Vexation, Thy Name is Hewlett Packard 4620

So I had to buy a new printer at work.

My old printer was making tortured "electric violin in a blender" noises but that's not why I replaced it.

I replaced it because I may or may not have snapped something off during a black ink cartridge change that may or may not have caused a puddle of ink to accumulate on the floor of said printer instead of on the paper even tho the printer said, "Genuine Hewlett Packard cartridge successfully installed" as the black ink congealed on the floor of the printer, like spider blood.

I printed a test page. No black ink.

I tried to make a copy of a colorful card with black writing on it. Just a colorful card. No black writing on it.

I declared the printer dead and respectfully added it to the Dead Technology RIP closet.

An hour later I was unboxing my NEW printer/scanner/copier/faxer. This was exciting. I'd never had a fax machine in my office before. I set it up without incident and printed off board meeting notes.

Then things went awry.

I opened Quickbooks and tried to print some checks, including paychecks. No dice. Something about the font being wrong on the new printer and I needed to change it from 'settings', or 'setup', or some such. What difference does it make...really?

I opened every single screen having to do with a printer and found nothing anywhere to change the font size.

So I did what any normal, sane person would've done. I said, "Screw it" and put the checks into Quickbooks while hand writing them out, putting off any further messing with it till I got home from vacation.

I started getting disgruntled texts while on the road. Something about our main fax machine now acting all squidgy. That's the technical term. Squidgy.

Hindsightedly, it occurred to me that perhaps hooking up two fax machines to one phone line was a bad idea, but I had no conclusive facts on that idea because I hadn't actually looked in the installation guide.

It's wrapped in clear plastic and everyone knows that's hella hard to open. Hermetically sealed and whatnot. Why risk a possibly-fatal saran wrap cut?

So there was truly nothing I could do about it except commiserate with a genuinely sincere, "Wow. Really? That sucks. I'm sure I have no idea how that happened or how to fix it- have you tried plugging it into a different socket?" because I was 2,000 miles away from the clinic and the only key to my personal office was in my purse and my new fax machine was locked inside my personal office. Luckily there were fresh blueberries, and grilled chicken, and glorious company, and gentle foggy mountain scenery and a lovely white wine to distract me from my employees' misery. Life is good sometimes.

It was sort of a drag to hand write payroll, so I knew once I got home I'd have to have a Come to Jesus Meeting with the printer.

I was supposed to work yesterday from 1ish till 9ish, but stuff happened. I decided on our trip to sell out of one of the breeds of guinea pigs I've been raising for almost 20 years, posted it online two days ago and was swamped with replies. I currently have exactly four of them unsold...out of over 60. So I had people coming to the house to pick up pigs yesterday morning, and yesterday late afternoon. In between I took Edna to the eye doctor, which was a whole nuther level of stress.

EXCERPT-

"Ms. Hoskins? Are you having any trouble with your eyes?"
"Yes. They move around and I have to stop every few lines when I'm reading to get them back on track".
"Oh- you mean they seem cloudy? If you use your Systane before reading that will help".
"Well, yes- they are also a little cloudy".
"Good. The systane will help if you put it in before reading".
"OK".

ME
"NO, SHE SAID HER EYES MOVE AROUND. IF YOU LOOK AT HER EYES, THE LEFT ONE ISN'T TRACKING. SHE WILL BE LOOKING STRAIGHT AHEAD AND IT WANDERS OFF TO THE OUTSIDE. HER EYES MOVE AROUND. THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH CLOUDY VISION".

"Ah. I see that now. Lets run some tests".

There's almost nothing I hate more than doctors who don't freaking listen, assume they know what you're trying to tell them, phrase their response to fit the diagnosis they want to give, and move on. That shit don't fly with me.

So by 8pm I was ready and primed.

The fucking printer was next.

