Tag Archives: Kindle

My Boyfriend, Kindle Cover

1 Feb

My Kindle was an office holiday gift. What’s that you say? You got a $20 iTunes gift card? A cheap bottle of wine? Well, that’s not the way we roll, yo. Anyway. Once I got over my initial disdain for aforementioned Kindle, and decided that I lurrrrved it and wanted it to ask me to go steady, I figured that, since I got it for free, I’d buy Kindle a pretty case, one that zipped all the way closed and kept it protected from the God-only-knows-what-horrible-disgustingness that lives in my purses. Amazon.com, my online home away from home for all-things-purchasable presented me with a pretty turquoise zippy little number for a cool thirty dollars. I’m cheap, but when the Kindle’s for free…  so I bought it. And then it just. Didn’t. Arrive. So un-Amazon-like. So I wait patiently. And patiently. Then I totally forgot about it for a few days until one random Tuesday when I was sitting at my desk diligently working away (heh) and it hit me: “Where the f&%^$ is my Kindle cover?”

I click on to Amazon, see that it says it was delivered two days ago. Oh no, Amazon. We are not going to start lying to each other, are we? Because no Kindle cover had arrived for me. I thought our relationship was built on trust, my buying things I don’t need, and you shipping them to me so quickly I am not able to think it over and decide to cancel my order. So I print out the delivery receipt so I can call and complain. And that’s when I see it: My old address. (At this point the best song ever, Barenaked Ladies’ ‘Old Apartment’ popped into my head and I had teary, slow motion water-color images of my past apartment floating dreamily in my head.) They have all of my old addresses saved, and either I didn’t click the right one or the system messed up, but either way, the address it had been delivered to was in the same city, but was three apartments ago.

So I call, and what do you know, Ms. Amazon Customer Service Woman could not have been nicer, explains to me that she can’t resend the item as it’s already been delivered, but she would put the money back into my account and I can then repurchase this now mythical cover. Thank you, Ms. Amazon Customer Service Woman, for being so nice. Of course then I get the money into my account and I’m all “Hello, precious. Hi thirty dollars! You are just so CUTE! I thought I had lost you! Welcome home! I’m sorry I spent you, I won’t do it again.” And I didn’t; I just let the Kindle swim in the filth of my bag. Until. Until drunken genius took over.

I found myself at a bar next to The Old Apartment. I had some wine. I had some more wine. And then. Innocent Couple walks down the street. Drunk Me sees this, runs out of bar, and mysteriously and secretly (read: obviously and reeking of wine) waits and watches to see where they are headed. And WIN! They walk up the steps to The Old Apartment! “Hey. HEY!” I smoothly (trashedly) say to (scream at) them. “I totally, like, um, used to live there. Could you like um, look and see if there’s a package for Drunk Me in your hallway?” Girl looked scared, Boy was all “Huh?” I re-explained, they went inside. I thought all was lost. And then. THEN! He comes back outside with my package! Fireworks went off, glitter rained down from the sky. And unicorns! There were UNICORNS. I thanked him profusely (drunkenly hugged him) and ran back into the bar. I opened my package and there, there he was. Kindle Cover, now known as Accidentally Stolen Kindle Cover because I already got the refund for it. And it was love at first sight.

And now all I am dealing with is my Irish Catholic mother telling me that I will have bad karma forever unless I call Amazon and tell them I now owe them thirty dollars.

'Aint he handsome?
Aint he handsome?

F*ck You Kindle for Making Me Like You

1 Feb
Beautiful books
Beautiful classics

I did not want you, Kindle. No, I said, I like books, I said. I like the feel of them in my hand, I like the weight of them in my bag. I love how books smell, how it feels to run my finger over the words as if they were hieroglyphics carved into an ancient cave, slightly raised against the ridges of my fingerprints, telling me someone else’s story, reassuring me that someone else was here before me. No Kindle, I had no room for you in my inn. You would not call to me from my shelf, beckoning me to read you again, tempting me to take another journey where I notice things I missed on my first time through your pages.

You are thin and cold and light. I like fat and warm, heavy. You would die in my purse when I didn’t put the lid to my omnipresent water bottle on tight enough, whereas my friend, Book, just had to be dried off, his wet page corners deteriorating between my fingers when I couldn’t wait for him to dry fully before reading more. And when Book dried, and I picked him up months or years later, his little jagged-edged corners would remind me of where I was when that page was wet and tearing in my hands. No Kindle, you were not for me, something high-tech and out of place in the land of beautiful novels, with their hard covers and crackling spines.

So imagine my surprise, Kindle, when I was handed you, as unwanted of a gift as a backwards compliment, and I, begrudgingly, started to enjoy you. None of the beauty and grace of my lovely Books, but still providing me with the words, the stories. Interesting, I thought. Then I learned I could place my finger over a word, one whose meaning escaped me, and you, Kindle, like a prophet, would instantly bestow upon me the definition of said word. Not bad, Kindle, I thought. Not too shabby.

So Kindle, I admit. I judged you before meeting you. I will give you a chance, though you will always be number two in my world of reading. Besides, last night, when Cat stepped on you and you freaked out? When I could not get back to the page I was on no matter how hard I pleaded? Yeah, Book would never do that. However, you have gotten inside my head, Kindle, because I find myself touching words in books now, not to feel the raised ink, but expecting the definition to pop up out of vapor from the pages.

Why can't I hate you like I want to?
Oh why can’t I hate you?