The image on the box was white. The sales clerk, keeping the sealed box in his hands at all times, told me the product was white. We paid for the item and picked it up two days later after the onsite professionals had worked their magic. As we drove away from the store I opened the box, slipping my new midnight blue mini-notebook computer from its protective packaging.

Dark blue, not white, covered in fingerprints.

I’ve been in that store five, count ‘em, five days this past week. The first three were at my choice, the last two were to pick up the computer, and now I’ve got to call, once again putting on the doofus has that I wear so well as I search for answers.

We are downsizing with this notebook and changing brands, so there is already some anxiety surrounding this purchase. We decided to go ahead and pay for the experts to ‘optimize’ the computer, which reminds me of how mechanics used to simonize cars and makes me feel like I’m admitting to the world that I’m too dense to figure out which programs to delete in order to help the limited processor run faster.

Hello, my name is Patrice and I am too lazy to figure out which programs to delete on my new computer. For that matter, apparently I have also lost the ability to distinguish white from near black.

Of course, it helps if you are actually able to view the product prior to purchase.

A little exploring online revealed that the color is partially indicated in the product number, BLU, and that a white version, WH, will be ‘Coming Soon.’

Please, as if making a technological decision isn't complicated enough, you've got to give me color codes and false pictures?!

My husband seems to find the color confusion a non-issue, other than thinking it seems only fair that you get what you think you are buying. He may be overlooking the fact that parts of our house are near cave-like in terms of lighting and it might be helpful to actually see the keyboard without perching under direct lighting like a chickling.

I know, in the grand scheme of things, not such a big deal. The more important factor is that the computer works well and meets our needs.

I think it just might be a great computer, maybe; smaller and lighter, definitely. And I’m grateful that someone who knew what s/he was doing loaded the antivirus and deleted the junk—ads, trial software--on the hard drive. Now we just want to make sure that we have the software we were told we had, the software listed in the specs, the software that the user’s manual says we have for sixty days. (?!)

I also learned that I shouldn’t rest the notebook in my lap while using it due to the heat factor. The last thing anybody in Arizona wants during the summer is more heat, especially in your lap.

I miss my old computer.

Once again, I wax nostalgic on the 4th of July.

My home town always did a great job with the 4th, from the parade to the fireworks, the community gathered for celebration in that way that feels so unique to small towns.

When I was a kid the 4th was the best day of the entire summer. My first task of the day was to find the footing for the flag. I’m calling it a footing, I have no idea what the proper name is. I’d crawl around in the front yard, trying to find that spot that lined up sort of in the middle of the windows, slightly to the left, or was it to the right?

If I couldn’t find the metal cover hiding beneath the often lush grass, my father would amble out of the house and take care of that step. Beneath the cover was a metal fitting like a pipe to hold the flagpole.

Next, one of us would bring the flag up from the basement. This was a job for someone who was tall enough to carry the flagpole without the flag touching the ground. The wood pole was in two pieces, the flag wrapped around the top piece.

After the parade downtown, people headed to Kronsage Park for games, food, and other events throughout the day, leading up to the spectacular fireworks display that night.

As much as we anticipated the 4th, the day after always indicated the beginning of the end summer, the promise of school lurking ever nearer.

So I was in a big box store the other day, wandering through the computer aisles, trying to find some answers, and they had signs posted, “Let us help you select your new computer,” and I’m thinking, ‘yes, please,’ only there isn’t a clerk in sight.

The hard drive on my laptop crashed during my trip to the coast. A tiny paranoid part of me suspects it became corrupted as a result of the wireless connections I relied on in either San Francisco or Eureka.

The diagnostic support at the company web site proved to be all but worthless; they offered me three possible options and none of them worked. A tech at the box store took a quick look minus the hefty diagnostic fee, determined that the hard driving wasn’t working and there were some other problems as well, and recommended I start shopping because it was going to cost too much to fix my computer, if it could be fixed.

I’m considering one of those new mini notebooks, but I’m wondering if they get too hot for prolonged used. All we generally need it for is back up and traveling, but it would be used every day and I’d prefer to do so without the risk of setting my lap on fire.

My needs are pretty basic, I don’t do gaming or stream music or video, I need word-processing and internet access, and I need Windows. I’ve been very brand loyal but I may take a leap with this purchase.

The car door was open, just a bit, just enough.

The dome light wasn’t on.

I stuck the key in the ignition for validation.

Yep, dead battery.

Fortunately, I was home at the time. Even better, my husband was home. He got out the jumper cables, connected the car to the truck. I turned the key again. There was power, and it was good.