"You're going into work NOW???"
"Yes. The fucking printer is next".
"Oh, boy". *nervous laughter of relief that he'd be 20 miles away from the scene of the crime*

I started by removing the installation disk from my computer, uninstalling all programs having to do with the HP4620 and restarting the computer.

Cold and calculating. Exceedingly calm.

I chose "add a printer" and it asked me to insert the disk. I inserted the disk. It told me installation would be easier and faster using the online guide and since I'd used the disk before I thought I'd give this a shot.

I aborted the mission once it started asking me all sorts of non-printer-related questions and went back to "No, thanks- just use standard disk installation".

It sorta skipped and snorted and twitched, but ended up by saying "Printer successfully installed- would you like to print a test page?"

Why, yes. That would be lovely. *send*

Nothing.

*send*

Nothing.

*SEND*

Nothing. Lets check the little 'help' option up top of the screen.

"Are you having trouble printing?"

Yes. Yes, I am.

"Would you like to troubleshoot your printer?"

That would be freaking awesome, thanks.

--------------------- ---------------------- ---------------------------

"Your chosen printer is not set as the default printer. Would you like us to set it as your default printer?"

What do you think, computer?

--------------------- ---------------------- ---------------------------

"Could not set selected printer as default printer. Go online to troubleshoot further?"

Why the hell not?

------------------- --------------------- ---------------------------

"Can not fix this problem. We suggest the following steps-
-contact the manufacturer of the printer
-contact the manufacturer of your computer
-call a computer repair person
-ask a friend"

Are they serious??? ASK A FRIEND??? That's the most fabulously generic-yet-sincere bullshit suggestion I've ever seen in my life.

*Ask a friend*

Anyone who considers themselves my friend wouldn't have been within striking distance at that moment. I mean, they're my friends, but they all have superb survival instincts.

So I went to uninstall the program...again.

But I couldn't.

Because it was nowhere on the computer. I shit you not.

The HP4620 printer icon was in 'available printers'. It had told me, "printer successfully installed- would you like to run a test page?" So where the Sam Hell was the program???

I restarted the computer after removing the disk.

Under 'trouble shooting printers' it gave me the option of doing a 'system restore' to right before everything went to shit.

I restored said system.

Inserted the disk.

Chose "No thanks- I'll install from disk".

This time it asked me relevant questions like "Do you want to activate the fax feature at this time?" NO- NO I DON'T.

and "Do you want to make this your default printer?" FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT'S HOLY---YES!!!

"Printer installed successfully. Would you like to run a test page?"

.
..
...

*deep breath*

*send*

TEST PAGE!

Why, yes. Yes that is a Microsoft Test page in a frame on my office wall where there used to be a photo of my family.

Why do you ask?

I was on a roll. It was 10:30pm, but I had to conquer the other side of the printer issue, which was the Quickbooks check writing font debacle issue.

I tried to open Quickbooks.

Quickbooks did not open.

I tried to open Quickbooks.

Quickbooks did not open.

I TRIED TO OPEN QUICKBOOKS.

QUICKBOOKS DID NOT OPEN.

I restarted the computer.

Quickbooks opened.

"Quickbooks would like to install an update that will greatly enhance your Quickbooks experience. Would you like to install update now?"

WHY THE FUCKING HELL NOT? SINCE I'M HERE AND ALL...

Thirty minutes later Quickbooks re-opened.

I wrote a test check.

It printed flawlessly.

Before it had time to realize what it had done, I exited the application(s) and turned off my computer.

Not restarted it. Turned it blessedly off.

The split second before the printer's display light flickered off I noticed that the black ink is already low.

I need to change the black ink cartridge.

I got home about midnight and my dreams last night were filled with puddles of congealed spider blood.

Making Shit Up

I love to write.

I've always loved to write.

Words are magical, wondrous things and threaded together carefully and artfully they weave thoughts and dreams into the cloth that becomes the wardrobe of our imaginations.

Just by chance, the things that I've written tend to be real, and experiential and concise.

School newspaper, local newspaper, articles for a website, journal entries, blog.

