Today, I had planned to write about my New Year’s Resolutions—reaffirming my commitment to Graffiti Reviews, perhaps promising to read some classic speculative fiction with the fabulous Renay, and other reading goals, as well keeping up my correspondence. Obviously, this is not that post, because 2013 decided to introduce itself to me with three punches to the stomach—in one case, almost literally.
Thursday, I prettied myself up (red printed jeans, white turtleneck, black blazer, costume necklace; I thought it was quite an arty ensemble) to head to the High Museum to celebrate my brother’s birthday. I woke up, had a cupcake for breakfast (because I had made over fifty cupcakes and muffins on Wednesday), walked the dog, worked out, took a shower, and then felt sick. My lactose intolerance can come and go, so I assumed the whole milk in the cupcakes had hit my system and determined to power through it, but after lunch, it became clear that the floor and I were going to be friends for quite some time. So for the past three days, I’ve essentially been bedridden with a stomach flu. Now, I’m a fairly active person, so my body deciding that we can’t stand up for more than fifteen minutes without nausea is beyond unfun. And it’s the first time I’ve ever had stomach flu, so waiting it out is painful. I mean, not just physically.
I did force myself out of the house on Friday evening to go see Django Unchained with a friend of mine, a previously scheduled social engagement I absolutely did not want to break. I drank half a bottle of Pepto Bismol, dragged myself off the floor, and made it through a very enjoyable evening, but as soon as I got home, I had to collapse on the floor yet again. I set my beloved laptop Demora Pasha aside to pick up a tray with a glass of water and some rice on it, and, in my stomach flu stupor, spilled the whole thing on the laptop. My heart stopped. Even though I couldn’t stand up straight, I grabbed the laptop, dabbed at the immediate damage, and then turned it off. My father and I removed the back casing (of course, you can’t get to the innards of the keyboards easily on a MacBook Pro), dabbed the further damage, and then left it, upside down, with towels, on the kitchen table, where it is now. (I didn’t remove the battery, as it’s a bit involved on a MacBook Pro and I was uncomfortable I’m going to put her back together and run her on Monday morning, if she works at all, for a few hours to clear any remnants out with the heat, and then let her sit for another day. I’ve come to terms with it now, but I was utterly distraught on Friday night. I mean, Demora Pasha is like my left hand. I’m counting my blessings, of course—it didn’t happen during school, it happened while I was home for the holidays, and we’ve got a Mac dealership in my hometown. Even if she’s utterly ruined, it could be a lot worse.
And then I woke up on Saturday morning to find out that my Gmail account had been hacked (if you got a weird e-mail from me, that’s why), so when I could sit up yesterday, I was on my parents’ old eMac, changing every password I’ve ever inputted into anything. I’m typing this up on my father’s laptop, pinned to the couch by my stomach flu. I did manage to read The Mistress of Nothing today, but I haven’t been able to type up its entries for my commonplace book and write up review notes before starting on The King of Elfland’s Daughter.
Anyway, the moral of my story: Wash your hands. Like, a lot. Keep liquids away from your laptop, but if happens, turn off your laptop and disconnect the battery as soon as humanly possible before you Google “laptop survive spill?”. And don’t panic, it’s not useful and you’re wasting precious laptop-saving time. And change your passwords once a while.
So that’s why this is not my New Year’s Resolutions post. If you need me, I’ll be here, on the floor.