After the painting of Shorty and Diesel was shipped to Utah, the studio became a temporary workshop of sorts. Tables were cluttered with drills, screwdrivers, levels, and tools of all sorts.  The bathroom next to the studio was being renovated.  It was about time.

In opposite corners of the studio, two easels patiently hold canvases, waiting to be worked on.

2016 got off on its second day to a frustrating start!  Non-stop computer problems.

Did you know that computers have personalities? likes?  preferences?

Knowing I had signed up to take the introduction to the InDesign course from Conestoga College online, John’s Christmas gift was the installation of 16 GB of RAM to increase the speed at which the office computer performed.  It promptly went into pouting fits, freezing up every few hours!  Forcing it to shut off by holding down the ON button until the screen darkened was a scary business, a procedure that was a last resort, and one that was hard on a computer.

Its next antic was to scare the wits out of me!  Red, quivering, horizontal lines shimmied up the monitors in menacing columns, freezing the computer again!  Yikes!

It could be that it needs a new video card.  That was the consensus this time.

Lloyd became a whiz kid at unhooking the tower and hauling it up to the repair shop, not to just one, but now to a second shop!

$100 later and a new video card, the computer is as rebellious as ever!

It must need a new hard drive, was the next conclusion.  How could the hard drive be worn out?  It was only 16 months old!  Give me a break.

A 2-tarabyte hard drive was installed.  The greenbacks are flowing.

Computer carries on with its usual tantrums, freezing up!

The receptionist at the shop lamely said, “Your computer just doesn’t like the RAM.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I replied, incredulously.

Whoever heard of a computer not liking something?  It’s mechanical, isn’t it?  Just a bunch of metal, wires, chips, screws . . . all that electronic stuff, geek stuff!

When I informed John that I was ready to heave it out the window, he initiated a three-way call with the technician.  Surprise!  The technician assured John that the RAM he had purchased was perfectly good, and that the first repair shop had installed it properly.

I dug out a trusty magnifying glass, and read the puny–sized company name on my old RAM of 6 GB:  Kingston Technology. 

“Kingston is reliable.  That’s what I have in my computer at home,” the technician said.

Wheeler-dealer John asked if the technician would swap out the RAM he had bought, and exchange it with his shop for KINGSTON RAM.

“Sure.”

Nimble Lloyd pulled out the wires for the umpteenth time, and up to the shop we went again.  How many trips was this?  Who’s counting?

“Leave it with us overnight so we can see if it still freezes up.  We’ll call you in the morning.”

Next morning, no call.  Doesn’t this generation ever keep their word and have the courtesy to call back?

I pick up the phone again.  “It’s fixed,” was the reply.

So . . . the receptionist’s comments about my computer not liking the RAM weren’t so dimwit after all!  Computers do have personalities, likes and dislikes.   The fact is that there are no absolute standards when it comes to the manufacture of computer parts.  What works in one computer might not work in another brand’s tower.  (Thought you’d like to know that comforting tidbit.)

Back home once again, the question quickly became, “Where is everything?  Where is One Drive?”

I had spent hours uploading things to One Drive after getting an upgrade with Rogers for unlimited bandwidth.

Where is the expensive InDesign software we put in that blew our budget, and that I couldn’t enrole in the course without?

Where is my email?  Where’s this?  Where’s that? Help!!!!!!

“Don’t worry,” John assured me.  “Let me come in on TeamViewer.”

Click.  Click.  Clickety click!  He pulled in things from who knows where, and old programs came alive once more!  What is he, a wizard?

“Call the technician and ask him where he put One Drive,” John instructed.

The technician had gone for the weekend, but he would call us Monday morning.

No such luck.

Three-way call once more.

Thank God for John’s Let’s get it done authoritative tone. I was no longer in a civil state of mind.  The tech agreed that if we brought up the old (ridiculous term) hard drive, he would put it in as a data disk, and at no extra fee.  Why hadn’t he done that in the first place?  Yes, we could come right up.

Yank.  Yank.  Yank.  You bet, Lloyd is a speed freak now at dismantling this box of junk.  My lack of a sense of direction can even tell you how to get to the repair shop without getting lost!  Why, we could get there blindfolded!

By this time, we’re no longer hauling the tower up the flight of stairs to the repair shop.  No, the receptionist can jolly well come out and carry it in, thank you very much.

When she began telling me about downloading everything into OneDrive, I must have looked like a veritable troll. (My oldest sister always told me she could read everything on my face!)  For once, it was an advantage. The receptionist quickly realized that I was not about to countenance any further delays, and trotted me back to the technician.  He agreed to download the 169 GB to OneDrive at no cost.

“Leave it with me, and I’ll start the download right now, and it will run overnight. It should be done sometime tomorrow.”

I’ve heard that line before.

Checking in the next morning, Friday, only a third had been downloaded, even though I was told the process ran all night. Yes, they are open on Saturday. . . . . .

By now, I am two weeks behind on the online course.  John leaves for his annual scuba diving vacation in one week. I had hoped to be well on the way in the course while he was still available to bail me out, should I get stuck.

When I was put together, I wasn’t wired with a sense of direction, and there is no way one can be installed.  The other wires that would equip me to be tech-savy didn’t get put in either.

I try to remind myself that at least my attempts to brush colour and shapes onto canvases – which those who view them often express a sense of wonder and joy at – is something to be thankful for . . . something not of my own doing.