My beloved laptop, my Solace, as I have named her, has been in the pasty-white hands of computer technicians for two days. Be healed, I begged. And she was. But only after the young techs ridded her of evil spyware, including one program that totally effed with my head by erasing the nearest hyperlink every time I typed the letter “l.” Have you ever tried to send an e-mail without typing the letter “l”? I have. And while the tenses were whacked (future tense is impossible without the lovely “l”), and I had to spend twice as much time as usual writing it, it worked. Only later did I realize I could have made a one minute phone call to convey the relevant information that it took me ten minutes to type without the letter “l.” But who uses the phone these days?
Anyway, the computer tech told me that spyware rode into my baby on one of those pop-up, click-on ads that are always flashing around the internets. Most likely, one of the kids clicked where it said “Click Here” and thus the spyware was transferred. Worm-like, it invaded my Solace’s innards, and thereafter, every time I surfed the internets, it invited its friends to hop in as well. Who knew that spyware has friends? My friend P tells me that porn sites are notorious for spreading spyware, so if I can’t blame the kids, I’ll blame the blogger who led me to the repulsive bestiality site last week. I know she warned me, but it’s like trying not to look at the pavement where someone’s just vomited when bloggers say: this site is really gross, but here it is, underlined and glowing blue, waiting for a small movement from your right forefinger. You don’t want to look, but you can’t not look. Oops, my finger just jerked.
So, now Solace is back, with five different spyware programs loaded on her desktop (one is not enought) and with added RAM, so she’s speedy again, despite the 2,000 or so jpegs clogging her system. I guess jpegs are kind of like cholesterol: they stick in the electric conduits and slow down information transfer. The more you put in, the more clogged the system becomes. So, in an effort to cut fat and red meat from Solace’s diet, I’m purging some photos. I don’t really need to keep multiple photos of every small business owner I’ve photographed over the past six or seven months, I guess. But what if one of them suddenly becomes famous or commits a crime and I have shots from the early days that I can sell for big bucks to The Star? Oh, the dilemna.
In other news, Rocky got a summer cut. Rubbing him now is like rubbing someone with a new crewcut. Just irresistible. He’s much cooler and less crabby. He’s also no longer leaving huge orange furballs all over the house. Which makes me less crabby. And yes, you now can see all his flabby Jabba the Hutt greatness.
