I met my (now) husband the same year Frank Sinatra died.

(I know it was “before 9/11” but always have to look up “Sinatra” in Wikipedia to get the exact year: 1998.)

(I can’t remember our wedding anniversary, either, except the month starts with a “J.”)

We’ve had unnaturally few fights in all this time, but the first, nastiest, and most persistent is “Mac vs. PC.” Those ads are our relationship (from my P.O.V.)

When I met him, Arnie had never even used a computer before. I, on the other hand, had been working on Apples since the late 1980s, when I was helping put out a 16-page newspaper on a 20MB Macintosh SE. (Somehow.)

That thing took so long to start up, I could push the power button at 9 a.m., walk down three flights of stairs, smoke two cigarettes, come back to my desk — and that adorably homely oatmeal colored box was still churning awake, emitting metallic crunching noises that would have been a clue to call a repairman with any other machine in existence.

I didn’t care. I loved everything about Apple computers and dutifully believed that Bill Gates was the Devil incarnate:

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