In MaryAnneia people, places and things have personalities. Sometimes they're happy, sometimes they're sad and sometimes they're just in a mood to piss me off. Yes, Virginia, things have issues too. Or at least - my things do.
For example, take my office computer - please. Nah, I guess I'll keep it. In fact, some days, I'd fight you for it. Others, I'd throw it across the parking lot and dance on its digital corpse. I have a love/hate relationship with the thing. In the morning, it doesn't want to wake up from its long nap. I don't either, so I sympathize. By the time she's up and perking, I'm mighty glad to have her help. But she's a drama queen. When I'm heads down on a deadline, focused on whatever words I'm writing at the time, most of my attention is not on the machine. And the machine doesn't like that. So she'll throw up a weird error or suddenly, for no apparent reason, Word, Outlook, or Practice Advantage will die. I'll yell at her and Glenda, my co-worker in the next office, will chuckle and encourage me to teach the PC who is the boss. (I pretend I am).
My car - a little red P.T. Cruiser - is my baby. Like a baby, sometimes she gurgles and purrs and boogles right along. And sometimes she doesn't. I often stroke her and encourage her. But sometimes I yell - like when I know the idiot in the other lane is trying to speed up to get in front of me. "Don't let the jackass in, P.T., I'll scream."
Don't get me started on my ice maker. It exists to aggravate me. It'll be churning right along and then, for no reason, it refuses to sweep out the ice cubes so that more water can pour in. Or cubes get stuck half in and half out of the sweeper. And there I'll be, with whatever kitchen implement I can grab, pouring or poking or prodding. All the while, I'll be inventing new vile names for the beast until my 14-year-old, Sam, yells in, "You tell it, Mom."
It hadn't occurred to me how much of MaryAnneia has crept into my books until I read a reader comment.
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