Computers for dummies? Best make it mind games for morons. Yes indeed people, Nessie is becoming increasingly disillusioned with a great many things… Not least of all her complete incompetence to be technical in any way!
“Mum, the computer is making a funny noise and telling me it has a problem” Came the shout from Wee Ness the other day.
“Okay, I’ll fix it in a minute” Was my overly confident reply
“Err, no… Why don’t we quit while we’re ahead and just call granny to fix it?”
“Wee Ness, I’m more than confident that I’m able to fix a simple computer error”
“I’m sure you are… But whether you actually can or not remains to be seen. Let’s play it safe, not blow up the computer and call granny”
“I’M going to fix it”
“Bye, bye computer” She sighed
“Wee Ness, go to your room”
It’s not that Wee Ness was being rude, well, she was but she had good reason and for that fact I can forgive her. I am known throughout my family and friends as being so monumentally inept at anything with an electrical feed that the usual ‘I’m going to spend some time on the computer/television/vibrating bed’ is usually met with looks of concern and or sniggering.
Nessie’s a book lassie you see. I love the look, smell and texture of them. Computers don’t smell of anything… unless it’s overheating, in which case they smell of burning and that, I’m told, is bad.
You won’t loose 10 pages of your essay/novel/last Will and Testament if you’ve written it in a book (excluding acts of unintentional vandalism perpetrated by your nearest and dearest… spilt coffee, food smears, felt tip drawings etc). You will loose it all if your computer takes exception to you and decides to give you the middle finger by scrapping the whole lot and apologizing by giving you the message
‘Oops, you made an error. You’re work has been lost. Contact your internet provider and have a nice day… dumbass!’
I think books are quite personal and sentimental. Computers always strike me (metaphorically of course) as quite sterile. When I open a book I’m always reminded of the person who bought it for me or who suggested it. I’ve never looked at a computer and thought of anyone other than the wee man in the local repair shop who finds me and my retardation so funny that he actually weeps throughout my constant conversations with him about my ineptitude.
My mother (the afore mentioned Granny), is a complete computer wiz and takes great delight in spending hours elbow deep in spare computer parts. She has torn apart 6 of my home computers now and built me 4 out of the remains. She has added umpteen hard dives to the motherboard (none of which I’ve actually figured out how to access), she made sure we have an ‘uber’ fan attached to the modem so that nothing begins to melt as a result of overuse (again) and she’s added more spy wear technology than is necessary for access to NASA.
She’s ‘pimped’ my drive… As it were, and man, I wish she’d stop. Not least of all because I feel her time would be better spent teaching me how to switch my monitor on and of without using a remote control released in the 1960’s, or perhaps how to delete my cookies (hmmm, cookies!). For a while I was able to comfort myself and my daughter with the immortal line
“Computers are a young person’s game. In my day we had to look everything up in books”
Not only does this line not hold due to the startling fact I’m only 31 but now, here comes Granny; mid fifties, dyslexic and has the ability to fix absolutely anything with a piece of string, a rubber band and the belief that one day her daughter WILL learn… Well, I never said she was smart!
We call mum/ granny Macguiver. She has fixed absolutely every electrical implement in this house at least eight times. In fact it’s getting to the point that our microwave now looks like it was made on Blue Peter… But it works and that, in my jealous narrow resenting little mind… Makes me look like the adopted Butt monkey my brother always claimed I was.
Has this knowledge inspired me to find a way to fix my fear for all things technological? No, no it has not. While I’d love to come across as the superwoman my mother does, I’m more than happy to sit back and be me. I get all the work done for me, no one expects anything… And I’m able to send my smart arse daughter to her room every time she voices the truth.
Hey, I’m not saying its right, but man it’s good to be a ‘pooter tard’!
Tag Archives: humor
Computers for dummies? Best make it mind games for morons. Yes indeed people, Nessie is becoming increasingly disillusioned with a great many things… Not least of all her complete incompetence to be technical in any way!
