Diane Laney Fitzpatrick

writer, blogger, crafty woman

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We’ll Turn On Our TV, But May Have to Buy It Dinner First

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Here’s how lame my husband and I are. We don’t know jack about our TV. The Dalai Lama knows more about television technology than we do. Also the little French Catholic school girl who skips past my house every morning, as well as her fictional equivalent, Madeline.

My husband is one bored vacation day away from being a computer evil-genius. He knows more about computers and innately senses what they can do before the technological advances even take place. Give him a couple spare hours with nothing better to do and he could do some damage to airline flight schedules, I’m telling you. I’m not sure what the statute of limitations is, so I’ll say that he may or may not have hacked into the editors’ private messaging system when he was a newspaper intern. He has outfitted us with Macs and related Apple products in every room and he understands how all of them work. But the only TV we’re comfortable with is the one from the ’90s, so it may as well be made of slate and iron ore. [Read more…] about We’ll Turn On Our TV, But May Have to Buy It Dinner First

One Unhappy Calendar Girl

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I’m a cheerleader for all things Apple. In fact, I’m co-captain of the cheer squad for Team Mac.  (We wear black mock-turtlenecks, little round glasses and no ponytail accessories. My co-captain is my husband, who would do a split on top of a human pyramid for an iTunes gift card.)

So imagine my disappointment – make that horror – to find that when I hopped on the new iCloud last Saturday morning, my entire calendar went to shit.

Let me give you a little bit of background about me, my calendar, and my obsessive-compulsive tendencies regarding writing things down in a boxy chart with numbers and color-codes. Please don’t judge. I love graphs, charts and maps. Before I went digital, I had a datebook that cost me $24. It was as detailed and high-tech as you could get while still using a writing utensil. I eventually moved to a Palm Pilot and then realized my lifelong dream with an iPhone that synched my iCal with my computer, my laptop and eventually my iPad.

The iCalendar contained directions to appointments, stored phone numbers for RSVPs, and had recurring reminders that went to infinity, so there was no excuse for missing a bill payment, a birthday or a mammogram.

“Do you want a card?” the hair salon receptionist would say when she was making my next appointment.

A card? A card? And where am I supposed to put that? In my 1974 Rolodex? I might as well have you carve it into a stone tablet and bury it in a cave. No, I don’t need a card. I’m putting it onto my calendar right now. I jauntily swiped my finger over my phone and slipped it in my pocket.

So it was awkward when I had to call her this morning and ask when that appointment was. No, I didn’t take a card. I put it on my calendar, which disappeared. Have you ever heard a smirk over a phone line?

The Cloud, that hovering, all-encompassing force of nature that Apple promised would give me super-powers, decided that my life was too busy. All these payments and appointments, fundraisers and meetings, project deadlines – what a freaking bore, the Cloud said. Simple down, my friend! And with that, it wiped out about 75 percent of my calendar, past, present and future to infinity.

A few items made the leap. I hope I’m not supposed to draw any conclusions by which calendar items were chosen to stay. I got my daughter’s midterms, but not my son’s. I got my brother-in-law Dan’s birthday, but not my own siblings or my best friends. I didn’t get any doctor’s appointments. I got one day of a four-day trip to Orlando. And according to my new lean, toned down iCalendar, I don’t have to pay any bills and I don’t go to the dentist. The Cloud refuses to acknowledge my husband’s business trips and it downright despises my book club.

If I stick with this and allow iCloud to choose which appointments I keep, I’m going to lead a simpler life, but I’m going to look like a skank, because all things related to my hair, nails and body – inside and out – are gone.

And there’s no app for that.

Call 911. My Dendrites are Flatlining.

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It was a tough weekend for me and my dendrites.

You know, dendrites? The pieces of your brain that get a workout when you do things that are difficult and boring and tedious – things you don’t like to do? You’re supposed to exercise your dendrites a little bit, especially as you get older, to ward off Alzheimer’s. But that means you’re to do math puzzles if you hate math, and do crossword puzzles if you hate words. Every time you do something that’s slightly uncomfortable mentally, your dendrites are doing some crunches or jumping jacks.

