they put it in their catalogue. But the ipod is her Waterloo.
When she first got one, she insisted I download my entire library, including things like Meatloaf's Bat Out of Hell and Rocky Horror Picture Show . Okay, can't imagine those songs making her "most frequently played" list, but, whatever.
Throughout the next few months though, she'd casually toss out comments like: love that Bohemian Rhapsody or Tim Curry still sounds the same in Spamalot as he did in Rocky Horror.
Surprised, I finally asked her how often she listened to those songs.
"Oh, whenever they come on," she replied blithely.
But they don't just come on. You have to choose them. I kind of thought you'd be sticking more to the 1940's stuff or classical or tenors playlists.
"I hear those too...in between."
Huh?
"Well, I use my ipod when I walk or when we have a dinner party, and since I don't want a playlist to run out, I just put it on shuffle."
Mouth agape, I could only stare at her as I tried to block images of her 70 and 80 year old friends rocking out to "I'm Just a Sweet Transvestite" or "Paradise by the Dashboard Light".
Patiently, I explained that the standards playlist was 9 1/2 hours long and that if either her walks or her parties were running that long, she seriously needed to : A. consider signing up for a marathon and B. finding some new friends who didn't have quite so much time on their hands.
I showed her again how to select a playlist, but as far as I know, she is still hitting the "shuffle all" and a whole new generation is learning the words to "The Internet is for Porn" from Avenue Q.
Second case in point: my dad and voicemail.
My dad has had a cell phone for years. He has his address book and contacts, he accesses his voicemail, no problem. Get rid of the answering machine at home and replace it with voicemail from the carrier? Big problem.
The first day they connected the new line down in Florida, I took him through how to access his messages: see, just like with the answering machine, if the light is blinking, it means you have a message. You press star and 99 and enter your code and Voila! there are your messages. From outside the condo, you call the number and press * when you hear the message. Simple.
Yeah, for the first five minutes. AT&T called to say the phone was working and somehow the guys cell number got mistaken for the condo number. He wasn't the only one confused when he was called to see what the messages were. Of course, my father had already called my brother to give him this wrong number too, so for all I know, my brother and this guy have developed a relationship by now.
Then, the phone service went out. My dad called and they told him it would be a few days before they could fix it (hmmm, where have I heard that before). He called to tell me that since he couldn't get his voicemails, everyone would have to call him on his cell.
Once again, I tried to explain the concept of voicemail, and that he could still access it from his cell phone and that, yes, his messages would still be there.
"Oh, okay."
Yeah, now try saying that like you've understood at least a portion of what I just said. Think of it as having the machine at the phone company. Even if your actual phone doesn't work, the machine still does.
"Yeah. Okay. Got it. Doesn't matter too much anyway because your mother and I are going away for the weekend, so we won't be using the phone there."
But you can still get any voicemails. Right?
"Yeah. Uh, right."
The next day, he called me from the road to tell me that the AT&T had called him and the phone was working again. The bad news was that when he tried to access his voicemail, it didn't work. The guy must have screwed something up when he worked on the line. If I needed them, call his cell, not the condo.
Okay, so many things wrong with that. A. why would I call the condo when I know you are not there? and B. the voicemail and the line are two separate things. We went over this, remember?
"Well, I couldn't have dialed the wrong number, because I have it programmed into my phone."
I hung up and called to test it....and got the voicemail.
So Pat, yes, I may have issues, but I was doomed from the start. I never had a chance because I got it from both sides. As they say, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. And since Mike seems to be fairly challenged as well, I guess that means you are the milkman's daughter!
Case in point: my mom and her ipod.
Now, generally speaking, my mom is usually pretty savvy with anything that makes music. She uses her computer to scan, do arrangements, burn CDs and even compose her own music. She had Bose speakers before Hammacher even suggested to Schlemmer that they put it in their catalogue. But the ipod is her Waterloo.
