The Blue Screen Of Death

Last night, I got the dreaded blue screen of death.

If you've never seen the blue screen of death, you might not know how calamitous it actually is. But I do, and I did, long before I ever had the misfortune to stare into it's cold indigo emptiness myself.

My husband is a computer guy, you see, and has been for twenty plus years. In his circles, it is legend.

These days he pushes more paper than buttons on a keyboard (oh how he fought being fettered by the chains of management) but he's still got those techie instincts and he can still program circles around most of the young whippersnappers he supervises.

So, naturally, I've picked up a thing or two over the years. And though I am no where near his level of expertise...one thing I do know is that the blue screen of death means my computer is completely FUBAR.

I also know that it means and all bets are off as to whether anything will be salvageable.

In other words, I know just enough to be completely panic stricken when the blue screen of death appears.

I've had the perils of internet navigation relentlessly drilled into my head by husband. I know not to open attachments. I know the folly of injudicious downloading. I know about spyware and adware, and trojans and worms, and I know how they disguise themselves. I know all the tricks they use to coerce even the most sophisticated web dwellers into letting down their guard.

I am internet savvy godammnit.

And the fucker still got me.

Because you see...there is this moment...a moment when the hand, long accustomed to clicking away annoying ads and pesky prompts, is just a millisecond too fast for the brain, which is screaming....

NO YOU IDIOT!!!! DON'T FUCKING CLICK THAT BUUUUUUUUUUTTTTOOOOOOOON!!!!!!!

Whoops.

Fortunately, I also know how to deal with them, and so, when I realized what had happened, I set about doing all the things that my Sensei had taught me to do.

Except they didn't work.

This was one determined little virus. And an impervious little fucker to boot. I threw everything I had at it, determined to wrangle it into submission, or at least quarantine it until husband got home.

And then, suddenly, everything went blue, and I died just a little.

When husband came home I prostrated myself at his feet, begging him, pleading with him to do something, anything...but just please, for the love of God...SAVE MY WORD DOCUMENTS.

He sighed, and promised to do his best. Thanfully, he is a master of data retrieval and he managed to save my documents to a flash drive before rolling up his sleeves and tackling that persistent little sumbitch.

Four hours later my own personal in house tech support was red faced and swearing. He had a maniacal but determined look on his face. He would not be cowed by a mere virus, insidious though it may be.

I thought I heard him mutter "Yipee Ki-ay Motherfucker".

I baked Diminutive One's birthday cake while Sensei waged war againt the virus. Finally, he entered the kitchen with my laptop held aloft and expression of smug triumph tilting the corners of his mouth upward.

Well, either it was triumph, or he was mentally calculating just how many blow jobs he had earned with his feat of tehcno-heroism.

"I fixed it." he said.

"Really???? It won't self destruct if I boot it up?"

"Nope."

"No more blue screen of death?"

"No more blue screen of death."

"Cause that really scared me."

"I know baby."

He all but patted my head.

I gleefully booted it up and watched with joy and relief as the familair and friendly logo flickered into life on the screen.

I clicked here. I clicked there. I clicked until I had convinced myself that it was wholly, miraculously, gloriously restored.

"You? Rock." I said with reverence.

"I know." he said and shrugged to demonstrate that it was nothing to one such as he; imbued with the knowledge and secrets of the information superhighway.

Suddenly, my computer started emitting a sound that sounded very much like a sports broadcast, though no window was open and no video or audio format was activated.

"What. Is that??" I asked.

His look of smugness turned to one of sheepishness.

"Um. It sounds like some kind of sports broadcast."

"I know that." I said. "Where is it coming from?"

"I, ummm, I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I. Don't. Know. I went through everything with a fine tooth comb. It's clean as a whistle. And I've got your machine locked up tighter than Fort Knox. There is no reason for that to be happening."

"And yet it is."

He just nodded...perhaps accepting deep in his soul that the blowjob quotient had just decreased dramatically with that admission.

"Welllll...it's okay. I'll just...turn the speaker off for now."

"Okay" he said morosely.

"Honey?"

"Uh-huh."

"You still rock."

That seemed to really cheer him up a lot, and I was sort of touched that my opinion of him meant so much. And then I realized that loosely translated into man speak, "You still rock" means "I'll still give you a blow job because you tried so hard."

Well...conventional wisdom suggests that effort which goes unrewarded will simply cease, sooooo....as Jessica often says...Bow Chicka Bow Wow.....bow bow.

All in a day's work. His. And mine.