The TRUman Show

Remember that uber pooey feeling I was telling you about in this post? Well, it's been elevated to an orange alert, meaning the risk of me not folding the laundry, not doing the dishes and not cleaning up after myself is significantly higher than it was 2 days ago.

It all started yesterday morning. My twelve year old son had stayed up until midnight to finish the last two chapters of his autobiography. When I first woke up I thought it was cute to learn that he wanted to be a missionary in Japan so he could convert a few samari and that he wanted to name his first born son after Rocky Balboa. I even burst into fits of deep-belly laughter when I saw his cover page.


But this was his final project in English class which meant somehow it needed to be printed ASAP-- seemingly simple task for someone who actually has a working printer and a computer that operates in something other than safe mode.

For me it became a trial and a tribulation of monumental proportions. When your child has a 50 page project that needs to be printed, YOU have a 50 page project that needs to be printed. And when your child inserts photos onto nearly every page of his project, black and white ink ain't gonna cut it.

Let's just say I had to exercise the patience of Job.

On second thought, Job's got nothin' on me! He never had to deal with technology.

Granted half of my trials and tribulations were due to my own stupidity, the other half were all my computer's fault.

In fact, I'm going a write a book called, MEN ARE FROM VENUS, COMPUTERS ARE FROM MARS!

Although, if you think about it, computers and men are actually a lot alike. They both need power to operate. They both wait to be commanded before they complete a task. They both shut down unexpectedly when you don't speak their bewildering language or understand their frustrating logic. And they both get that glazed look when you tell them your emotional needs.

The only difference is that you can't sweet talk your computer. You can't bat your eyelashes and run your fingers through their hair and say "please, please, pretty please, will you print this document? I promise there will be something in it for YOU, big boy!"

I'm not going to bore you with the deets so please don't ask and don't offer advice and most of all, don't say Why didn't you just push F8 or control/alt/delete or why didn't you call me?

There were three different computers involved, of different races, creeds and genders--not to mention three different word programs that are no longer on speaking terms.

Why can't we all just get along! I kept saying in my best Rodney King voice.

I had to call IT services to do an intervention on my office laptop, but even they couldn't coax it to print, save files or connect to the internet. Finally it pulled a crash test dummy and they threw their hands in the air and recommended I have it admitted for rehabilitation.

One thing I now know for sure is that we are all just characters in The Truman Show.


I testify that this is tru. Why else would it be called the TRUman show. This life is nothing more than one big reality show. And the director is Mr. Murphy. He lays down all the laws.


I could almost hear his voice over the loud speaker calling out directions to his crew:

The dummy's in a hurry, cue the pleasant old man in the golf cart to turn in front of her in five, four, three . . . NOW! And slow him down to 3 miles per hour.

The dummy is walking from IT services carrying her unprotected laptop. Cue the rain.

The dummy is about to complete her task. Cue print services to jam their copy machines with 800 flyers.

And then as if that wasn't enough, Mr. Murphy decided they needed some dramatic irony.

Do you know what dramtic irony is, peeps? It's when the audience knows something the main character doesn't know. Something that makes the audience giggle or cry or say oh NO, look out below!

So yesterday millions of people were sitting on their celestial couches, eating their proverbial popcorn and giggling as I rushed around campus like I was trying to win The Amazing Race with my zipper down.

That's right, I had XYY!

And that's not even the half of it, but you wouldn't understand because you've never walked a mile in my slippahs.

The long day ended with me consoling myself in a ginormous cherry blossom bubble bath with extra extra bubbles to cover all my nooks and crannys.

(I figured the audience had had enough laughs for one day.)