For not appreciating my family.
Everyone has left.
Thank Heavens, right?
I decide, since everyone is finally gone, to start on the HUGE pile of work I've let stack up since Wednesday. ALL of which requires a printer.
My Epson All-In-One is a gift from the Gods.
I adore it.
It does everything I need it to do, plus some.
Unless I need it to.
I have about, oh, 28 pages of Medicaid Progress Notes to print out and fax to Medicaid, the treatment company I contracted these kids through and my employee so she knows where these kids are IN CASE she has to see them some this week since I'm not up to par.
Hook up USB cable between printer and laptop - CHECK
Turn on printer - CHECK
Hit Print - CHECK
PRINT - Umm, nope, sorry
First page prints all jacked up.
Missing portions of ink and such.
Easy to fix - have the system clean the print heads.
I go through this 9 times and nothing changes.
Screw it, just replace $100 worth of cartridges.
Throw all the old ones in the trash.
Repeat printing process.
Only this time, NOTHING prints.
No empty "spaces" just ENTIRELY EMPTY SHEET.
Okay, look, I admit I am COMPLETELY technologically impaired.
If, one day, some poor boy marries me, he will discover it is his responsibility to do all things regarding computers and printers.
I can handle TVs, VCRs, DVRs, DVD players, DVD burners, ANYTHING except computers and printers.
And until I find said-boy, I use my friend's husbands.
I immediately call Matt.
Me: "Matt . . . HELP!"
laughing Matt: "What's wrong, Meghan?"
Me (high panicky NOT pretty voice): "My printer has decided to hate me!"
laughing Matt: "Honey, that doesn't happen. Printers don't have feelings. What's it doing?"
Me (note of panic a bit higher): "I have all these things that needed to be done like yesterday and I can't print ANY of them and there is NO ink on the paper and I don't know what's going on and I need help NOW NOW NOW."
guffawing Matt: "Brian and I are on our way back home from Little Rock, we can stop by and look at it and see what we can do."
Me: "Oh thank you, thank you, thank you." and mentally thinking thank GOD "Ruby" married someone who majored in something computeresque.
WHOLE NEW FREAK OUT MODE
Mental monologue - Thank God, thank God, Matt's going to fix everything, I know it.
Uhh. . . .
Did Matt say he and BRIAN were coming.
Umm . .. hottie Brian A. or not cute Brian E.
Bound to be hottie Brian A.
Hottie Brian A. whom I would never do anything with because he's slept with anything that walks and wears a skirt.
Gorgeous Brian A. that I have been semi-obsessed with since Sophomore year of college.
Yeah, I know I wouldn't touch him with a ten foot pole, but do I want ANYONE attractive seeing me at this moment???
ME AT THIS MOMENT
Black silk pajamas with light pink pin-striping.
Hair pulled into a ponytail almost completely on top of my head.
No make-up at ALL save some Carmex on my chapped lips.
Lightly dazed look in my eyes from a combination of shell-shock from a weekend with the family, pain pills and freak-out about printer.
Fuzzy pink slippers given as a gift from my grandmother this weekend.
House relatively trashed because my family, who loves me, leaves everything out because they don't know where anything goes.
Spring from the bed.
Spend 3 minutes in tears because I sprung a little too hard and parts HURT.
Rush to closet.
Grab a pair of chinos, white long sleeve pima shirt, clover green deep V-neck cashmere sweater, khaki polo hat (because the hair is BEYOND saving, just gonna have to stick the ponytail out the back of the hat and hope I come off as cute and playful), scrub face clean of any and all dirt, slap on a touch of blusher, a bit of eyeliner and a pale pink lipgloss.
Throw EVERYTHING that's anywhere in the house into a closet.
Cry from exerting so much effort after being carried everywhere all weekend.
Retouch makeup again.
Think: Why the hell are you doing this???????? Matt's happily married and a great friend - he doesn't care what you look like. Brian has no hope of ever laying a hand on you and probably could care less if you look like you were just run over with a dump truck.
And yet, I am sitting here wondering . . . instead of typing this all out on the blog, should I be putting on some perfume?
I'm blaming this on Southern raising.
WHY do we Southern belles constantly have to be prettied up?
Can't, just once, I let these boys see me in PJ's and a ponytail.
And there's the doorbell.