When she first got one, she insisted I download my entire library, including things like Meatloaf's Bat Out of Hell and Rocky Horror Picture Show . Okay, can't imagine those songs making her "most frequently played" list, but, whatever.
Throughout the next few months though, she'd casually toss out comments like: love that Bohemian Rhapsody or Tim Curry still sounds the same in Spamalot as he did in Rocky Horror.
Surprised, I finally asked her how often she listened to those songs.
"Oh, whenever they come on," she replied blithely.
But they don't just come on. You have to choose them. I kind of thought you'd be sticking more to the 1940's stuff or classical or tenors playlists.
"I hear those too...in between."
Huh?
"Well, I use my ipod when I walk or when we have a dinner party, and since I don't want a playlist to run out, I just put it on shuffle."
Mouth agape, I could only stare at her as I tried to block images of her 70 and 80 year old friends rocking out to "I'm Just a Sweet Transvestite" or "Paradise by the Dashboard Light".
Patiently, I explained that the standards playlist was 9 1/2 hours long and that if either her walks or her parties were running that long, she seriously needed to : A. consider signing up for a marathon and B. finding some new friends who didn't have quite so much time on their hands.
I showed her again how to select a playlist, but as far as I know, she is still hitting the "shuffle all" and a whole new generation is learning the words to "The Internet is for Porn" from Avenue Q.
Second case in point: my dad and voicemail.
My dad has had a cell phone for years. He has his address book and contacts, he accesses his voicemail, no problem. Get rid of the answering machine at home and replace it with voicemail from the carrier? Big problem.
The first day they connected the new line down in Florida, I took him through how to access his messages: see, just like with the answering machine, if the light is blinking, it means you have a message. You press star and 99 and enter your code and Voila! there are your messages. From outside the condo, you call the number and press * when you hear the message. Simple.
Yeah, for the first five minutes. AT&T called to say the phone was working and somehow the guys cell number got mistaken for the condo number. He wasn't the only one confused when he was called to see what the messages were. Of course, my father had already called my brother to give him this wrong number too, so for all I know, my brother and this guy have developed a relationship by now.
Then, the phone service went out. My dad called and they told him it would be a few days before they could fix it (hmmm, where have I heard that before). He called to tell me that since he couldn't get his voicemails, everyone would have to call him on his cell.
Once again, I tried to explain the concept of voicemail, and that he could still access it from his cell phone and that, yes, his messages would still be there.
"Oh, okay."
Yeah, now try saying that like you've understood at least a portion of what I just said. Think of it as having the machine at the phone company. Even if your actual phone doesn't work, the machine still does.
"Yeah. Okay. Got it. Doesn't matter too much anyway because your mother and I are going away for the weekend, so we won't be using the phone there."
But you can still get any voicemails. Right?
"Yeah. Uh, right."
The next day, he called me from the road to tell me that the AT&T had called him and the phone was working again. The bad news was that when he tried to access his voicemail, it didn't work. The guy must have screwed something up when he worked on the line. If I needed them, call his cell, not the condo.
Okay, so many things wrong with that. A. why would I call the condo when I know you are not there? and B. the voicemail and the line are two separate things. We went over this, remember?
"Well, I couldn't have dialed the wrong number, because I have it programmed into my phone."
I hung up and called to test it....and got the voicemail.
So Pat, yes, I may have issues, but I was doomed from the start. I never had a chance because I got it from both sides. As they say, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. And since Mike seems to be fairly challenged as well, I guess that means you are the milkman's daughter!
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
When Good Technology Goes Bad
This past weekend, we had friends from out of town come visit, bringing their eighteen month old daughter with them who loves chocolate and musicals starring Julie Andrews (well, Sound of Music and Mary Poppins . For some reason, I think they want to wait a few years before exposing her to Victoria/Victoria and having to explain cross-dressing and homosexuality -- go figure.)
Thrilled to have someone who shares my main passions in life (although I do need to work on her to expand her repertoire to include Danny Kaye), I prepared for the visit by stocking up on several forms of chocolate and dusting off my Mary Poppins DVD.
