Drying Out

Well, we established a new rule here at the Casa de Ginley. 

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No beverages may be consumed while working on the computer.

This edict came about in the usual way – after disaster struck. 

It all started with a trip to the corner to visit Dunkin' Donuts, an old haunt we hadn't visited much since the pandemic. Now the lobby was open again, the day was warm and sunny, the snow had melted temporarily and it was a pleasant day for a stroll.

Returning home, I went back to work and that's when the trouble started. 

I splashed coffee on my laptop keyboard.

Panic ensued. 

I mopped up the mess as quickly as I could, turned off the computer and turned it upside down. I called my go-to Mac guy at Quadstar and asked if there was any hope.

He said that I did what I was supposed to...sort of. For future reference (and for all of my readers), I provide the following instructions. Should you ever make the same mistake, follow this sequence of actions IMMEDIATELY following liquid contact with your computer:

1. Turn off the computer.

2. Unplug.

3. Flip it upside down and put a towel underneath it to soak up the spillage.

4. Pray and/or do Reiki on your computer.

5. Wait 24 hours.

6. Pray and/or do Reiki on your computer.

7. Turn it back on.

As Mr. Ginley will attest, I was stressed. Also, very lucky. The following afternoon, my computer booted up, and everything worked fine – except for the keys. Because I put cream and sugar in my coffee, the keys were sticky. I resolved this by very carefully running a Q-tip soaked in iso alcohol around the keyboard. Eventually, the alcohol (and careful typing) did the trick.

Yes, I will miss drinking coffee in front of the computer, especially while reading the morning paper.

But I can use my iPad for that. I never want to have to plotz about having fried an expensive piece of equipment because I'm an eejit.

I only wish I'd remembered what the Pepsi Syndrome taught us. 

But like they say, those who don't learn from history are doomed to repeat it.

Mail Call-ed Off

Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.

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Alas, no mention was made of COVID.

Like many of our neighbors, mail delivery has become erratic these last several weeks. As is the case with pretty much everything, the culprit is the pandemic.

COVID has quite a rap sheet:

• Supply chain issues

• Delayed learning in schools

• Increased drug usage/overdoses

• More gun violence

• Rampant road rage/plane rage/mask rage

• Widespread depression

• Rising number of suicides

• Absence of empathy

I'm not sure that COVID caused all of these conditions. I suspect it just chafed away the wafer-thin layer of civility that used to coat the surface of our society. 

But today, I'm going to look for some good news. Much like the nightly newscast, why not end on a happy note? 

So here are some upbeat thoughts to start the day:

• It's the weekend.

• I can have a Stella Artois tonight.

• COVID seems to be settling down for the time being.

• The sun is out today.

• I heard birdsong in my backyard this week.

• Daylight is getting longer – sunset is now post-6 pm.

• Mr. Ginley and I were able to get out of bed this morning.

In conclusion, I reprise a quote, the last words from the move The Tall T. 

After shooting up all the bad guys, Randolph Scott turns to a sobbing Maureen O'Sullivan and quips, “C'mon now, it's gonna be a nice day.”

Early Bird vs. Night Owl

"I'm turning this off," Mr. Ginley proclaimed, ejecting the DVD from the machine. "You fell asleep. It's only 9:00, for god's sake."

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"But I only closed my eyes for a second," I protested.

"You had your eyes closed for at least a minute. Just go to bed."

And there we go again.  Alas, I am an early bird and Mr. is a night owl. I'm up at 5:30 or 6:00 in the morning, while he sleeps in until 9:30 or so.

In all honesty, I like getting up early. I get so much done while much of the world dozes along, ignoring the dawn. Admittedly, part of the reason I rise early every day is the cat doesn't understand the concept of weekends. So even on Saturdays and Sundays, she gets me up so I can  see to her breakfast. The downside of this is that I also crash earlier than I'd like. Sometimes I'll nap on a weekend afternoon, just to stay awake for Saturday Night Live.

