Well. The unthinkable has happened.
Water got spilled on the MacBook.
I know. I know. Weep for me.
I was putting Owen into his high chair and his leg knocked over a glass of water we were about to share with our lunch and there it went, right over and although it appeared to me that very little got IN to the MacBook, I guess it was enough because my magic box- she is not working.
(Magic Box is what I call my MacBook. Get your mind out of the gutter.)
Right now it is upside down with a gentle fan blowing over it. I am in despair. Really. I am. I mean- what if it's dead?
I did this once before and it was SOAKED that time and after a night of drying, it was fine. But I don't know. I do not know.
I am writing this on Mr. Moon's computer. It is a Gateway. He likes it fine. He plays poker on it and researches things he's interested in online and sometimes reads my blog. He does not, however, have an entire community of people whom he stays in touch with through a Magic Box. No. He does not.
And he doesn't give a fig about writing. Except notes. He writes wonderful, lovely notes on post-its and index cards and I love that about him. He is an exceptional husband in many ways.
He let me use his computer and I appreciate that so much. I would not be as gracious. See- that's the thing about my MacBook. It is mine. It is one of the very few things in this world that I do not really have to share with anyone. Oh, I have shared it and that's fine but mostly, it is mine. All mine. And it's filled with old novels and started novels and short stories and oh yeah, let's not even mention the ten thousand pictures and nine thousand of them are of Owen.
I suppose I should be panicking. Actually, I have a lot of the writing on flash drive. The pictures? No. Did I ever get that external hard drive I said I was going to get?
And tomorrow will tell the tale. I will know whether I have screwed the pooch and fried the Book or if has recovered.
Meanwhile, if you don't see me around the hood the way you usually do- well, you'll know.
My Magic Box. The thing I hardly even call a computer. The thing I treat like a baby, craddle in my arms when I carry it, never (okay, hardly ever up until today) leave a beverage next to it because a dog might jump up and knock it over, the thing I put in the center of the dining room table at night so that if a dog should jump on the table he won't knock it off, the thing I really do love as much as any THING on this earth (and yes, I know it's only a thing) may live or may die.
It's battery has almost died already but I just keep it plugged in and don't mind doing that a bit. It is pretty old for a computer. I think it may be about to be four. And it has been fabulous. I haven't had it into the shop in years.
Well, we shall see.
And I know that in the grand scheme of things, a computer isn't that important.
But I also know that a Magic Box sort of is. To me, anyway. It is the channel through which I am able to stay sane with words and with communication and it is mine and I love it and I hope that tomorrow it will be alive.