Sure enough, within two hours of hitting the door, the request was made to watch "Mary"(at a year and a half, she rules the world with about four basic words: Mama, Daddy, No and Mary. She knows more, but combined with a smile, these generally get her pretty much everything she wants).
Since I was up to my elbows in spaghetti and meatballs, I assigned Tim the honor of popping "Mary" into the DVD player--big mistake.
After insisting on putting in a fairly complex and rarely working sound system two years ago, Tim has learned precisely four things: TV on, TV off, change channel, and increase volume (like the baby, he finds these four are adequate to rule his world).
Tuner? CD? DVD? Cable goes off? That's what I am here for. The panic that fills his eyes when I travel without him was touching until I realized it was the thought of being without CNN for five minutes that motivated it.
After trying to play the DVD through the (apparently) CD only sound system, he eventually found the DVD player...but it wouldn't open. It wouldn't even turn on, despite the green light on the front (I guess green for the people at Yamaha doesn't mean go).
Many buttons were pressed in many different combinations. Many curses were bitten off with many different grunts and groans. All to the accompaniment of the baby carefully enunciating "Mary" and pointing to the TV screen as though Tim was a bit on the slow side and needed some extra help (Hmmm.)
With remarkable calm (for him), Tim abandoned our fabulous, high-tech surround sound system and settled for playing "Mary" on his laptop...which worked fine for the first ten minutes, then it started freezing and skipping. One minute Mary was floating in to save the day, the next, she was mixing up a batch of rum punch (Let's see that on The Nanny show).
Hoping it wasn't the DVD itself, we moved on to Tim's old portable DVD player, but that was broken (now I remember why it is his old DVD player), and wouldn't even turn on properly.
The poor child was by now surely thinking to herself, "I've landed in a house of dummies. Mom and Dad can do this with one hand tied behind their back," as she patiently repeated "Mary" and watched the opening sequence eighteen times on progressively smaller screens. (At one point, I was sure she was trying to spell it to see if that might help. I distinctly heard her singing the ABC song under her breath).
Our fourth (and thankfully final) attempt was made with Tim's new DVD player (which he had never opened and so it naturally needed charging).
At last though, "Mary" was up and running (and by now, we all knew "Spoonful of Sugar" backwards, forwards and upside down).
The baby settled down very happily for the next hour and a half, although I'm certain I saw her throw several pitying glances our way and look wistfully at the big, dark TV screen.
Thrilled to have someone who shares my main passions in life (although I do need to work on her to expand her repertoire to include Danny Kaye), I prepared for the visit by stocking up on several forms of chocolate and dusting off my Mary Poppins DVD.
Sure enough, within two hours of hitting the door, the request was made to watch "Mary"(at a year and a half, she rules the world with about four basic words: Mama, Daddy, No and Mary. She knows more, but combined with a smile, these generally get her pretty much everything she wants).
Since I was up to my elbows in spaghetti and meatballs, I assigned Tim the honor of popping "Mary" into the DVD player--big mistake.
After insisting on putting in a fairly complex and rarely working sound system two years ago, Tim has learned precisely four things: TV on, TV off, change channel, and increase volume (like the baby, he finds these four are adequate to rule his world).
Tuner? CD? DVD? Cable goes off? That's what I am here for. The panic that fills his eyes when I travel without him was touching until I realized it was the thought of being without CNN for five minutes that motivated it.
After trying to play the DVD through the (apparently) CD only sound system, he eventually found the DVD player...but it wouldn't open. It wouldn't even turn on, despite the green light on the front (I guess green for the people at Yamaha doesn't mean go).
Many buttons were pressed in many different combinations. Many curses were bitten off with many different grunts and groans. All to the accompaniment of the baby carefully enunciating "Mary" and pointing to the TV screen as though Tim was a bit on the slow side and needed some extra help (Hmmm.)