Nessie is over weight. Nessie thinks it’s time to see her feet again. Nessie realizes that the time old excuses of ‘my medication makes me fat’ and ‘the washing machine shrunk my jeans’ are just that, old. Nessie has joined Weight Watchers. Nessie will now pause for selected sniggers and judgement from the readers. Nessie is going to stop typing in third person now because Nessie is confusing herself.
Yes that’s right; I’ve joined that ever growing cult of Weight Watchers. I call it a cult for many reasons.
1. They use an inordinate amount of cult references. For example; it’s run by people who call themselves ‘leaders’ helping you to achieve your ‘goal’ by sticking to the ‘plan’
2. It relies on a tremendous amount of brain washing to keep its followers in line.
3. Their meetings are highly stressed and full of followers who, collectively, resemble peak hour at the unemployment office.
I was going to do this blog all about my first meeting, which was a barrel of laughs I can tell you, but I changed my mind when I made a rather startling (well, it is to me… I’m food deprived) discovery that I thought would appeal to a more general audience. So bare with me, this may take some time!
My leader is a particularly insipid and obsequious woman called Fiona, or FiFi as she asked us to call her. You know the type: too much make up, lots patronising disguised as support and the frightening belief that if you dare turn up to one of her meetings having gained weight, then that supercilious grin plastered to her face could very easily turn into a sneer before she publicly flays you alive in front of the other sheeple of her congregation.
Well, I signed up (having to hand over not just my email address but blood, urine, sperm and any alias’ I had ever gone by), weighed in at my expected inordinate amount, stayed for the patronising pep talk and left, my ears ringing with the thinly veiled threat
“Now remember, I’ll know if you cheat or not”
Now ordinarily I’m not a particularly paranoid person. Sure I believe everyone mocks my hair cut/weight/intelligence/motherhood skills/survival rate but no more than your average mentally unbalanced anti social reprobate. So imagine my surprise when I found myself with the sneaking suspicion that, at any given moment I was about to be (as you young, hip things call it) PUNKED!
Every time I reached for a piece of food I kept checking out the window to make sure there were no unmarked satellite vans packed with a Weight Watchers SWAT team prepared to rugby tackle me to the ground lest I actually consume more calories than a fruit fly’s fart.
I became convinced that Mr. Ness and Wee Ness were, in actual fact, double agents. Yeah sure, Wee Ness ‘claimed’ she was chatting to her invisible friend but you can never be too sure.
After adopting this new paranoid, jumpy and quiet frankly pathetic shadow of the fat bastard I’d formally been, I decided to give in to the mind games and just follow all the rules (sod anarchy, it doesn’t use up enough calories). I realized that if I was convinced I was going to be caught cheating it was only because I’d be cheating myself… or so they wanted me to believe.
When you join Weight Watchers they give you your own individual password so you can go to their online site and chat/cry/swap conspiracy theories with other fat people. I, like the blind fool that I am, joined immediately after the meeting. With the highly suspect promise that you’re 50% more likely to loose weight if you join the website as well as attend the meetings, how could I refuse?
I was on there the other night, feeling weak (and not just from lack of sustenance) and looking for support. When a familiar name popped up on my screen.
“Hiya Ness its Fifi. What are you doing up this late at night? You’re going to absolutely ruin your diet by not getting enough recommended sleep. Don’t you dare cheat. Of to bed with you. I’ll know if you stay online. See you at the Wednesday meeting. You WILL have lost weight.”
Bloody hell! I screamed out loud, pushed myself away from the computer instantly and scurried up to bed like a frightened animal.
So that’s how she would know if I’d cheated or not. Big Brother’s not just watching, he’s bloody stalking and in a ‘watch you as you sleep, brush the strands of hair from your face’ way… Big Brother is incestuous!
I’m going to my meeting tomorrow night as planned. If I don’t return home after that it means I gained weight. Please send the search party to Weight Watchers… armed!