A few days later I was sitting at the computer reading email when our super-duper surge protector began emitting a sharp beeping noise. It’s beeped before, but never for so long. It was persistent and annoying but I still had power: look at me, working on the computer even though the electricity has cut out in the house!

That lasted for about five minutes; the power outage lasted three and a half hours.

There’s nothing quite like a good power outage to test your resources.

In the waning daylight we gathered our flashlights, feeling confident about the sheer number, seven, which included one in each vehicle and omitted the teeny-tiny lights on our key rings.

Three of the seven had dead batteries and we had no replacement batteries for them, those big square batteries that look like they belong in a science project.

Another flashlight, one of those smallish ones that really isn’t good for much, was also dead and the AA batteries refused to leave the casing.

That left three medium flashlights. The dim glow on one suggested we not count on it for long and, here’s a surprise, we had no D batteries in the house.

My husband attempted to light one of his mother’s kerosene lamps but the wick had other ideas. I handed him a book light and went to bed.

As I’ve no doubt said before, I think I’d enjoy traveling a lot better if I didn’t actually have to leave home, or encounter road food.

Road food. You know what I mean. Fast food that has been hanging around too long--rubber chicken, limp, flavorless salads, bread products that have a shelf life in the decades, trans fats that will never, ever, break down in the digestive process but will attach themselves in all their globular splendor to whichever part of your body is in least need of supplementation.

On a recent trip to the west coast we encountered a busload of tourists from a European country at a fast food joint along the interstate. I never did grasp their accent and debated asking one of them where they were from but they just looked so miserable; they gave off an aura of ‘do not approach, look away, please.’ I wanted to assure them that we did have better food elsewhere in the states, to not give up hope, that there would be a time when they would be off the bus and there would be decent, real food, but it seemed likely that I’d be offering them false hope.

It’s important to enjoy the journey. Everybody says so. Me, I’m a destination kind of gal.
I’m still holding out for that Star Trek technology to catch up with my life, beam me up Scotty, better yet, beam me across a few states so I don’t have to spend three days in a car listening to a book on tape that I probably wouldn’t read if the circumstances were different.

When we travel I try to find audio books at the library that will appeal to both my husband and myself. This explains why I, who prefers women’s lit and some regular lit and a bit of mystery and a lot of fluff, spent two days listening to a book about autistic children who had a surgical implant in their brains to enhance their telekinetic abilities.

It was very involved. There were a lot of secret government plots, Russians, mercenaries, a high body count, extraordinary accomplishments by the protagonist.

Two days of listening to this book in a car as the miles slid by. And then my husband asks if he can turn the volume down a little since he isn’t listening.

I’ll never know how it turned out, and I’m okay with that. It was a good book with an engaging plot, it just wasn’t my kind of book.

As for the road food, we more than made up for it with a lovely dinner on a dock where we watched otters frolicking in the ocean. And then there was the Cheesecake factory and a wonderful meal at a Wolfgang Puck restaurant, still, I’m so glad to be home I’m willing to cook.

Over at Jenny Crusie’s blog, Argh Ink, she’s been embroiled in a rant/dialogue regarding edits of her third collaboration with Bob Mayer.

To Jenny’s dismay, her new editor is something of a perfectionist, actively hyper-correcting everything little thing, although she apparently misses typos. While some authors would welcome a conscientious editor who knows the rules and is willing to take the time to apply them, Crusie seems a hair away from a complete meltdown.

Halfway through the editing the edits, Crusie had marked 61 stets ('let it stand') and was longing for a STET stamp. Apparently a dozen stets per novel is more in her normal range.

It’s a fascinating glimpse into the editing process and how an author feels to have somebody tweaking the voice right out of her book.

The Comments section includes a number of posts by copy editors, one of whom refers to Crusie's rant as low-class.

Crusie's advice to copy editors who want to write a book: 'write your book, not mine.'

I love Jane Porter.

Women's fiction, chick lit (mommy lit, lady lit), call it what you will, Porter writes with ease, her characters struggling with relationships and the balancing act of work and family.

I stumbled across Mrs. Perfect at a used book store last month, which led to the interlibrary loan of Odd Mom Out, and a bonus discovery of Flirting with Forty at a thrift store.

That leaves me with one more novel to track down, The Frog Prince.

Porter is yet another author who got her start with Harlequin. Her backlist includes a number of novels written for Harlequin Presents, the subject matter dealing with romance + Shieks & brides/mistresses/queens.

Her most recent work, a contemporary novel, Easy on the Eyes, will be published this year.