With remarkable calm (for him), Tim abandoned our fabulous, high-tech surround sound system and settled for playing "Mary" on his laptop...which worked fine for the first ten minutes, then it started freezing and skipping. One minute Mary was floating in to save the day, the next, she was mixing up a batch of rum punch (Let's see that on The Nanny show).
Hoping it wasn't the DVD itself, we moved on to Tim's old portable DVD player, but that was broken (now I remember why it is his old DVD player), and wouldn't even turn on properly.
The poor child was by now surely thinking to herself, "I've landed in a house of dummies. Mom and Dad can do this with one hand tied behind their back," as she patiently repeated "Mary" and watched the opening sequence eighteen times on progressively smaller screens. (At one point, I was sure she was trying to spell it to see if that might help. I distinctly heard her singing the ABC song under her breath).
Our fourth (and thankfully final) attempt was made with Tim's new DVD player (which he had never opened and so it naturally needed charging).
At last though, "Mary" was up and running (and by now, we all knew "Spoonful of Sugar" backwards, forwards and upside down).
The baby settled down very happily for the next hour and a half, although I'm certain I saw her throw several pitying glances our way and look wistfully at the big, dark TV screen.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Assault of the Batteries
This week, my parents came to visit for a few days. Since Tim's birthday was yesterday, and my mom's is the second week in December, it was the perfect time to go shopping.
First up, my mom. Her old ipod's battery (first generation) recently died, so we went to the Apple store to upgrade her to something a little more current: the itouch, which is kind of like going from the Model T to a spaceship.
After the sales staff finished laughing themselves silly at her old ipod, and it was packed off to the Smithsonian to sit next to the T-rex, we took her new one home to charge it before I downloaded her music onto it.
Less then two hours later, it was fully charged according to the giant picture of the battery on the screen, but it wouldn't work. At all. It just kept taunting us with the full battery symbol.
I pushed every button (actually, there are only two, but I pushed them many, many, many times in every possible combination.) Nothing. Then my father tried every possible combination. Still nothing. (I grabbed it before my mother could go through the same useless ritual, since I was already on my last nerve and my Valium supply was low.) I even hooked it up to my computer and tried to sync it, hoping I could fool it into actually working. Once again, nothing.
I got on the Apple website and found the same picture listed there (Yeah. That was a huge help. It told me that it was fully charged and to sync it with my computer. Well, duh!), but no explanation of what to do to move on. In other words...nothing.
I tried calling the Applecare helpline, but my cordless phone battery died before I got to speak to a live person. (Great. One device fully charged, one that can't hold a charge, and they are teamed up against me. I soooo love modern technology.)
Long story short (not really, since I am already planning another blog with the whole agonizing ipod story), I ended up going back to the store.
Meanwhile, back at the mall, I had bought Tim a digital camera for his birthday, along with two rechargeable batteries and a charger which we had also plugged in to charge (the kitchen counter was beginning to look like a Radio Shack display case at this point). Excitedly, we watched the charger light up, indicating higher and higher percents of the full charge (we obviously don't get out much if we considered this our evening's entertainment. For New Year's Eve, we might go really crazy and plug in a couple of cell phones to see which one has more bars after an hour:) ).
Anyway, we did manage to tear ourselves away from this fascinating and mysterious display long enough to go have dinner (and a trip to the Apple store), and when we returned...magic! The solid light on the charger indicated a full battery. Popping it into the camera, we turned the camera on and...nothing! We were now two for two. We popped it back into the charger, just to check and see if we had misread the symbol. Nope. Full battery.
Since we didn't know at this point whether it was the battery or the charger at fault (it couldn't possibly be us), we opened the second battery and began to (hopefully) charge it. Two hours, and much cursing later, we had another fully charged battery (maybe). With bated breath, we popped it into the camera and...success at last! Well, one out of three wasn't so bad.