Right, if you are a Twilight fan then you should know that this blog is NOT damning them all to Hell. In fact, I’m not really sure where I’m going with this so bare with me.
First off, I have never seen the movie Twilight. Yes, yes I can hear all the shouts of ‘sacrilege’ now, but for some reason it missed my radar (which is odd given that I am a ridiculously big Sci-Fi fan) and I have no knowledge of it. I haven’t read the fan books, bought the T-shirt, nor am I drinking from the mug. Nope, I have no links with Twilight in any way, shape or form.
Imagine my horror then, when a few of my close friends (less close now right enough) recently informed me that a change of nickname may be in store.
“What? Why? This is the first nickname I’ve had that in no way implies I’m idiot, over talkative, highly sexed, annoying or some screwed up combination of the four”
“Nessie has bad connotations since the release of the Twilight books. Believe us when we tell you, you do NOT want people to think you have that nickname for the same reasons the character in book does”
“Bollocks! I don’t care why some random character has the same nickname as me in some oblique book. Not everybody will identify me with her. I’m Nessie because I’m from the highlands of Scotland, people know of my existence but rarely see me (thanks to my antisocial behaviour) and I can be seen us funny to some and just plain bloody creepy to others. Now THAT’S a proper reason for a nickname. I’m confident the people will see sense”
“You’re an idiot Nessie”
“Yes, your point is?”
“Anyone who’s read the book is going to associate you with that character. When it happens we will laugh at you and tell you we told you so”
“I’m confident I’m right”
Two weeks later and I open my blog email to read the comments. The first seven read:
‘Oh, we love Twilight too Nessie’
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day, I wandered lonely as a cloud, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times… All fabulous first lines that draw us into the story/poem/fortune cookie. With this in mind you can understand the pressure I’ve been feeling to ‘draw’ people into my blog. Especially as I took a wee wander round the blogger community this evening and realized, with abject horror, that the most popular blogs appear to be centered around the following subjects:
<em>The Lord, my Saviour
The Lord, your Saviour
Cute pets doing crazy things
The Lord, Obama
Quick fix answers for bad parents (No, seriously!)
Cute parent pets of Obama doing gossip about the Lord</em>
With this realization came this; I’m totally screwed if I ever expect to get any readers. And before I start to get an influx of slanderous hate mail claiming I’m disrespecting their Lord/president/parent/cute pet, I’m really not. Hell, I’m doing a blog centered round my never ending irritation at the human race so I’m really in no position to judge yours now am I? No, I’m just commenting that to have a blog that is read by more than two people (or, as in my case, ONE!) you ‘might’ consider including one of the above topics. And that, my friends (friend), is a bloody shame.
Now I realize that this is a massive sweeping statement (I tend to make these you know) and in no way covers all the blogs I read this evening that were popular… Or deserved to be popular. I read a fair few that were absolutely excellent and, in the spirit of human kindness (or boredom, you decide), I’ve decided to add a couple of them to this post.
These blogs are interesting, highly amusing and written with the general reader in mind. Gregarious people who want to share their ‘passions’ with other people. No tacky ‘in’ jokes, lax grammar, shameless plugs for fellow illiterates or any of the other teeth grindingly low standard nonsense.
I’m a huge literature fan (what do you mean you could never tell from my blog?) so me adding the book blogs make sense, but a couple of the others have nothing to do with anything that interests me. So why link to them? The authors are enthusiastic about their subjects. They don’t assume the reader is an expert on the subject they’re blogging about and that is a very welcome change.
On a serious note (oh cherish this, it’s a rarity!), I now know that I’d rather have one or two (oh ok, one) readers who were genuinely interested in what I had to write as opposed to a whole army of ‘you add mine, I’ll add yours’ arse lickers who have no more intention of reading my blog than they do of taking a course in basic grammar.
So Ness, did you learn a thing or two about how to get you’re following figures up? No, no I did not. Mind you, you’ll notice there’s a distinct lack of the words sex, vibration and masturbation in this post… Oh crap!
