Stupid Gray Box

There I was, all ready to post my Sunday night writing yesterday morning, and I couldn't get online. Of course I had waited until too close to time to leave for work so I couldn't call Infinity to get help fixing it. As is my wont, I left and hoped that the passage of time would heal it; I'm a big believer in benign neglect. Don tried to get on yesterday--no luck. I tried late last night--nope. I even tried my laptop, for God's sake, which takes for freakin' ever to boot up--nada. So this morning I called tech support (which doesn't scare me because Infinity's tech support is on the east side of GB, not in Pakistan or a suburb of Bombay) and just got a callback from a nice young man named Dennis. All I had to do to fix the DSL was turn off the gray box and reboot it. That's it. Switch off, turn on, et voila! Internet. Bah. This IT tech stuff's a snap. (Oh, man, now I'm going to computer hell for sure for that smartass remark. Maybe I'd better buy an Ipod or something today to make up for it.) Enough of this computer crabbiness, on to Sunday night's writing.

July 6--So it has come to this--Here I sit alone in a pool of yellowish light listening to the raindrops tap on the window over my bed. I'm alone. I didn't mean to be alone at this stage in life. I meant to have someone there, someone on the other side of the bed, someone whose warmth would warm me on cold winter nights, whose arms would comfort me when the lightning and thunder are too close. At times someone was there that I thought might fill the bill, might want to spend his life with me, but I was always wrong. Evidently I'm not a very good judge of people, so I'm giving up. I've bought an electric blanket for cold winter nights and a white noise generator so I won't hear storms. My life is full. Why complicate it with love?

And from last night...

July 7--It was his idea of a good time--Who else but a guy would think something so boring and pointless is the height of fun? What could he possibly see in it? I mean, really. Sitting on hard splintery wood seats on the edge of a dusty field baking in the sun, drinking beer, and yelling obscenities. Oh yes, what girl could resist an invitation to spend a day like that? I can, that's for damned sure. Although I could maybe be talked into an afternoon of shoe shopping.

I'm not saying any of this is "great literature" most of it is barely drivel, but I'm excited to be putting out even these few words every night.

Great image in your piece, Bob. I felt like I was right there with you. See you in a few minutes, yard man.

--Barbara