Very much "where, what, when, how and who in 3,000 words or less" sort of writing.

'CancerDance- a love story' is journal entries and blog posts with a few chapters tacked to the beginning. Don't get me wrong; the format makes it much more visceral than simple prose would be.

'Easterchicks Gone Bad' is a collection of articles written over the course of 5 years that are all put into one volume.

Both of these are about real stuff. Reporting, as it were.

'Almost Invisible- a different kind of survival story' was my first foray into fiction, and it scared me to death. Not just the fiction aspect of it, but making a whole BOOK aspect- everything in me is trained to take a subject, circle around it, dive in, rip the heart out of it and set it to words...condensed and descriptive yet complete.

I wrote that little 100 page book one chapter at a time, one a night till it ended- and till it ended even *I* didn't know how it would end.

I was lamenting my current state of discouragement with my writing life in general and a dear friend...lets call her 'Audra', said, "You write for the love of writing and because you have people in your head that will drive you crazy if you don't let them out."

And therein lies the Rub.

My head? Empty.

There are no people in it.

The characters in 'Almost Invisible' were the first time that had ever happened to me in over 50 years. And so far, the last.

So I've got what I believe is a pretty good concept for what I'm doing now, and I've got it laid out in my head (and on paper as well because I'm old) and I'm fully engaged in the entire project.

The people in the book? Elusive as Bigfoot.

Audra writes fabulous characters who apparently hatch between her ears and gain form through her computer keys; and they leap off the pages of her book full of life and passion.

Joe, too- sits down to write and his stories appear on his computer chock full of people who come with their own histories and quirks and humanity. He admits that he has no idea how a book will go till it's done. "Beats the shit outta ME", he'll say when asked why a story takes the turn that it does.

The part of writing he finds tedious is the editing and spell-checking, but the story parts just flow.

I'm in awe of such gifts.

Having only dealt in non-fiction my entire life, it was pretty easy to think, "Fiction? What's so difficult about THAT? All you gotta do is make shit up".

Now I know.

Now I sit at my computer mentally drawing and crumpling up character after character in my head till I sketch one up that fills the need of the story.

I'll type it all up and think, "THERE! I've finished the first section", then look at my page count. Twelve. Twelve pages.

Dumbfounded, I think, "What the hell? I've said all that needs said here and it's only twelve pages??? That will not a book make".

So painstakingly, line by line and paragraph by paragraph I go through it again. I read each tiny section, pause, close my eyes and think, "MORE".

I elaborate, describe, add background and depth and read it again.

"MORE".

Over and over and over again.

It's unarguably the hardest work I've ever done regarding words.

I believe it's good for me.

I believe I'll come out the other side a better writer, and I believe I'll be proud of the finished product both in content and quality.

Will anyone read it?

Beats the hell outta me.

But Audra says that's not what I'm doing it for, and she's never lied to me.

Kicking and Screaming- And Not in a Good Way

It's been so nice being home.

I've almost got the house back in order.
I've almost got work caught up.

Ward's healthier, heavier (up to 154 from his low of 141, but still 4 pounds shy of his hospital discharge weight of 158- a weight they classified as "extremely emaciated"- and about 40 pounds shy of perfect). He's getting stronger every day, and the last few weeks has been going to out-patient physical therapy instead of having the home nurse come in.

Alec's getting back into the swing of school, art class, tae kwon do and chores.

Yep, sure has been nice.

Time to go.

Nine hours from now we'll be loading the car and heading back to Houston via Jackson Mississippi (I know the abbreviation, I just like typing the whole word) where Alec will compete in the World ITA Championships- his 3rd world championship tournament and his 10th (I think) tournament in 4 years.

Then we'll head to Houston for re-checks and lab work and scans on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.

So this week has been collecting our house sitters, getting work situated to work without me for another week, all the mess that goes with leaving home for more than a day.