Until next time, look after yourselves… and your fellow bloggers.
BIsexual, BIcurious, BIannual. Helping hints or just annoying ‘fashionable’ labels?
Women who make me wish I was gay: Eva Longoria Parker, Nelly Furtado, Sharleen Spiteri, Cameron Diaz
Men who make me wish I was gay: Spencer Pratt, the entire male ensemble of every Big Brother programme ever made, Chris Evans, Enrique Englais.
I am an open minded sort (if I keep saying it, people are bound to believe me at some point!) but recently I’ve become disheartened by my liberal attitude. I’ve been a member on a forum for a wee while now and it’s inhabited by like minded people who have a lot more experience in the sex field. I’m not insinuating they’re all pimps and whores… Although wouldn’t it be great if there was a forum dedicated to these people? No, I mean not only do they type about it; they also do the very rare act these days of actually experiencing it too. I do sex toy reviews for this site and you need people reading to believe your an open minded sort who’s not some tight thighed WASP sitting at her computer tutting and tisking at the youth of today. With that in mind, under the heading sexual orientation I was happy to put ‘Married Bisexual’. I didn’t have a problem with it. Yes I married a man and no I have not ever done the dirty tango with a woman but I do find some of them, emphasis on some, sexually attractive. No, I’m not one of these closet bi’s that harbours deep seated sexual longings for her best female friend… So breathe woman, but I do get why some women like other women. I’m not above the odd two finger shuffle while thinking about an attractive woman. Admittedly they are almost always celebrities and always the finer specimen of the species. That said, I never fantasize about male celebrities. Don’t get me wrong, mention the likes of Liam Neeson or George Clooney and my mind will always go to a bad and x rated place but strangely enough they don’t have any staring roles in any of my fantasies. Is this because I’m already sexually fulfilled by my man? Probably, but the fact I’m not afraid to fantasize about women and indeed admit it to a bunch of strangers on here says to me. Nessie you ain’t straight as a dye.
Anyway, back to said forum. There I was patting myself on the back for being so goddamn open minded and sexually forward for admitting my indecisiveness online when someone comes straight out (if you’ll excuse the expression) and asks ‘why’ I’m bisexual. I reply that some women interest me and had I not met Mr. Nessie at the beginning of time I suspect I would not be above dating one. The damning reply of
“That means bicurious then NOT bi sexual. Stop confusing the two. You’re sending out the wrong message”
I was amused, bemused and frankly pissed of. I had no idea that any labels I attribute to myself could be called into question by someone who knew me from approximately 5 posts on the Internet. As for the wrong message… well, the mind baffles really.
I once asked a friend of mine what sexuality he was
“I’m an equal opportunities employer” He replied
“So you’re bi sexual then?” I asked
“Pfft, I’ll do a man or a woman depending on my mood. I’m not bi anything. Those labels are only employed now because people are anal about labeling themselves these days. You are what you are. Why pigeon hole yourself? I also love eating pizza, dancing to loud music in my flat alone and never do my own laundry. Should I find labels for all that and include it the next time I introduce myself?”
I still class this as one of the best answers I’ve ever had when it come to the time old question ‘What’s your sexual orientation?’
So come on people. Thoughts, theories, insults? Is it important to mark your wrapper clearly or are we a society gone label mad?
Babies crying, car alarms, the neighbours kids destroying various items outside the house, incessant ringing of novelty alarm clocks, dogs barking, World War 3… When you think about it, men can pretty much sleep through anything. With this fact pretty much agreed on the world over; why is it if you decide to have a little ‘personal’ time to yourself at night you’re man will not only wake up, but will think that your ‘you’ time should automatically become ‘our’ time. Of course, I mean straight women NEVER get sexually aroused unless it’s by their significant other. We NEVER want to ‘waste’ our precious few orgasms on ourselves, if indeed we are able to achieve it all by our lonesome, when we can share them!!!
