$&#**&/% SHAW!

I am SAD! My internet connection has been slow for a week, Shaw says there's no problem in my area - though I know at least one person in my area who has also had problems (and called and was told there WAS a problem in our area, although maybe that was my call, who knows?) - so it's my line maybe, except that the downstairs computer cleared up after a couple days, so it's my router, except all the lights are indicating all's well, so it's my Airport maybe, except that I just downloaded a couple of upgrades and it's certainly showing a connection. Seems like it slows down just when I click on a favourite blog, or see that there's something in my Facebook Inbox, or try to open a comment box. Ah, is it a curse? Is it a message from a Higher Self? Is the Sun in Scorpio buggering something up? Is Shaw covering up A Problem In My Area? Ah, yes, it's all about me and it involves a cover-up, I knew it!

Meanwhile, when I discovered that I couldn't open Microsoft Word 2007, which apparently all my boss's clients switched to overnight and in unison, and subsequently learned that the Word for Mac doesn't come out until January or February, I didn't react with customary paranoia, no. I tracked down the elusive and hitherto semi-mythical Mac Guy. I'd first heard the rumour of his existence 6 months or so ago, but none could say exactly the location of his shop. My talents as a gumshoe are apparently improving, however, (Claire, HAHAHAHA, we were so bad) - he works out of his home on Houston Street and I KNOW WHERE IT IS!!! I got the address, hah.

But is he THERE? Well, no, he's not. He only wants to email/phone talk about selling me $80 worth of IWorks software that he can't even guarantee will solve the readability problem. In all this, the Mac Guy is carrying on two grand traditions of my little town. Annoying traditions, but time-honoured. First, NEVER advertise. Let them find you. Second, should the intrepid locate your business and propose to make a purchase, make it very, very difficult. There was a store called Peterson's on the corner of Main Street and Cross Street for decades. They had bolts of fabric dating back to, ew, Fortrel, dresses, notions, and other assortments. All very dusty, charming except for the addition in the nineties of vulgar T-shirts. The thing was, the Petersons would find a way to avoid actually cutting any cloth, interpreting the faded price on the curling tag, or ringing up any sale, period. They'd wear ya down, until you'd figure, gah, there must be somewhere else to buy elastic. The whole thing was a mystery.

Not that I'm packing and moving to the big city, but, sheesh!

We won't even touch on my attempt to find out the ad rate for a Yellow Pages ad today.