Is it wrong not to always be glad?

First, let me dispense with the item I know you're all dying to hear from me about.

It was indeed a certain member of Congress's member in the twitpic. It was Anthony Weiner's wiener. How did I miss out on that? Life is so freaking unfair sometimes. I already have the book title in mind when I write the would be story about sexting shenanigans with an elected official. The Congressman Who "Loved" Me. I guess it will remain fiction, not memoir. Dang it.

My favorite part of Rep. Weiner's presser yesterday? The word women. Not woman. Women. Oh, Anthony we're such kindreds only you're much better hung than me.Seriously, though. I'm trying not to judge because well, I've been my own kind of dumbass, but for cliff's sake, you're thinking of running for King of NYC and you just married your own hot chick and hello, those are tweet photos not email. Way to hand the opposing political party a deflection from the fact that they're tearing apart all the good things a government does.

It's been a strange few days, but before I get to that, I want to thank the Patrons of The Arts who provide PayPal donations to this blog. Thank you so much for paying me to write, youse guys. Sometimes that's just the boost we need to keep the lights on and the vodka flowing. Special thanks to Susan and to my long-time reader and steady contributor to the cause whom I won't name but if that person wants me to mention them by name, I'll hope they'll let me know. You know who you are.

Also, I want to thank Lyra and her son M. for making and sending me this power bracelet which is seriously cool and has already drawn some great compliments. Thank you, Lyra. I love it and wear it all the time.

If I can remember where I stored my trumpet, we'll be playing Taps to honor my laptop which gave its final blue screen performance yesterday. After a few days of wheezing and intermittently shutting down, it finally died and took with it some edits that I'd neglected to email to myself. I'm to blame. The computer was sick and tired of being an accomplice to my crimes. The never finishing a manuscript, writing boring blog entries and conducting illicit online threeways with a man who likes to be tickled and his cousin The Biter.

Before the vintage laptop groaned and went dark, Doug googled the issue and found that this Gateway model had a motherboard flaw. How very typical, Sigmund Freud. Blame the mother.

That's it, I fussed. I'm wasting my time writing. This is a sign that I'm done. Finished. Through.

Doug came to the rescue, as always, using his succinct and direct manner. "That's bullshit and you know it."

But don't you think the loss of my edits on DDay when DDay figures prominently in the story is a sign that I should stop writing this story?

A disappointed head shake can say so much.

So for now I'm a computer nomad borrowing the desktop the kids share and Doug's rebuilt laptop when he's not using it to obsess over fantasy baseball stuff and Calculus demonstrations. I'm typing this post on Doug's work computer, but I don't want to use it very much because it belongs to the school and it feels wrong. As a practical matter, I understand if I type a swear word or chew gum while using this laptop, it will issue me a detention. What a drag, too, because I can't view any you know what and I definitely won't be able to tweet Rep. Weiner and I have a dumb phone, not a smart one. Mine only makes calls and sends texts and photos. Oh. Heh. Anyway...

This is all just another not so gentle reminder to back up your work, people. Everytime. Save and email to yourself every important document like it may be your last. If you're going to OCD, this would be a good thing to be compulsive about.


Do you back up your work everytime? What method(s) do you use?