Is Nessie being sarcastic? Is Nessie pissed that she can no longer do the two finger shuffle without comatose Mr Nessie waking and thinking it’s his lucky night? Frustrated? Just a tad!!
Don’t get me wrong, I’m a lucky, lucky bugger. I’m able to reach the highs with and without Mr Nessie . I realize I’m in a minority here and I’m not knocking it. I just feel more than a little pissed that my ability to have a stealth like a personal moment is getting less and less likely. Here’s my story, feel free to sing along when you have the tune!
Now obviously I’m a sexual person (you’ll know that if you’re at all observant) and I’m lucky enough to have met an equally, if not more so (on the basis that he’s male) sexual mate. I like to pride myself on my open mindedness to all thing sex. Pretty freaky really given that my mother insinuated that I would practically drop dead from an STD the second I looked at a man or, perish the thought, had sex outside of the marital institution… Then I’d get an STD, become pregnant with Satan’s child AND be forever doomed to live out my sinful existence in a housing estate, eternally single and with a litter of hell spawn. Shocked I ever lost my virginity? Hell, I’m shocked I didn’t flee to a nunnery.
Now I’m not knocking my upbringing. I grew up in the Highlands of Scotland, the fact I never married my brother at age 7/approached sleeping livestock with spare wellie boots/introduced my washing machine as my life partner is something to be proud of… I’m told.
So, I met my man and went about learning all things sex related and disproving all things mother related. I was one of the lucky ones. Mr Nessie had had enough experience to learn a few things but not enough to jade him against some wet behind the ears highland lass with completely the wrong idea of bedroom fun… that’s a story for another blog I think. I can digress with the best of them, and if that’s something that irritates you then might I suggest leaving now before you try to hunt me down for infuriating you?
Where were we? Being sexually open but limited in the self editing department. Och, maybe I’m just bitter because my other half seems to know what makes me tick sexually better than I do myself. Maybe it’s because I’m always up for a bit of slap and tickle but rarely take the time out to slap my own tickle. Who knows, but one thing is certain… It must stop! What the hell am I going to do if Mr Nessie kicks the bucket? Am I doomed to become one of these teeth grindingly irritating women who claim that since loosing their ‘soul mate’ their body has become their temple which no man, woman, finger or battery operated device must pass? Good Lord shoot me now and make it hurt.
I’ve tried nearly every sneaky trick in the book to confuse and in turn allude Mr Nessie to the fact that I’m ‘pruning the secret garden’ in bed. Yes, corkers such as waiting for him to turn on his side away from me and loudly sighing ‘Damn I’m having an allergic reaction to the soap/bed sheets/neighbours and it’s itchy as all hell’ Having set the ground work that if at anytime during the night Mr Nessie should feel the bed shaking with vigour, then he’ll assume I’ve got hives and am scratching myself to buggery, then fall back into his comatose state in seconds. Hell it works if I try to have a conversation about our finances, his family, my family or why my constant battle to loose weight was failing long before I consumed twice my body weight in junk food the night before. Does it work? No, no it does not. He’s like a mere cat the second he feels the bed shudder. I swear I’d accuse him of setting me up every time if I honestly believed he had the ability to stay awake longer than the obligatory 4 minutes 7 seconds it takes him to fall into such a deep sleep that his snoring vibrates the bloody window frames.
You know what? I had loads more examples of just how sneaky I can become in getting some ‘me’ time, but I suspect that if you’ve read this far then you’re more than familiar with all of them and so I gratefully turn over to all of you. Why not use this blog as a sounding of board for all your grievances with sex, the opposite, the same, the getting of, the lack or the escaping of. We’ll all nod, smile, wecome you to the group and then concoct a suitable plan of action on how to overcome it.
On that note, I’m of some personal time before he gets to bed. I’m no sadist, it’s never going to happen with him in there… no matter how silent I am!
Til my next brain fart