Feeling much abused by all the new battery operated devices from Hell, I finally tumbled into bed somewhere near midnight. Tiredly, I reached for my alarm clock to turn it on. But wait. Something was wrong. It was not 3:30 in the morning, and the year was definitely not 1999. Picking up the clock, I discovered, upon further inspection that it hadn't been Tim trying to mess with me that had screwed up my alarm clock (so I put down the pillow I was planning on beating him with). It was just that the clock had...you guessed it...a low battery! (I swear you can't make this stuff up!)
Needless to say, next year, I am giving them both something that does not require batteries. I can't think of what that might be, but I have a whole year to figure it out.
First up, my mom. Her old ipod's battery (first generation) recently died, so we went to the Apple store to upgrade her to something a little more current: the itouch, which is kind of like going from the Model T to a spaceship.
After the sales staff finished laughing themselves silly at her old ipod, and it was packed off to the Smithsonian to sit next to the T-rex, we took her new one home to charge it before I downloaded her music onto it.
Less then two hours later, it was fully charged according to the giant picture of the battery on the screen, but it wouldn't work. At all. It just kept taunting us with the full battery symbol.
I pushed every button (actually, there are only two, but I pushed them many, many, many times in every possible combination.) Nothing. Then my father tried every possible combination. Still nothing. (I grabbed it before my mother could go through the same useless ritual, since I was already on my last nerve and my Valium supply was low.) I even hooked it up to my computer and tried to sync it, hoping I could fool it into actually working. Once again, nothing.
I got on the Apple website and found the same picture listed there (Yeah. That was a huge help. It told me that it was fully charged and to sync it with my computer. Well, duh!), but no explanation of what to do to move on. In other words...nothing.
I tried calling the Applecare helpline, but my cordless phone battery died before I got to speak to a live person. (Great. One device fully charged, one that can't hold a charge, and they are teamed up against me. I soooo love modern technology.)
Long story short (not really, since I am already planning another blog with the whole agonizing ipod story), I ended up going back to the store.
Meanwhile, back at the mall, I had bought Tim a digital camera for his birthday, along with two rechargeable batteries and a charger which we had also plugged in to charge (the kitchen counter was beginning to look like a Radio Shack display case at this point). Excitedly, we watched the charger light up, indicating higher and higher percents of the full charge (we obviously don't get out much if we considered this our evening's entertainment. For New Year's Eve, we might go really crazy and plug in a couple of cell phones to see which one has more bars after an hour:) ).
Anyway, we did manage to tear ourselves away from this fascinating and mysterious display long enough to go have dinner (and a trip to the Apple store), and when we returned...magic! The solid light on the charger indicated a full battery. Popping it into the camera, we turned the camera on and...nothing! We were now two for two. We popped it back into the charger, just to check and see if we had misread the symbol. Nope. Full battery.
Since we didn't know at this point whether it was the battery or the charger at fault (it couldn't possibly be us), we opened the second battery and began to (hopefully) charge it. Two hours, and much cursing later, we had another fully charged battery (maybe). With bated breath, we popped it into the camera and...success at last! Well, one out of three wasn't so bad.
Feeling much abused by all the new battery operated devices from Hell, I finally tumbled into bed somewhere near midnight. Tiredly, I reached for my alarm clock to turn it on. But wait. Something was wrong. It was not 3:30 in the morning, and the year was definitely not 1999. Picking up the clock, I discovered, upon further inspection that it hadn't been Tim trying to mess with me that had screwed up my alarm clock (so I put down the pillow I was planning on beating him with). It was just that the clock had...you guessed it...a low battery! (I swear you can't make this stuff up!)
Needless to say, next year, I am giving them both something that does not require batteries. I can't think of what that might be, but I have a whole year to figure it out.
Monday, July 9, 2007
Photo Finish
At last. After two weeks and three countries, we were home. First order of business...a trip to CVS to print out our photos.
