Insult Added To Injury | Previous Challenge Entry

how it works

TITLE: Insult Added To Injury | Previous Challenge Entry
By Judith Gayle Smith-Owens Vitouswykegardinerclark
10/16/14
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Jonathan, our computer technician is now on speed-dial. He has patiently served our computer needs, repairing at least three unfortunate laptops bounced off hardwood floors.

Laptop computers are best served ignored, stored away, hidden from my whimsically capricious hands. My clumsy hands fumble as if slathered with bacon grease.

Overworking digital cameras - I take approximately four-hundred pictures per round-trip lift bus rides from SE Portland to NW Portland for beading class. Awestruck by changing seasons, I'm also compellingly drawn to wildly colorful murals.

Honestly, I only snap pictures of what catches my appreciative eye. I am happy if five of the pictures come out well enough to store on my luckless computer. Because I am a wee bit lax on my duties, I download all the blurred and unwanted pictures on the computer, forgoing the deletion of the ones I dislike for something far more interesting: Spider Solitaire.

I am easily located by the sound of my clicking camera, as well as the thumping odd rhythm fingers striking hapless computer keys.

Right now is "Write now" time. What delicious recipes for laughter can I snap and tap?

My generous, forgiving husband watched helplessly as I dropped my ancient laptop - so ancient a big blue cord attached it to the modem in his study, all the way to our living room; the entire assemblage configured with spit and duct tape.

I did not drop my poor computer in order to use my husband's pretty laptop, purchased brand new. It's only coincidental his gnarled Rheumatoid Arthritic fingers hurt too much to pound a keyboard. I showed him the broken screen on my laptop. He was graciously understanding of my clumsiness and turned his computer over to me.

And then I dropped his. I broke the little plastic strip across the back where the charger inserts into the laptop. More duct tape frantically binding the charger cord feeding the laptop busily rejecting it.

Where is Jonathan's number, the name of his company? Dialing 411 was as unsuccessful as letting my fingers scramble through the Yellow Pages. Obsessively going through the alphabet until I came to the X's, I was graciously gifted with his business name. I called him. My surly grumbles convinced him I needed him quite desperately - right now, immediately, rush, drop everything.

Jonathan bawled me out and came right over, mumbling about encased heavy-duty unbreakable unshakable laptops - if such things existed. Child-proof, me-proof.

After a week of unbearable not-knowing, I called Jonathan only to find him busily repairing everyone else's computers but mine. He cheerfully alerted me to the wonders of broken motherboards for both laptops. He promised to keep his eyes open for a tank-type laptop for me to destroy. But ah - he would attempt to find a one-year warranty covering bouncing computers.

The day following my writing deadline, with me wringing my hands in total distress for not having a new article posted, he presented - for a fee - a brand new computer for me to gawk over. This sturdy, prayerfully indestructible laptop awaited me Friday when I arrived home.

After years of reprimands because of greasy fingerprints smearing the screen - now I am encouraged to make a royal mess. This computer has a "touch screen". Now I am forced to touch the screen to do all my nefarious writings. My shaky hands spider-skitter over both screen and keyboard, not knowing what to do and where to do it. My hands pose for the Windows 7 magic, deterred by the unknowingness of Windows 8.

My histrionic personality manifests itself by the new identification log in. A tiny camera cradles my face in green brackets. My Hungarian Grandma stares back at me - every puffy line, under eye bags and unwashed pony-tailed hair. I did get face recognition, my Gram's.

I prettied myself with blue-green eye shadow, black mascara and eyeliner, pinkest lipstick - and stared in unbelief at that same old face glaring back at me, albeit more colorful. I looked like an unmade bed, my hair "witchy-pooed" around my pudding face complicated the strain of trying to project my "best side" to recognize myself.

Cameras are much ruder than mirrors. If you take a "selfie" you can pose quite nicely, knowing what flatters you best. Not so with a computer recognition camera. It takes insult and adds it to injury.

There is a moral to this story - best to look into the mirror of God's Word to rightfully "assemble my look", and remember fondly how much I loved my Gram . . .

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