Last weekend, my dendrites went to boot camp. They’ve been holed up in their rooms for two days, nursing their wounds. They think we joined Fight Club. (But we can’t talk about it, because, well, you know.) They’re not speaking to me. Because I put them through the wringer by getting Lion, a new operating system for my computer.

You wouldn’t think that would be a bad thing. After all, getting a new operating system is like trading in your old, banged-up, crumbling-down, 2-year-old condo and getting a brand-new condo. After you get done moving all of your stuff into all the shiny new drawers and cabinets, it’s fun and exciting.

But nothing worked like it used to. Some things, like the cursor direction, was actually backwards. Where I used to move my finger down to move down the page, Lion wanted me to move my finger up.  Apple said it’s better this way. Okay. You’re smart people over there, so I’m sure you’re right, but please tell that to my dendrites. Because they’re crying in their pillows. They want to go back to the old condo. We knew our way around there. We could walk through Snow Leopard in our sleep.

To make it worse, I switched Internet browsers on the very same day I moved into the new Lion. Firefox and I had been together for something like six years. But this past weekend we got into a huge fight, I said some things I shouldn’t have, and there was some irreparable harm done to our relationship. He gave me the cold shoulder (froze, actually), I lashed out, and, well, Chrome just happened to be right there. And my goodness, he was looking fine.

Before I knew what was happening, I had moved all my bookmarks out of Firefox and in with Chrome. Like any new relationship, it was so exciting. Chrome was so fast, so slick, so young. I felt like a teenager. I picked the colorful, cartoonish “Tema Inventivo” theme, and I smiled every time I looked down and saw my downloads conveniently at the bottom of my screen.

“Where’s the Google search bar?” I asked him coquettishly. He just winked. And then we laughed and laughed.

Meanwhile, my dendrites were struggling in wheelchairs. They start occupational therapy on Wednesday. They’re not happy about the move or about the new boyfriend, and are threatening instant Alzheimer’s.

I was telling my tale to a friend, who said, “Maybe you should try Opera.”

What do think I am, a slut?

Big Brother is Watching. Get Over It.

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A lot of people seem to be all up in arms about privacy and how we don’t have it anymore. It seems like almost every day, I’m alerted to the fact that Facebook is stealing my  info/identity/photos/soul and using them for evil and profit.

I don’t care much. I know, I know, I am just like my son, Jack, who blogged recently that he’s not bothered by the revelation that he is being tracked by his own iPhone. He posted a map of all the places he’s been in the past year, carefully pinned by Apple, and he said he doesn’t mind that his privacy is being stormed by a corporate giant, or that everyone now knows he got lost looking for the oral surgeon’s office last winter and, according to the map, drove like a drunken fly all over south Florida. He was taken to task by an online commenter who was extremely upset that Jack was not more upset about Big Brother. He called my son a liberal Nazi. (I’m not even sure what that means, but I don’t think he meant those two things cancel each other out.)

I love when people get mad about other people not getting mad enough. If I’m speeding up my own death because of worry and anger, it’s not fair that you aren’t, too!

What’s to be upset about? If Apple wants to track me back and forth to the grocery store and Panera, have at it, media giant. And don’t tell me there’s a larger issue here, one of privacy and freedom and individual rights. I know that. Don’t think I don’t know that.

People who freak out about their email addresses being posted on Facebook remind me of this guy who used to show up at public meetings in the ‘80s in Ohio. He was a budding conspiracy theorist who was forever getting up at public forums and yelling that the government was taking over our lives. During one hearing he claimed that enhanced 911 instant address notification was just a way for the “government to get our phone numbers.”

I think it was a county commissioner who said, “Uh, sir, the government already has your phone number. Shoot, I even have your phone number.”

I continue to be fascinated by how much The Man knows about me and that he even cares. I’m slightly flattered when an ad shows up on my Facebook page for something that I was just thinking of buying. Creepy, yes. But also useful.

And entertaining. Sometimes when I’m looking for a diversion between Facebook posts (don’t want people to think I have nothing better to do than update my status every 15 minutes) I look at the Google Analytics for this blog. Did you know that when you type in keywords into a search engine, it’s reported to the person who maintains the site where you eventually end up.

