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Anyways, Hi.
The Saturday before Thanksgiving, I woke up early (this is a thing I do now) to finish up some work for a writing workshop and then to do some of my own writing. I closed the computer, threw it in my bag, then proceeded to gather snacks and wool socks and hot hands because the temperature had dropped significantly overnight and my youngest daughter, Viv, and I would spend the next six or so hours sitting on the sidelines of Asher, my 10-year-old’s, soccer tournament—about an hour away from home.
We shivered through the first two games, ate lunch, then as Asher went to warm up for his third (of four) games, Viv and I stayed bundled up in the car. I put on a show for her and from the front seat, I grabbed my computer out of my bag and flipped it open.
It’s a computer that turns on when opened. Just turns on. Like magic.
But the screen was black.
So, I closed it. Then opened it.
But it was still black. No magic anywhere.
But no worries. There must be an explanation. I press the power button. Nothing.
Nothing?
Nothing.
Maybe I didn’t charge it? Although I do remember it being charged this morning…
There’s a moment of disbelief (which I might actually still be in) when you experience life from a place of such detached incredulity, that one might observe you as handling the circumstances of your life — say, a decently nice computer being I-wont-even-turn-on-that’s-how-dead-I-am dead — with shocking acceptance and peace.
Especially given that, Black Friday deals aside, Christmas really isn’t the best time to unexpectedly buy a new computer.
I texted my most techy friend about the computer after I tried my own hand at looking up all the press these two buttons at the same time for 30 seconds “tricks” online (because I got worried I was one wrong click away from a Reddit chatroom that would lead me into the darknet).
He told me it was likely time to start computer shopping.
This past weekend, I came home from a swim meet with my oldest, and my husband, Chris, was folding laundry. “Um,” he said, “something smells terrible in the laundry room.” We don’t have one of those fancy laundry rooms with cabinets and walls and tile. It’s more like a cinder-blocked storage area with exposed beams and a washer and dryer shoved up against the wall.
I walked in and took a deep toxic inhale of some corrosive mix of burnt rubber and eminent electrical fire.
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