Posts Tagged 'HP'

there was this sound when I went Mac, guys, I swear something went KAPOW!

I have a confession to make, Reader. I lied when I inferred that I was still making up my mind about what computer to buy. The truth is that a cascade of events has already been set in motion.

Event #1: Temptation. Digerati and Motormouth teamed up to corrupt my mind by whispering one word over and over at me, with psychedelic hand motions, until it replayed in my sleep…

MacBook. MaaaaacBoooooooook.

The price tag is horrendous. But in the time that Mac owners like Digerati, Motormouth and Cupcake have been happily using the same laptop they bought years ago, I’ve been through several frustrating demises of PCs.

Event #2: Discovery. At the Apple store online, there is a refurbished MacBook Pro for the same price as a new MacBook.

MaaaacBooooook Prooooooooooo!

Event #3: Realization. One day last week, I decided to visit the local MacLife store on my way home from work, then walked around with butterflies all the way down to my toes all day, just like when I have a date after work. Hold up. This new computer might also be a viable substitute for Hot Lunch?

Event #4: Strike out. Despite Motormouth’s ominous warning not to hold my MacLife experience against Apple, I was still caught by surprise. I walk in and say I’m looking into maybe getting a MacBook Pro and MacLife guy jabs a finger at a table of laptops and says, “There’s the MacBook. There’s the Pro. You can try them out. Let me know if you have questions,” and quickly walks away. The consumer in me feels adrift, but the librarian in me knows why: THIS IS A REFERENCE INTERVIEW FAIL. Here’s how it should have gone. MacLife guy: “Oh! What led you to the MacBook Pro? What computer do you have now or have had in the past? Have you had a Mac before? What are your computing needs? Where did you acquire such fantastic fashion sense?” Any or all of these questions would have proven helpful, or at least appreciated. Strike one, MacLife.

I walk myself over to the Pro, sit down and open Safari, intending to view a few web pages and get the overall feel.

You are not connected to the internet.

Huh. Hard to get the feel for a computer when the demo can’t do the task that I spend 90% of my time doing. Strike two.

I open the text editor and type a few things. (“I am excited! I want this computer! My shoes feel sweaty!”) By this time, MacLife guy #2 has walked a couple of people over to try out the MacBook Pro that I am on. I’m just wasting time and now I feel awkward, so I step aside for them. As MacLife guy #2 is scurrying away, I catch him and ask about their financing options. Is it just the card I saw online? I get a fairly irritated lecture.

“Well THAT is the APPLE store. WE are not AFFILIATED with them. WE are MACLIFE. WE are a SEPARATE ENTITY. WE have been in business for FIFTEEN YEARS.”

All things I have no way of knowing because your store representatives don’t initiate any kind of interview, choosing instead to react to interested customers’ questions with Borg-like diatribes. Strike three. Thank you for your time, MacLife. Goodbye.

Event #5: Kapow! 15 minutes later, I am irritated and drinking a beer at home. (Also uncannily like I just had a date.) I get online. There’s that refurbished MacBook Pro at the Apple store, taunting me with its $300 savings and seamless aluminum unibody.

MaaaaacBoooooooook. Proooooooooooo…

That’s it! I feel pissed. I feel drunkish. I feel reckless. “I never do ANYTHING impulsive!” I shout aloud to myself. Next thing I know I’m applying for a $1000 Barclaycard and moments later a MacBook Pro is in my shopping cart and I have clicked SUBMIT.

“What have I done?!?” I immediately ask myself. Myself answers, “Only the BEST THING EVER.”

Apple takes a long ass time to send a confirmation email. While I’m obsessively watching my inbox, a message from HP pops up. “Please give us feedback on your last support experience! We look forward to helping you with your future computer needs!”

Sorry, HP, it’s over. I’ve moved on. Switched teams, if you must know. Sorry MacLife, there won’t be a second date. Me and Apple have this thing. It’s intense and it’s completely satisfying for both of us. You wouldn’t understand. A love like this is worth the 3 to 5 business days’ wait for free shipping.

like a virgin, typed for the very first time

Now that HP and the Geek Squad have failed me (NBC’s Chuck you are full of lies), Digerati has come through in the form of a library-owned laptop that I can check out from him while I ponder my computer purchasing options. My choices range from the quick $400 laptop from HP (only a little over $100 more than fixing my old desktop would have been) all the way to putting a $1200 MacBook Pro on a credit card and finally getting serious about my computer love.