I've not had a chance to do alot of news-scanning or thinking about much other than those tasks at hand- things to keep my son's life as normal as possible, my farm cared for and my employment justified, for Ward to once again endure things that we hope with all our hearts and minds will show and reassure us that my husband's cancer has not returned, that he is healing properly, that we'll be safe to come home till the next scans in four to six months.

As we've lived now for years- from scan to scan. Appointment to appointment.

Little things frighten me. Like the incision from this last surgery on Ward's neck that refuses to heal.

Because life is so fragile, no matter how big we try to make ourselves appear.

Typing this tonight, bone tired yet not ready for sleep, I listen with half an ear to some Celebrity News Show- and they've got close-ups of poor misunderstood Lindsay Lohan getting sentenced to 90 days in jail for being a terminal, perennial screw-up.

She's in tears and so frightened at the prospect of incarceration. For 90 days.

And I confess to being less than charitable.

I want to slap her upside her spoiled little head and tell her to stop sniveling and get her sorry little ass to jail. Then to rehab. Then, if she's very lucky and smartens up, on to the rest of her life.

90 days?

A walk in the damn park.

Seagull Management

I'm a boss.

I haven't always been a boss- most of my life I've been an employee.

The last 8 years I've managed a clinic for 19 area Veterinarians- the same clinic I was an employee at for 7 years before I became the boss.

Becoming the boss is sort of like becoming a mom. When you hold that new baby in your arms, you think with white-hot conviction "I will not make the same stupid mistakes my own mother made- I will be the Perfect Mother".

By the time your child is 5 years old you hear your mother's words flying out of your own mouth and you look around in horror thinking "Where the hell did SHE come from???"

So when I became the boss, I thought "I will not make the same stupid mistakes all those bosses I have worked for made- I will be the Perfect Boss".

I made sure the clinic was fully stocked and updated.

I made sure there were cokes in the fridge and chocolate on the cabinet shelves.

I made sure there was name-brand shower gel in the bathrooms.

I fought long and hard to institute both performance bonuses and the ability to offer group health insurance.

I allowed the technicians the freedom to choose their own hours and schedules- thinking that since they were all, yanno, adults, that the clinic would be staffed and cared for by people who were cheerful and who wanted to be there- on accounta they chose when they would do so.

I was annoyed when the staff not only did not keep the clinic clean, but seemed to willfully tear it up.

I was dismayed when faced with disputes that made the back seat battles between my offspring siblings look like the ultimate in diplomacy. "He's not cleaning up after himself". "She keeps drinking my water". "HE'S BREATHING MY AIR".

Thoughts entered my head that were depressingly like what I'd heard OTHER bosses utter in frustration and anger.

"What's the matter with these people?"
"Don't they know how hard times are and how good they have it?"
"Employees just can't be trusted- you have to watch them every minute".

But here's the thing-

Those same employees have stepped forward time after time and taken on things that are clearly NOT in their job descriptions- just because I needed them to.

Those same employees have not cursed me because we're not giving out bonuses anymore (and no more will be forthcoming till the economy turns around), but have thanked me that when I needed to cut hours to save our budget I did it without firing anyone outright or canceling the health insurance.

They understand that while they can't say "You don't know how hard this job is" because I've done every icky part of it myself, they can be sure that I will be fighting for them and their rights, because I've done every icky part of it myself.

So while my bosses question the wisdom of my "hands-off management", I refuse to tighten the reins and become a "looking over the shoulder" boss- because that way does not lead to increased production, but to increased resentment.

I refuse to engage in the Seagull Management I've experienced all my working life- the boss who swoops in, makes a lot of noise, shits on everyone and flies out again.

I believe in my employees but am aware that at some point MY bosses may decide to "make an example of someone" since too many of them are of the school that nothing gets staff attention like firing someone and it'll be me saying

"Welcome to Walmart- would you like a buggy?"
or
"For 49 cents more you could Texas-size that".

And working for the Seagull Manager.

Again.