Sad goodbyes...

As I find myself browsing the Dell website, I ask not 'where do computers go when they die?' but rather, 'where do they go when they don't?'

What do you do with a computer that is almost completely useless because of how slow it runs once you replace it with a much faster, sleeker computer? Is there a rest home for computers that refuse to die?

Because you've had this computer for almost five years, and you have a strong bond. But, much like a five-year-old golden retriever, regardless of the fact that its a beloved member of your family, it's best years are behind it, and its time to put it down.

That is the struggle that I currently face.

With my laptop. I don't have a golden retriever. Anymore.

Caution

I've been having a hard time getting dressed recently. Its getting colder, and my summer clothes aren't really reasonable, but my winter clothes are driving me crazy. While in storage over the summer, my entire wardrobe shrunk. Like magic or something. All my clothes from last season are tight on me. So,because I can't afford go out and get new clothes, I've had to get creative as I try to find outfits for work. Last Monday was a failed attempt. I tried to go for a sort of loose top with a tank top under it, to cover my middle parts the best I could. Except my tank top kept riding up in the back, and my baggy shirt kept slipping down in the front. You've heard of casual Friday? Well, this was more like, Dress like a whore Monday.

Despite the slight "Northern Exposure" I was toting all day, I thought I pulled it off. 'It' being the hiding of the post-summer bulge. To test how well I did, I fished.

"I haven't felt very good about myself recently." I said with a frown, as I led my boyfriend down a fatal path. I pulled at my shirt-- a blatant hint! Without looking at me, hopefully without thinking, he said,

"You should try running."

Stay tuned for my next few posts which will undoubtedly involve dieting.

Ohhh sickness.

I know that I've been told about a hundred times: do not go to work when you feel sick. Especially me. Where I work, people are sick, all the time. I could cough, or rub my face, and end up killing grandma. And not Sarah Palin's grandma, but like, a real grandma. So, its common sense to stay home, I don't need a television news report to tell me that. And yet, scratchy throat, hot/cold, muscle pain... I'm going to work. Because Time Magazine never told me how I was suppose to manage my bills if I don't work.

So, I've come up with a plan. First, develop a rating system, from one to ten, to determine how sick you really are. Maybe you're nose is running, and you have a sore throat, that would only be like a 2. and then fever and vomiting would raise the numbers. Now, call into work and tell your co-workers you're ill, and inform them of your current sickness rating. Then they negotiate with you on a price to keep you home. It wouldn't have to be an exact exchange, because you're not actually working, but it will help compensate for the missed day.

Oh. Gross.

Do you know what happens when you forget that you bought a gallon of apple cider, and leave it in the trunk of your car for two weeks, in the heat and sun?

Well, I do.

In related news, I found out what was rotting in my car.

I Hate Women.

Some of the most successful bouts of self-loathing I have ever experienced were brought on by logic-less comments made by women. This post is devoted to a few of the women I work with.

Most people would say their weight fluctuates, it seems natural enough. Every year I gain and lose the same 10 or so pounds and try not to think that much of it. I mean, I'm over worked, and underpaid, and stressed about my future and global warming and the nation's economy, -- I really don't need to add another insecurity to that list. That being said however, I work with women, and it is a well known fact that women will not rest until you are crippled by insecurities about every aspect of your life.

Yesterday, I was chatting with the ladies who work next door, and I mentioned that we ate dinner at my boyfriend's parent's house last night. The older of the two women said "And how old are you??" and when I told her she curled up her lip, "And you're STILL mooching off your parents??" Because if women ever find even a kernel of doubt in you, they will put heat on it until it explodes. And remember that.

That same day, the co-worker whom I work most closely with asked me what I did this weekend.
FACT: When a woman asks you what you did this weekend, in reality, she doesn't care. She is simply fishing for a topic with which she will make you feel like shit about. And I know this, but for whatever reason, I excitedly told her about the new restaurant I found with my friends, and the squash soup I had there. She immediately stated, "If you keep eating all that milk you're going to get chubby." Milk. I'm being advised to avoid milk in my formative years because it is MILK that will make me fat. Yes, I'm sure it's the milk. Not the beers, or the chips, or the hot wings, or the heavy dinners. Its milk.

On that same thread, a few days ago, I was joking with the doctor about how poor I am. I told her about how my boyfriend and I eat rice with every meal (nearly true,-- at least five nights a week) and last week we were busted by our friends eating just rice with hot sauce for dinner (true. and embarrassing). -- I'll admit that this time, it was MY mistake to share that information; I should know better. Women have notoriously bad senses of humor. She snipped at me, "You shouldn't be eating rice at all. You'll get all thicker in your middle."

Thick-er. Great.