Anti Virus installation help desk

People often ask me whether I miss my former life as a bond trader. When this happens, I let my mind flutter back to the old days: to the surge in my bank account at bonus time, to the success and satisfaction I felt in the working world, to cocktails with colleagues, to a closet full of designer clothing — that fit. Then I do my best beatific smile and talk about how rewarding it is to be home with my children.

And I mean it. I was ready to give up my old life when my son arrived. It was a conscious — albeit hormone-soaked — decision to leave that lifestyle behind. Now, not having yelled "You're done!" into a telephone for many years, I believe that I've adjusted pretty well to life minus the corporate shield. I've broken on through to the other side.

There were, however, certain aspects of my former life that didn't enter my postpartum calculation. These lower-level goodies were so seductive — and ingrained — that I had stopped noticing them. I didn't contemplate their absence because I no longer appreciated their presence.

These days, there is just one blessed, undervalued perk that still haunts my dreams. I long for it and fantasize about it. When I read " Cinderella" to my daughter, I know what I would ask of my fairy godmother. I would ask for a direct phone line to the computer help desk.

Those guys were so great. They had a snappy phone extension that was easy to remember and simple to dial. Trembling with fury over lost work, or fingers frozen in fear over a mistake I suspected but was unable to check, I would somehow manage to tap out the SOS. Just hearing the call go through helped me breathe.

In the early days of our relationship, the fix was often an embarrassingly simple need to reboot. In the case of an actual problem, the best case was when they could fix it remotely or walk me through the steps to fix it myself. Sometimes someone had to come upstairs to the trading floor and sit at my desk to update an application or examine a problem. That always made me feel strangely vindicated, like the hypochondriac who turns out to be sick. There were times when the issue was bigger than both of us, and they'd have to cart out the broken box and bring in a new one.

Occasionally the culprit would be a system error, the computer equivalent of an Act of God. I never really understood what that entailed for the help desk or how hard they had to work to resolve it. From my solipsistic vantage point, it meant three things: that I hadn't caused it, that my manager would understand, and that I had enough time for a Starbucks run.

Sometimes they were too busy to help me in my hour of need. Though I never coerced my customers, I pulled out all the stops when it came to the computer help desk. I cajoled, I begged, I wept. I asked after wives and children. I sent my fear and worry hurtling through the telephone wire. In market parlance, I sucked up — large. And the joy and relief that washed over me when they let me jump the queue, agreeing to make my problem theirs, was a better high than I got from a vente latte.

Cut to me at home, years later, in my annual session of purgatory, trying to install new antivirus software. The website won't accept my credit card, undoubtedly a result of the dust-up from last year, when I inadvertently bought the update three times and had to get the charges reversed. When I am finally able to make the purchase, I have trouble with the download. There are no humans to help me, only frequently asked questions that don't pertain to my problem. I wait and wait to speak to someone in India.

When I do manage the download and begin the antivirus installation, it won't install until the old version is uninstalled. I learn that "remove" and "uninstall" are not synonymous; the former merely hides the program so you have less chance of doing the latter. When I eventually do uninstall, I can't eradicate the old version, which has apparently infiltrated at the molecular level. I try the download again, hoping to let bygones be bygones. I call Bombay back and explain the problem all over again to someone with the same name as the first guy who claims to be a different person. I am caught in an infinite loop.

Here at home I can gnash my teeth or rend my garments. I can cry, curse, howl or bang my head against the wall. When I'm through, it's still just me, my computer and my frustration, locked in a death spiral. I can't even throw the thing out because I don't know how to erase my information from the hard drive. In space, no one can hear you scream.

Or so I thought. I turn to see my children watching me, slack-jawed. My tantrum has surpassed their video for entertainment value. I smile warily and take a deep breath — part of my brain notes that I've finally found a use for my Lamaze breathing — as they stare me down. The injustice seems too much to bear: Not only do I have to live without the computer help and support desk, but I also have to do it in front of two innocent sponges whose character education is my responsibility. I cast about for a way to salvage the situation.

Source : http://www.courant.com/features/lifestyle/hc-essay0406.artapr06,0,6229672.story