My elderly desktop computer died yesterday.
It had been ill for sometime, slowing down, getting confused over even the simplest tasks, sometimes not getting out of bed at all.
I have donated it to science. It is sitting downstairs in Nick's bedroom and it will be harvested for parts.
Fortunately, I have this trusty HP laptop as well as an equally elderly HP computer, which will be doing yeoman's work until I can gather enough sheckles to invest in a new fancy desktop.
The laptop is fine for writing drivel for the masses, but I need the big guy to do the heavy lifting.
Magazine editing can be a bitch, especially when one is self-employed and one's magazine physically resides in Paris, France. The work requires a bit of specialty software and a big screen for world-weary old eyes.
I was so upset, I vibrated all day yesterday and bounced like a ping-pong from one hardware station to another and dug through boxes looking for a phantom piece of software -- Microsoft Office -- which I believe was pilfered by one child or another. They all deny it.
I'm on deadline and I have three big stories to write this week. I've lost all my contacts and pray to hear the familiar ding and see an email from a friendly Parisien who can supply me with all the contacts of all the other friendly Parisiens who, inexplicably, have either Russian or Spanish names.
All of your bleaders in my contact list, feel free to email me, otherwise, there will be silence from this end. I may be wise, but I cannot read your thoughts, virtually or otherwise.
I'm thinking of investing in Microsoft Office Suite 3.0, which is one of those cloud things. It's only twelve bucks a year and it's supposed to do the same thing as Microsoft Office, which, if I were to buy it new, would cost me my first born grandchild -- and I don't think I could wrestle Little Wheels out of her mother's clutches just yet.
That damned Bill Gates is still ripping off us po' folk, the idiots who continue to be duped into buying gold laden software which costs The Gates Corporation pennies, but shakes us down for $600, to power up our cheap computers. Damn you, Gates!
I must admit, computers are lasting longer than they used to.
I remember a time, not long ago, when I was making my living as a speechwriter and had to have THREE computers in the house in case there was some sort of glitch in one, and the boys were downloading porn in the basement on the second which caught a virus.
Sometimes, I long for the old Underwood, the one I learned to write on. It never gave up. But then, it would take four months of typing to guarantee clean copy.
The Gods in the cosmos were after me yesterday.
I began the day losing my iPod shuffle, which is a tiny little device that I attach to my pants to help me through the slog at the gymnasty. I charged it and clipped it to my Lulu Liz Lemons, but when I got to the gym, it was gone.
I almost lost my bowels, right there.
I can't do the gym without Queen and Styx, and I couldn't face the Saturday having to listen to Brad Giffin talk about dead teenagers shot with unregistered firearms in Alberta.
I had to settle for Beverly Hills Brides. Did you know they're making bridal gowns out of pineapple these days?
The things you learn on the treadmill.
I got through the workout and came home.
I found the iPod shuffle in my underwear.
Thought I'd dodged the technological bullet, but then the computer imploded, squealing, then softly whimpering as it gasped its last fatal breath.
I was so mad yesterday, I cleaned my office.
That never happens.
So, dear bleaders, if you followed me to the end of this rant, help a girl out won't ya? Look to your right or below this pithy prose and you might find yourself a wonderful Christmas gift. If enough of you click, maybe I can afford the twelve bucks for the Microsoft cloud.