Because of The Man and non-governmental privacy invasion, I know that people have gotten to my blog using the following keywords:

  • bachelors beans barney and beany
  • can i bring a craft show tent to the infield at the kentucky derby
  • can you change it from “so and so just poked you” to something you wanna say?
  • cars disney snot rod christmas
  • chinese verson song i can still remember lyric
  • do starletts wear pantyhose anymore
  • does everyone have hair growing from corner of eye
  • does lexington legends games sell beer
  • how messy are normal peoples homes
  • leave it to beaver & outdoor grilling
  • le leche league militant bitches
  • mall easter bunny overheat
  • mammogram run car 10 humor list
  • man eat
  • movies putting on whalebone girtles
  • my husband likes my square dance dress
  • old ugly toenail picture
  • once you mentally get over a fear of flying, what is next
  • pictures of people with lots of toes
  • skype skype me grandma
  • what if you really have something to cry about?
  • what i’m wearing underneath my jeans is none of your business, mister
  • what wearing pantyhose means
  • what would be a reason for approaching a sharp curve slowly
  • where is michael caine that used to play on then came bronson
  • where is needle placed when nose is numbed to remove a wart
  • who block me

I actually have blogged about all these topics in one way or another, so they rightly ended up on my site. (Except for cars disney snot rod christmas. I have no idea where that came from.) Knowing what people searched for in the privacy of their own homes or offices, I feel like I’m eavesdropping on strangers.

I even the score by using my real name in my blog and not giving nicknames or false identities to my family. If you want to look up my phone number and find out how many times I went to Panera last month, knock yourself out. Call me if you want to. But don’t call me a liberal Nazi.

My iPad (Case) is Here

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Steve Jobs is one sick man. (And I’m not talking about the cancer. Come on, what do you think I am?) He orchestrates an over-the-top hype for the iPad to the point where I’m barely able to carry out daily bodily functions, I’m so excited about it. He gets us all at the edge of our seats, putting in a rare Howard-Hughes-like appearance in that black mock-turtleneck and showing us how magical this thing will be.

Then he says, “Oh, yeah, that’s right. It won’t come out until the middle of March.”

Then he says, “Did I say middle of March? I meant the iPad will come out in early April.”

“And by ‘iPad,’ I mean the Wi-Fi version, which is fine, really. It’ll be fine. For some people. But the awesome one you ordered won’t be in until late April.”

“Did I say late April?”

Oh my freaking gosh, just send the stinker, would you? I need to start complaining about what it doesn’t do and how it didn’t really change my life nearly as much as I had hoped. I can’t very well do that until I have the thing in my hands, now can I?

I’m telling you, he’s getting a sick sense of satisfaction out of all this. We bought the whole bag o’ hype and pre-ordered the iPad 3G and all of its bridesmaids. The accessories are starting to arrive, in reverse order of importance.

First we got a piece of white iMaterial (that heavy white stuff that is too heavy to be plastic and too lightweight to be metal that all iThings are made of). I have no idea what it’s for and I don’t give two shits. It can’t read me an article from The New Yorker so I don’t want it yet.

This past week we received the case. It, too, is made from a material unlike any case you have in your house. It’s too soft to be rubber, but too rubbery to be cloth. (It might be a substance in between a liquid, a solid and a gas, like mercury. Or cornstarch. Or fire. I would not put it past Steve Jobs to make the iPad case out of fire. (“My iPad can heat up leftovers. In your face, Kindle!”)

The case is pretty cool. While completely useless right now, I’ve decided to start carrying it around. I’ll have to stuff it with Kleenex to make it look not so empty, but I’d like to get everyone used to the idea that I have an iPad. Envy me. Try to be me. I have the iPad. . . case.

If you think I’m a pathetic loser, you should meet my husband. He has scheduled weekly Saturday morning visitation with the iPad in the Apple store in the mall. They are semi-conjugal visits, from what I understand. Over-the-case touching and fondling are allowed.

