Print is Dead

I've heard the phrase "print is dead," a few times, and can tell you that it completely applies to my life right now.

Today was Bailey's class Christmas party that I orchestrated and I had this small urge to run home for some pictures. The kids allowed me to take photos of each of them (rather, they hadn't a clue) and I thought, "hey, I'll run home, touch these up, print them out, bring them back, all before they go home." It was an excellent plan and I would've just ran to Walgreens instead, but the pictures were all in RAW mode, and if that seems Sushi to you, it kind of is. So, I come home, start to work on the files, and my printer decides he's not playing ball. Not even considering playing ball. Didn't even show up to the game. Now it's kind of humorous because he had just printed out all of my Christmas letters the day prior, printed like he's never printed before. Not even one smudge. (He's never done that before in all the years I've known him.) And as I was screaming at this wayward printer, I thought about how lately, I sure have had to hit that resume button a lot, and that he is over five years old, which is basically deceased in printer years. We had a lot of splendid years together, being that he was $100 when I bought him and printed decently and the ink was the cheapest on the block and there was a reason Consumer Reports liked him.

But I wasn't thinking all those happy thoughts as I violently smashed him against my desk a few times, fumed at his flashing green and amber light, threw him down on the carpet in a fury, and kicked him across my entry way in my house. I've been intrigued how my anger seems to magnify when Bailey isn't around, like road rage. I think it's because I hide all this for months, years even, so there is a lot of pent up frustration, not because of her, but because I like to keep these emotions from her (emotions I try to keep from everyone). So the moment she's not in my car, I'm screaming at every Jane, John and Rhoda on the highway. Well, kicking the printer helped me feel a bit better, but mostly humiliated it came to this.

When I returned to his corpse later, I put him all back together wonderfully, plugged him back in and he did the exact same thing as before. I think it was his time to move on, and my time to finally come to terms with the fact, I can't buy cheap ink forever.

We mourned the death of a family member, long enough to find his replacement and set it up on my desk. And hey, I finally have a scanner! (I really have never had one. Seriously.)

Print was dead, but it's making a comeback.