I don’t know why I’m writing this. Wait a minute. Yes I do. I’m writing this because right now I can’t be anything more or less than I am. I don’t feel like making something up, and pretending nothing happened. This is not fiction. Although I wish it was. I am an American. Usually I don’t like to bring that fact into a conversation. I don’t know why. But there it is. I am an American. And a New Yorker. …
If you’ve been reading along, you’ll know about Coffeegate 2011. You’ll also know that I call my computer Hemingway. Turned out he did need a new keyboard. Today, I came home to an undead Hemingway, complete with new keyboard and his own white chocolate cookies. (Sarge says he has to share them with us, though.) Hello. What would you like to write today? …
One of the questions I ask a prospective PA when I interview them is, ‘Are you a morning person?’ Because, well, because I am not. Like most people who are honest with themselves, I cannot speak without bumping into a cup of coffee in the morning. On days that aren’t weekends, there isn’t time to make zombie coffee using our Italian coffee machine, so I kid myself with the most drinkable instant I can find, or buy a coffee on…
Sarge had a Boys’ Night on Friday. I may have shut myself up in the office to write, with loud country music on. I may have even forgotten to eat my cheese-centric dinner, reserved for nights Sarge isn’t home. I flipped between the very sparse notepad on Sarge’s Linux-run computer, last.fm, Facebook and Irene updates. At about midnight, I decided it might be a good idea to call my Mom, and left a long-winded message on her machine. So long,…
As I admitted in a previous post, I fried my laptop. Again. I was all ready to cash in my coffee insurance, and was even a little proud of myself that I managed to do THE EXACT SAME THING a second time. I was racking up crazy writer points. To go with my Post-It notes and pens and frizzy hair. Or something. I had come to terms with the fact that my machine would stay fried, again. I might have…