Here’s proof of the power of Steve Jobs: Everyone groaned when they first heard the name. “Why would he name it that?”  All kinds of Kotex jokes came out of the 7th Grade Joke Folder and became relevant again. I was right there with them, but a little voice inside my head whispered, “What happens if the meaning of the word ‘pad’ changes? What if one geeky man’s vision can change a little three-letter word from meaning something you don’t say in front of your boyfriend’s parents to something that’s totally cool to talk about in public? What if Steve Jobs could change slang?

And I think that’s exactly what’s happening. You can walk into a school cafeteria and yell “iPad” and no one will spew milk out of his nose. I’m telling you, this Jobs guy has some powers.

I can’t wait until I get my iPad and can tell you all about it and tell you how you should get one, too. Or not. I’m souring slightly on my iPhone right now. It’s not the miracle communications device it was when I got it two years ago. And the case can barely heat up last night’s dinner.

Cookies for the Apple Genius

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Last week was a tough week. I had three tiny problems with my Web site and I decided to try to work them out. It had been on my List of Things to Do That My Husband Won’t Do For Me on Saturday since my husband said, “I’m not fixing that for you on Saturday.”

In the course of doing it with just myself and the Apple guys, I completely screwed up my site, lost my blog altogether, spent two days on the phone with either India or Seattle, ate two boxes of reject Girl Scout cookies, and developed an afternoon drinking problem. This is what happens when you can’t just be happy with things being just OK and you strive for perfection.

I had to go for it, though. If for no other reason, to try out Apple’s new tech support service: You go online and briefly describe your problem, and choose the option “call me.” As soon as I clicked, my phone rang. Eery.

It was Joseph, an Apple genius who listened patiently as I described my three little problems in the least possible technical terms: The link thingy-doodles don’t work and I think it’s because my Web page address is so full of %s :s and other punctuation, it looks like a swear word; the comments on my blog don’t work and I have a feeling my readers have a lot of funny things to say; and the automatic email that I can send out to let my friends know I’ve written a new blog doesn’t have good links in it. “This last one is not me, I don’t even write the thing,” I told him. “That’s all you people.”

Joseph fixed the first two problems and in the process of fixing the third one lost my entire blog. We had a frustrating 45-minutes where he kept saying, “OK, now drag and drop the blog back into your site.” And I kept whimpering, “I’m trying and it won’t go in. I’m dragging, dragging, . . . now dropping . . . it’s not going in oh god ohgod ohgodohgod this is not good . . .” I was rocking back and forth in my chair like Rain Man. Then I couldn’t even get a new blog created and soon I couldn’t do anything.

You know things are not going well when the Apple genius says, “Do you back up your files by any chance?”

Joseph transferred me to Apple Special Forces Super Genius Dominic, whose job it was to get me off the phone before I started to cry. Dominic told me to send him some stuff and gave me his “personal email” and phone number. I never heard from him again. As it turns out Dominic doesn’t know a thing about computers, he just knows how to let the ladies down gently.

“You never call, you never write,” I said in an email, after leaving him three voice mails.

So I tossed my case number and started all over again. This time I got Entry Level But Rising Star Genius Lester, who is my new best friend. He not only saved Just Humor Me but he made it better and took out all the %s and bleeped out swear words and made it easier for me to do a complete redesign.

Lester could have my first born child if he wanted him. If I was certain that Lester lived in the continental United States, I would bake him some cookies. If he ever vacations in Florida, I’d invite him to dinner and would try hard not to ask him to jazz up our iTunes while he was here.

These guys are unbelievable. Not only can they solve really complicated problems like blogs that disappear into cyberspace, but they can hold in their laughter and disgust when moronic housewives say things like, “Domain? I don’t know. My husband does all that.” By the end of our two-day long relationship, Lester had totally given in to me and was foregoing all terms that even resembled technological terms and was saying things like, “Now click on the little house” and “See the pink square with the cloud? There you go!”

So my blog is back and my Web site is all new and powerful and swear-word free. Do me a favor: Leave me a comment and see what happens. If smoke starts to come out of your computer, call Lester.