And no, that doesn't really work. Mr. Ginley is still prodding me to keep the peepers open.

I feel bad about my narcoleptic episodes. But somewhere around 9 pm, my brain shuts down and my eyelids quickly follow. And Mr. is left to channel surf or read until 1:30 or 2:30 a.m. 

There was an article in the New York Times about sleep patterns. There's a thing called segmented sleep, where you snooze for two four-hour periods rather than eight hours straight. So, for example, you might sleep from 4 a.m. to 8 a.m., then 4 p.m. to 8 p.m. The French even gave a name to the awake time: dorveille (translated to wakesleep). Some folks swear by it. Maybe it's a good alternative to insomnia.

As for me, I'm stuck with the straight-through-the-night method. Once my head hits the pillow, I'm usually down for the count until the cat alarm goes off (except for the three or four nocturnal bathroom runs, which are more like sleepwalking episodes). 

I'm not sure it's any more possible for me to become a night owl than it is for Mr. Ginley to rise with the birds. 

So I guess we'll just have to make the most of our time together.

Before 9 p.m.

Feline Fire Bugs

South Korea confirmed what most of us already knew: Cats can be assholes.

"Who, me?"

In a recent article by Jennifer Hassan for the Washington Post, it was revealed that South Korean officials warned citizens that cats had started 107 house fires over the past three years. Most of these conflagrations began when mischievous felines figured out how the knobs work on electric stoves.

Of course, never the country to be outdone, the United States reported that nearly 1,000 home fires each year are started by "pets." You're probably thinking, "Pets can be a lot of different animals. Maybe it's Fido and not Fluffy who got the fire started."

You can try to justify it all you want, but you know in your heart of hearts that in the majority of those 1,000 home fires, the culprit was a cat. 

Now, don't get me wrong, when it comes to furry four-legged critters, I'm solidly in the cat camp. However, I've witnessed cats around candles, and I can attest to the fact that they can't be trusted. In my mind's eye, I can envision my too-curious cat catching fire and flying around the house spreading the blaze from room to room as she frantically tries to douse the flames.

That's why I keep the bathroom door firmly closed when I take a candlelit bath.

So how do authorities suggest we keep our homes from igniting at the hands of our "pets?"

We are told to use gates and crates to prevent shenanigans in our absence. Put child-proof knobs on our stoves. And refrain from burning candles in the same room as our critters.

By way of throwing cat owners a bone, the article told the story of a hero cat who saved its family by biting the owner repeatedly until he woke up and got everyone to safety. I'm thinking the cat was probably looking out for its own skin, quite honestly. I suspect if there'd been a pet door, the family would have been toast.

The author also tried to deflect some of the blame by citing two stories from Essex, England about non-cats who'd ignited fires. The first was a tortoise who knocked a heat lamp onto its bedding. No one was hurt, and the turtle, whom rescuers described as "angry" looking, survived the ordeal. In the second instance, a dog turned on a microwave that had bread stored in it. Following which, officials were obliged to tell people not to leave shit in their microwaves.

While these two stories may illustrate there are other culprits involved, I'm pretty sure cats are to blame for most household mayhem. This point was hammered home yesterday as I tried to work and Maggie started playing with the electrical cords in my office. 

She was banished unceremoniously, and I refused to let her in. Until she'd scratched at the door for 10 minutes, and I couldn't take it anymore and let her back in. That got her motor running, and she started climbing all over me, like "I'm cute and you have to love me and you're a stupid human and you'll forgive me." Blah blah blah. Satisfied that she'd made amends, she curled up in her chair, which is next to mine, and slept the rest of the day.

Sure, it worked. I forgave her. 

That's why cats as a species have survived for so long.

Feline wiles.

P.S. Kudos to writer Jennifer Hassan, who managed to work the pun "purrpetrators" into her article. Well played, my friend.