This inferior quality photo is one of the last that I was able to import onto this less-than-satisfactory computer of mine. I thought my mother would prefer that description instead of my vulgar, but heart-felt, use of the F-word. This was taken several weeks ago, on our way to the coast. Yes, Miranda and Sam swam in the ocean in February. But then again, the weather was warmer then than it has been recently.
So, yes, the computer continues to irritate. Beyond belief and beyond my patience level. I just haven't felt like blogging without being able to import pictures. Strangely, we tried an almost-new computer that we'd had up in Pelican and couldn't get it to work properly either. Slower than dial-up. Then Mick's sister Cheryl, reading of our plight and wanting me to write, gave us her old computer which worked just fine at her house. But not at ours. So this strange streak of bad computer luck inspired Mick to call the phone company that we have internet service through and they did a check, however they do such things, and guess what they told us? Nothing wrong. Say what????
I seriously don't get it. I write that as I use the little, hot-pink mouse that came with the Bratz doll, the only mouse out of the several that we tried that continues to work for us. I don't want to go on and on about this because I think the last time that I wrote on this blog, eons ago, it was this same old song-and-dance. I get tired of me whining, too.
I want one of those little mini laptops. I don't want to argue with Mick about it either, but that's what it would be right now, an argument. Money aside, he insists that I don't really want a mini laptop. I insist that I do. "But you complain about trying to write on my laptop and a smaller one would be even worse," he has claimed.
Maybe, maybe not. I haven't liked writing on his in the past. Miranda's actually wasn't as touchy as his. Yes, a smaller keyboard would take some getting used to. So why do I want a mini? I want something that I can hide. I want my own. I don't want to share. I want something I can rely on. I do. I really do. I'll get used to the smaller keyboard.
Sigh.
When I get home from work, and have finished dinner, I go in to do battle with the current computer. What do I find? Sam. Or Miranda. I want my own tiny, not-too-heavy-to-carry laptop. My own.
In other news...Sam is still not going to school. We are still wrangling with the school and trying to come up with solutions. Mick recently, finally, lost his cool with them and all I have to say is, "about time". While they appeared to listen to us at past meetings, meaning we were allowed to speak, they actually didn't listen or follow one suggestion. And their methods and expertise has gotten us right where we are: Sam has attended school for only two weeks since Christmas Break. Thank you very much. Their current suggestion would have utilized our respite person to try to trick Sam into going to school. Our respite girl would have come to the house, helped Sam get dressed, and then driven her to a location to hand her off to school personnel. At which point Sam would have no longer trusted her respite person. And we would have no respite. We would have nothing. So Mick got loud and told them absolutely not.
Respite workers are not easy to find.
In the meantime, Sam has become very interested in her heighth. She likes to take her hand and measure her head against another person's to see if she is taller or not. She finds it quite amusing that when she stands in front of me in the bathroom mirror, I am completely obliterated from view.
She has also developed an annoying obsession with MY shirt sleeves. I wear long-sleeve shirts exclusively at this time of year. Sam prefers tank tops any time of year and has been cutting off the sleeves and picking off the sleeves of most of her clothes. I suppose I should be grateful that she hasn't done that to me, but she does bully me and insists on shoving my sleeves up my arms until they are bunched underneath my armpits. She does this is stores. And if I assert myself and pull my sleeves back down, everything will stop right there while she pushes them up my arms again. And if I protest, she can get even louder. Infuriating. Humiliating. Arm flab on parade.
But if that isn't enough, Samantha is now obsessed with bald men and wants to rub their heads. Mick always thought he was bald but he isn't bald enough for his daughter. So she attacks strangers in public. This is such a new development that my reflexes aren't what they should be. Luckily Mick is more attuned and can usually ( read that as not always) predict what she's up to before her hands make contact. Cheryl, if you take her anywhere, BE ALERT. Spare the poor bald men of America, many of whom are not as comfortable as your brother.
So that's it for now. I continue to debate the whole blogging issue. Computer problems continue to plague me and take the joy out of the process. But family and work life go on. I continue to work on the novel and will post some excerpts soon. Until then...
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