I had another conversation with one of those computer techies this week, the kind of conversation that always leaves me babbling like a child and apologizing because I have to set down the phone to make a move on the keyboard.
I can visualize her (or sometimes him) sitting at her massive console, her headset firmly in place.
I, on the other hand, am juggling a receiver as I attempt to remember which is what among the icons and the keys.
I love my Mac. I really do. I brag about it to all the other computer users, especially the PCs who are always heckling us Apple backers.
They call themselves PCs, but that only stands for personal computer, so I am really one of those as well. What they used to be called were IBM clones, a designation I assume they didn’t fancy.
I love the anti-PC commercials with their ever-increasing slams at the ever-increasing numbers of Windows. Even the guy who writes about PCs in the metro paper says they are going to have problems with Windows 7.
I laugh when somebody sends me a warning about a virus, which is coursing through the lifeblood of computers around the world.
Macs don’t get viruses. (The moment I wrote that, I shuddered, for I have suddenly called the wrath of all virusdom down upon my Mac and all its brothers and cousins.)
What Macs do get, or at least this Mac does, are tendencies to wander off from their address designations in etherland.
It has happened before. Out of the blue, Mac refuses to give me my e-mail. Usually, but not always, I can send, but not receive.
Now I know it is more blessed to give, but this is ridiculous.
I turn it off and on. I unplug the modem. I try various incantations, some of them a little blue.
I always end up calling the 800 number, talking to a computer voice that can recognize my plight, then to someone who can help me fix it.
Keep in mind I don’t know the names of servers and things. Not for sure, anyway. I have icons called Entourage and Safari, but they don’t say that. They say e-mail and Internet. When you click Safari, you get the homepage for Google.
And that’s handy, because with Google I can find out just about anything in the world, including recipes for marshmallows.
One thing I found out while Googling my own name is that I graduated from Denton High School, which is not true. I have attempted, in vain, to reach them with a message that their information is incorrect. Can somebody help me?
I know my Google, but I don’t know about POPs. And when I, at the direction of the techie, finally get to accounts, under preferences, under tools, I see I have two POPs, which is one too many. Which is the right one. Who knows?
Well, Miss Technician, whose name is Maria, figured it out, and after some trial and error, had me delete one of the POPs.
The only thing I really know from all this is that, having learned in kindergarten how to follow directions, I am still able to do so.
I told you I was babbling.
Cathy Gillentine is a columnist for The Daily News. She may be reached at cgillentine1(at)sbcglobal.net.