I don’t have long to make my decision, 1) because I can’t keep a workplace computer indefinitely just to meet my Pandora and Lolcats needs and 2) because using a public computer protected by software that erases all changes upon shutdown is sure to slowly erode my sanity. I complained about this annoying detail to Digerati, whose response was simply, “Ah, that’s the best, though isn’t it? It’s like the first time, every time.”

Not helpful, Digerati, but as usual you get extra points for making it dirty.

I’ve had to re-learn all the passwords I enter online because I’m ACTUALLY entering them now. What am I, a pioneer woman? I don’t want to have to TYPE to catch up on my reader! I want my content presented to me with a mere double click. Now I’m typing a user name AND a password, each a minimum of 8 characters! That’s a collective minimum of 16 characters! And I’m doing the same for my email, Pandora, to check my bank balance… And like a pioneer woman, I AM TYPING WEB ADDRESSES!! Where oh where are my precious saved tabs?

And every time I log in somewhere, Firefox asks me if I want it to remember my password. HA, FIREFOX, THAT’S FUNNY. I don’t know, Firefox, why don’t you check with Public Amnesia Laptop first? The irony is, Firefox, that you won’t even remember me clicking the “Never ask me again for this site” button. Next time we meet in a mere few hours, I will not only have to type an assload of passwords, but also click answers to your same inane questions over and over.

Just getting online, I have to connect to my network EVERY TIME and enter my super secret secure 29-digit WEP key. TWENTY-NINE DIGITS. EVERY TIME. I have it written in pink sharpie on a sticky note that conveniently disappeared this morning. So I found myself TYPING IT FROM MEMORY. 29 digits. From memory. I’ve had this computer too long.

But the worst for YOU, Reader, is that I can’t draw pictures with Amnesia Laptop. Look at that big ugly block of text you just read! No pictures of laughing marshmallows or depressed people or even boobs. I’ve never drawn boobs for you before, Reader, but if I could I would. Too bad I don’t have a computer right now. Who loses when there’s no boobs? Everyone.

how my sister and I mistakenly attended an extreme cage fight last Tuesday night

I told you I had the crazy. Well now I am blaming it on my computer. My dead, dead computer that abandoned me and went to computer heaven. I came home to an uh-oh smell one day (computer, were you using my hairdryer?) and the next day my unresponsive computer was being proclaimed deceased by an apathetic Geek Squad dude who added to my disappointment by not even faintly resembling Chuck. (Where were you, Chuck? You could have saved my computer. You are gorgeous and so is your red couch I want it in my apartment and I wouldn’t mind if you were on it too.)

I can’t think without my computer. I’ve been going around every day in a slight fog, not quite sure who I am without customized desktops, iTunes playlists, and bookmarked tabs. What do I even like to do? Computer, you took all my projects with you.  Where is my Google calendar that tells me what to do? Not in front of my face every morning where I need it.

And that is how my sister and I mistakenly attended an extreme cage fight last Tuesday night.

We thought we were seeing these good people. Which is all the better for being a polar opposite brand of strange.


There we were, in line outside the Knitting Factory in Bodo wearing our corsets, poofy skirts, and heavy eye makeup. A cheerful summer sun is baking down on us and everyone in line is staring. The thought going around under my ratted up Helena Bonham Carter pompadour is we would stop looking so crazy if the sun would just fucking set already.

That’s when I notice everyone in line appears to be a twenty-something male wearing Hollister. This is all such an unexpected, uncomfortable conundrum for us until we get up to the door where we see this sign.

“Rasputina is on the 20th.” Sister points out to me.
“Yeah, I know,” I retort. I’d seen the concert was on the 20th back when I’d had a computer. And left to my own devices in the post-computer darkness, I had managed to blunder into a rock-hard certainty that the 20th was a Tuesday. This Tuesday.
“E,” she coaxes. “What’s the date today?”
“Um…” I break into a sweat. Realities are colliding. My mind is ripping apart. “…Not the 20th?”
“Let’s get some dinner.”

And that is how my sister and I ended up at Solid in corsets, poofy skirts, and heavy eye makeup, eating burgers and curly fries to live bluegrass being performed by a dude I went out with a couple of times in 2008.