Know What To See

“You have to know what to see.” — Angel in Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Season 2, Episode 14)

The machine warned me that PC was nearing the end of its life. Dangerously close to the end, it muttered under its breath. It had been blazing this message at me for at least…well, for a while.

Change ink cartridge soon, the machine insisted. No more of this enthusiastic swishing the cartridge and slamming it back into place. It’s October and you always change the cartridge in October, so what’s your excuse now?

After being away for several weeks, I came home to discover nothing had resolved itself. A new PC piece and a fresh ink cartridge were ready to go, tucked safely near the machine, exactly where I left them.

Where are helpful house elves when you need them — particularly technically adept, technologically savvy ones that can be paid off in chocolate and gushes of gratitude?

They’re not here.

I’m the only one who’s here. Changing the machine’s parts is the single glaring item left on today’s ambitiously fabulous to-be-done list. I have no choice; if I am to honor the first day’s commitments in my new planner tool, I have to change machine parts.

I can slough off my promises to myself later on in the quarter, but for now, I’m setting a good example for myself, something admirable and noteworthy that I can brag about to strangers at the supermarket (I’ve learned that you can definitely rely on the kindness of strangers as opposed to those you live with; family would just as soon make fun of what they believe to be a truly minor achievement).

With fresh tea and a heavy apron tied around my waist in case there’s a terrible ink incident, I am ready. I tear open the first box, gaze blankly at carefully numbered pictures of what I am supposed to do, baffled because the insides of my machine don’t match the happy one in the picture.

Two dazed minutes later, I realize that I’m not seeing the picture correctly. The carrying thing comes out and then you take the big piece out of the middle doodad. The process seemed easy when I first looked — even easier when I knew what I was supposed to be seeing.

That done, I whip through the installation. In ten minutes, I close the front of the machine and prepare for more writing.

I almost burst into tears when I see a nasty reminder continuing to flash on the message screen. But I fed you, I want to yell. I did everything that you wanted.

A quick search gives me the answer. My machine doesn’t know that this piece has been changed. I’m going to have to do an enormously difficult, manual reset. I brace myself, sip the tea, tighten the apron. Here we go. I hold down a little button for five seconds, wait for a new message, close the front cover. The new message flashes. Mission accomplished; the complex, super-technical horrible machine supplies installation is done. There are even clever labels to mail the exhausted parts back to the manufacturer for recycling.

My finally satisifed machine purrs. What can I do for you now, she seems to ask. More than you’ll ever know, I snicker and print out my work in progress, all 250 pages of it.

There’s also this small matter of chicken parmesean that I am going to make for dinner tonight; lend me a hand you whiny, wonderful machine!