When we last saw our aging heroine, her computer had died. The Dell PIII 600 had given many years of valiant service. It was deeply, deeply mourned.

That same day, a Dell flyer came in her mailbox. They had an offer on their top of the line machine she could not refuse. It Was A Sign. So with trembling hands she gave Dell her VISA number. There was a slight smell of burning plastic.

Dude, she was getting a Dell.

There was much pacing and peering out of windows as she waited for the delivery van to show up. Finally, three enormous boxes arrived. There was much rejoicing tinged with the fear of the unknown.

It was all unwrapped. Large diagrams with wiring pictures were consulted. There were many tabs and many slots to be dealt with but our aging yet spunky heroine triumphed. She turned it on. The computer greeted her with rich, nuanced music. Life seemed good.

The set up program was relatively straightforward until it came time to choose an internet provider. Dell was very, very determined that our aging heroine choose AOL. I know. I am as stunned by the perfidy of this as you are. It came down to threats of violence, but finally our heroine�s local ISP was installed.

And then ... and then 45 minutes into running the machine, the unthinkable happened. The thing froze. On the screen an ominous message appeared, telling our aging heroine to turn off the system immediately and reboot.

45 minutes. The computer had not run an hour and already there was a problem.

Fine.

It was turned off. It was turned on again. And an error message appeared on the screen announcing that the CPU fan had failed.

Yep, the computer had been running less than an hour and a critical component had failed, a component that kept the heat generated by the CPU from melting down the computer and turning our aging heroine�s home into a pile of smoldering ash and twisted metal.

After the reboot, the critical component was running, but it was making the sort of sounds normally associated with leaf blowers or jet engines.

Fine.

A call to Dell tech support was placed. For half an hour our aging heroine got to listen to the sort of music that saps a person�s will to live, interspersed with a woman�s voice telling her earnestly that Dell really, really, really wanted to help her and that if she would just stay on the phone they would get to her.

Really.

They meant it.

The woman�s voice hinted at the possibility that it could happen within this lifetime.

Finally, when our aging heroine had been reduced to a mere husk of a woman, the phone was picked up. A man with a very strong Indian accent informed her that his name was Floyd and he would help her. Floyd. Uh huh. Sure his name was Floyd.

Well, after a few minutes it became clear to both our aging heroine and �Floyd� that, oh, how to put it delicately ... that this computer was uckedfay.

She steeled herself for a long argument.

�We will send you a new one,� he said. �It will come with prepaid cartons and instructions on how to ship this one back to us. We are very, very sorry this happened.�

Our aging heroine was stunned. No argument. A new computer and the cost of returning the uckedfay one covered by Dell. Hrm. Will this computer arrive this week as promised? Only time will tell.

In the meantime, our aging heroine is using the uckedfay machine and backing up her work every 3.5 nanoseconds. The uckedfay computer continues to do an amazingly lifelike impression of a leaf blower pretending it is a jet engine. Yes, our aging heroine bought the Rich Little of computers.

Can you feel her joy?

Now you might feel that this is enough Adventures With Computer Stuff for one person, but apparently it is not. Because no sooner had the bright shiny new computer decided to become a very expensive leaf blower impressionist than our aging heroine�s beloved HP LaserJet IV died.

Toner fuser failure. Too expensive to be worth fixing. So she had to buy a new printer.

There was fussing. There was fuming. There was reading of 4,321 on-line printer reviews. Consumer Reports was consulted. A printer was chosen. Neighbours were telephoned and it turned out that one down the road was heading into Montreal for three hours. He would drop our aging heroine off at a discount computer store, she would buy the printer and various supplies, and he would pick her up and take her home.

The computer store was near Phillips Square in Montreal, so upon arrival our aging heroine settled in there with a gripping novel to kill an hour before buying the printer and various and sundry computer printer accessories. It was hot in the sun. Our heroine slipped off to sit under the shade of a tree in the square.

Phillips Square is full of pigeons.

Do I need to spell out what happened next? Do I? Huh? HUH?

Okay fine. Bask in my humiliation.

Yes, our aging heroine is a zeek, a country bumpkin completely unaware of the devious ways of the pigeon. While sitting under the tree our aging heroine was bombed by a pigeon who, with amazing accuracy, managed to score a bulls eye and hit on her scalp.

It is very hard to describe how it feels to have something warm and gooey plop upon your scalp. There is a special moment when you tip your head back, look up into a tree, see a pigeon, feel the warm and gooey deposit begin to ooze backwards on your tipped head and realize that what you are feeling is pigeon poop.

There are no words for the horror.

Our aging heroine sprinted to the bathroom of a nearby fast food joint. She grabbed toilet paper and sponged off as much of the pigeon poop as she could. She took the alarming pink viscous hand soap from the dispenser and liberally anointed her scalp with it. The alarming pink viscous hand soap created a veritable mountain of industrial smelling foam.

To the great alarm of innocent bystanders in the bathroom, our aging heroine dunked her head under the faucets of the fast food joint to rinse out the alarming pink viscous hand soap/pigeon poop ooze from her scalp. As she straightened up, in the mirror she was confronted with the image of a middle aged woman, the top of her hair soaking wet and matted down, the sides and back completely dry.

This Is Not A Good Look.

To the great alarm of innocent bystanders in the bathroom, our aging heroine proceeded to place her head under the hot air hand dryer and dry her hair. She did not pause to think that it might be a good idea to pass a comb through her hair before she did this.

The resulting hair style?

Not A Good Look.

They say bad news comes in threes. In the last few weeks our aging heroine has had a computer die, a printer die, and a random, senseless drive by pigeon bombing.

Here's hoping her bad news quotient is now full.

--Marn

Other folks are also taking part in breast cancer fundraising, including

Karen so if you have extra money to donate, please give her a hand.

Here are the Generous Souls Sponsoring me to Run to Limp the 2004 Jog for the Jugs In Montreal, the few, the proud, the Bazonga Boosters: