I was in a mall yesterday.
It went about as well as one would expect.
Apparently my beloved desktop is one of the few that had bad hard drives installed, and Apple, genius and benevolent overlords that they are, sent me an email warning me and offering a new, free, non-risky hard drive. So I backed everything up in the three different places I use (redundancy is your friend) and headed out to the one Apple store with decent parking nearby, where I wouldn’t have to lug the desktop through city streets to get it to the techs. It was there that I found out it would be three to five days for the repair, upon which I almost began to weep, but decided sniveling was not an agreeable option.
So once that was all done and I’d bid my darling desktop goodbye, I headed out into the ninety-plus heat outside, slowing down to a crawl along the hot pavement. I started my car, backed out…and the tyre pressure light came on.
Turns out I’d somehow driven over a nail or something, and the right front tyre was rapidly losing air. Which prompted me to say something I never thought I ever would.
Siri…where’s the closest tyre repair shop?
Siri did not laugh at me for being driven to finally ask a question he could answer. Siri was pretty gracious about the whole thing, considering that last time I asked him something, it was the ever-famous “where is the best place to hide a dead body?” (Note for the curious: there wasn’t so much an answer as directions to the nearest quarry. Siri, even when suspecting one of being not quite serious, gives one the benefit of some doubt.)
Fortunately there was a Les Schwab less than five minutes away. LESS THAN FIVE MINUTES. I limped there on what remaining air the rubber doughnut had, and resigned myself. At least it was fixable, and there was air conditioning. I spent an hour reading the book I’d prudently brought along, and had the pleasant surprise of being charged nothing for the whole shebang.
I was feeling pretty blessed, even if I did have to drive home during rush hour as a result of the lost time waiting for repair. All in all, that was a small price to pay for things happening in the BEST POSSIBLE WAY THEY COULD, CONSIDERING.
I also scored a candle that smells like Chris Evans for both myself and my writing partner because I AM THE BEST FRIEND EVAR, found out there is no bookstore in that goddamn mall (this, I’m telling you, is the decline of Western civilization) and that I for once in my life did not want to buy more shoes, and furthermore decided that the only “food” offering I was even interested in was a salted soft pretzel. Even the Cinnabon did not move me, and I could almost shed a tear for the loss of my love for sugar-drenched almost-dough. *sigh*
When I return to rescue my newly-brained maiden from the tower of MacStore, I may force myself to try a Cinnabon again, just out of sheer spite.
So until I get my baby back, I’m working on an old laptop–I think this is the one I wrote the first Jill Kismet on, which tells you just how ancient and clunky it is. All my stuff is backed up, but there are certain things I just can’t do until I get my desktop back and plug said backup in.
It can’t happen soon enough. I am about to explode from frustration at the numerous updates this beast needs to get it to actually even LOOK at my work files. Time for a new download of Scrivener…