She tried to fix it herself. Honest.
This is another “without fail” story. And if you’re a woman who speaks that binary computer mumbo dot jumbo, spare me. Go fix a good pot roast or something; then we’ll talk.
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I am not a stupid woman. Even though I have trouble with the times table for seven, I am not diminished; I’ve never had to use 7 x 8 in real life, anyway. Hear me roar.
“He” (David) would say otherwise. No, I don’t mean he’d call me stupid; he’d never do that. But I do think he thinks my mechanological IQ is below 70.
When I work from home, rarely does a day pass without my pounding on the wall between his office and mine. That’s my jungle signal for “bwana, come here”. My signal is most often translated as “I can’t make this damn computer work”. That’s where the penis comes in.
With all the employment laws about discrimination, we know what happens (wink, wink) when those laws are broken. Get real: when there’s an employment ad for an NFL ref, it might not say but women know not to apply. Same with IT people. Unless you’re one of those woman who chose high tech over pot roast with new potatoes, an IT ad means “vaginas need not apply”.
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I’m not calling my husband a “nerd” because he knows computers, but if the shoe, or codpiece, or whatever, fits. . . He has that magnetism that must be testosterone–based (don’t computers respond to magnetics?) so that all he has to do is walk in the room and, without fail, whatever it was I couldn’t get to work magically acts as if there was never anything wrong in the first place.
And he doesn’t even need to wave his magic wand.