Unfortunately, the printer was out of order. No problem. Like weeds, CVS stores have sprung up in great number around our neighborhood. There was another one right up the street. With another broken printer! Okay, this was getting weird. First I couldn't take pictures of anything in London because everything was closed, and now I couldn't get the pictures I did take printed.
Feeling like I was trapped in a bad Twilight Zone episode, I bypassed a third CVS and went to Eckerd, where I was happy to find they had an actual working printer. Rod Serling was not getting his paws on me!
Relieved, I popped in my CD and waited for the machine to read it. And waited. And waited. Uh oh. This was not good.
I took it out, checked it was right side up, reinserted it, and waited some more. Frustrated, I tried punching some buttons. Nothing. Suddenly, I could hear the theme music from Twilight Zone ...do do do do...do do do do...
Finally, A message came up: CD is blank. No. Not possible. I had checked it after I downloaded the pictures. I know I did.
I could fel Rod Serling breathing down my neck, "Imagine a trip that never happened, except in (dramatic pause) the twilight zone."
Grabbing the CD, I headed for that third CVS, repeating to myself,"It did happen. I was really there, and I have the pictures to prove it!"
The third time (at CVS) was the charm. I inserted the CD into the machine and, voila, the pictures all came up. I hit select all, and was rewarded with the happy clickety-clack sound of photos being printed out. Take that Rod!
A quick trip to the dry cleaners and then back to pick up my photos. But wait. Something was wrong. The machine was flashing a message: Printer out of ink! over and over while blank sheets of paper landed in the tray.
Arrgh! This couldn't be happening. Do do do do...it was louder now. And was that cigarette smoke that I smelled wafting over from the shampoo aisle?
I didn't wait around to find out. I headed for my car, telling the girl I would be back the next day for the photos. She tried to assure me that she would change the cartridge and my prints would be ready in twenty minutes, but I wasn't taking any more chances.
I would return tomorrow with Tim. He had been on the trip too. He would back me up that it had really happened. Plus, I think he could take Rod down if he had to.
Unfortunately, the printer was out of order. No problem. Like weeds, CVS stores have sprung up in great number around our neighborhood. There was another one right up the street. With another broken printer! Okay, this was getting weird. First I couldn't take pictures of anything in London because everything was closed, and now I couldn't get the pictures I did take printed.
Feeling like I was trapped in a bad Twilight Zone episode, I bypassed a third CVS and went to Eckerd, where I was happy to find they had an actual working printer. Rod Serling was not getting his paws on me!
Relieved, I popped in my CD and waited for the machine to read it. And waited. And waited. Uh oh. This was not good.
I took it out, checked it was right side up, reinserted it, and waited some more. Frustrated, I tried punching some buttons. Nothing. Suddenly, I could hear the theme music from Twilight Zone ...do do do do...do do do do...
Finally, A message came up: CD is blank. No. Not possible. I had checked it after I downloaded the pictures. I know I did.
I could fel Rod Serling breathing down my neck, "Imagine a trip that never happened, except in (dramatic pause) the twilight zone."
Grabbing the CD, I headed for that third CVS, repeating to myself,"It did happen. I was really there, and I have the pictures to prove it!"
The third time (at CVS) was the charm. I inserted the CD into the machine and, voila, the pictures all came up. I hit select all, and was rewarded with the happy clickety-clack sound of photos being printed out. Take that Rod!
A quick trip to the dry cleaners and then back to pick up my photos. But wait. Something was wrong. The machine was flashing a message: Printer out of ink! over and over while blank sheets of paper landed in the tray.
Arrgh! This couldn't be happening. Do do do do...it was louder now. And was that cigarette smoke that I smelled wafting over from the shampoo aisle?
I didn't wait around to find out. I headed for my car, telling the girl I would be back the next day for the photos. She tried to assure me that she would change the cartridge and my prints would be ready in twenty minutes, but I wasn't taking any more chances.
I would return tomorrow with Tim. He had been on the trip too. He would back me up that it had really happened. Plus, I think he could take Rod down if he had to.
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