It's Going Swimmingly

When we were looking for new apartments a few months ago, one of the things I especially looked for was new appliances in the kitchen. And by "new," I mean "manufactured within the past two decades." Obviously, I felt that the appliances at our new apartment complex passed the test. Turns out, I was wrong. Granted the dishwasher at our old place was loud and not so pretty and didn't do a particularly spectacular job, so we had to essentially wash all of our dishes by hand and then run them through the dishwasher so that McMoose could feel that they were effectively "sanitized." And that was a pain. A big pain.

The new dishwasher is quieter and newer and it seems more effective. But also, it leaks. A lot. Luckily for me, I was not the one to discover the leak. Unluckily for McMoose, he was. The first time he stepped in a puddle, he blamed me. The second time, he blamed the dog. The third time, he opened the dishwasher and lo! And! Behold! The drainage pipe must be backed up because the water just pools in the bottom and then spills out of the door instead of going sensibly down the pipes.

So yesterday, I went to talk to the apartment people and ask them to kindly come fix the darn thing. They informed me that the wading pool in my kitchen does not constitute an emergency, but that they would be happy to fix it when they get to it. Translation: 1 week, minimum.

The Very Disappointing Day

Reasons I was excited to come to work today:

1. My office mate, who was out of town for the past two days, was scheduled to come back so I no longer had to obsess about whether there were serial killers on the loose in the building.
2. I knew I would get to play with my statistics program all day.
3. If the statistics program started doing strange things again, I knew I could go to my office mate, who is a statistical genius.
4. I was supposed to have lunch at a Very Good Restaurant with some Very Amusing People whom I haven't seen in months.

Reasons why I'm no longer excited to be at work:

1. My office mate decided to work from home today, which means that (a) I'm still obsessing about the serial killers and (b) there's no one to help me with the stats program.
2. The stats program? Oh, it hates me. A lot. And it takes a great deal of pleasure in telling me things that DON'T MAKE SENSE. And then I have to turn to Google to answer my questions, and the answers I get are something like this: "In order to complete the factor analysis, you must determine whether you want an orthogonal or a oblique rotation. Then, set the analysis scale based on the elbow of the SCREE graph." And then, I hang my head and cry giant tears because graphs should not have elbows. And what the hell is a rotation? AND WHY, OH WHY, DIDN'T I PAY MORE ATTENTION IN STATS CLASS?
3. I'm hungry. Tragically and woefully hungry. And lunchtime is still an hour away.

Going Postal

Have I mentioned that I'm rather fond of the fine art of procrastination? So keeping this fact in mind, of course I would wait until two days before the end of the month before going to the post office to change my address, even though we've actually been in this apartment now for almost 10 days. But the post office kind of reinforces all of my procrastinating ways because it always provides oh, such a dreadful experience.

McMoose, being the productive and intelligent being he is, promptly changed his information online AND took great and perverse pleasure in informing me that had I changed my last name two months ago like I was supposed to, he could have changed my information online too. But of course I haven't changed my name yet, so I had to do my own. And furthermore, you can only do it online if your bank already knows your new address, which mine (surprise, surprise) did not. So off I went to the post office.

And stood in line. And stood in line. And STOOD. IN. LINE. And after about 20 minutes of that, I finally got called up to speak to a Very Ornery Man who, oh, by the way, was also Very Hard of Hearing:

Me: Hi, I just need a change of address form.
Man: Do you have a yellow slip?
Me: Uh, no...I need a slip for a change of address form?
Man: You need the slip that the postman left you, or you can't get your package.
Me: *pause* O...kay...I don't have a package. I need a change of address form.
Man: Ma'am, without the slip, I can't give you the package.
Me: No. There is NO package...
Man: I'm sorry, ma'am, but I can't help you. Next person in line please!

Ok, so do you see? Do you SEE why I put these things off for as long as I humanly can?

Merry Christmas in July and Happy New Years in August

Um...what's with the Christmas in July thing? The local radio stations were doing Christmas in July giveaways. There were ads on TV for Christmas in July sales. Seriously, I wouldn't be surprised if I walked into CVS and found a row of Christmas in July cards. Before this year, the only time I had really even heard the term was in random books or movies. Now all of a sudden, it's this legitimate not-quite-holiday. When did that happen? And, AND. If all that wasn't bad enough, this morning as I was driving to work, I heard an ad on the radio for an "After Christmas Sale." At which point I yelled at the announcer that IT'S NOT CHRISTMAS and the person in the car next to me gave me a very strange look.

So is this just a new gimmick to get people shopping? Because I understand the whole we're-in-a-recession-and-people-aren't-buying-as-much extravaganza, but...um...when I go into Target or Barnes & Noble or Best Buy? It isn't exactly deserted. And even with the sky-high price of gas, it isn't like morning traffic has gotten any lighter. And the drive-thru at McDonalds is still just as long and annoying as it ever was. So is it really necessary to invent a holiday that falls THREE WEEKS after the 4th of July just so people will go buy stuff? And also, what's next? Hanukkah in September? Kwanzaa in April? National Beekeepers' Day in February?

Painting-palooza

I was beyond thrilled when I found out that we could paint the rooms at our last apartment. And as soon as we moved in, one of the first things I did was paint the bedroom and the office. And for the past year, I've felt like I lived at the beach because the rooms were beautiful. And then came today. And as much as I've enjoyed the beachy rooms for the past year, today I almost wished I had never painted those rooms to begin with. Because today? Today, I got to begin the long and unpleasant process of painting those darn rooms back to the institutional apartment white.

Since HGTV was one of the very few channels we got at our old apartment, I spent a good portion of my last year watching shows about painting, so when the time came, I headed out to Lowe's to find a good primer. After about ten minutes of staring blankly at a Very Tall Wall of Primers, I picked the one that said "Perfect for drastic color changes with just one coat!" Plus, it had a picture of someone painting a blue wall white, which is exactly the situation that I find myself in. Feeling like I had the whole painting thing under control, I pranced on back to the old apartment to begin the process.

Turns out that people who make paint are BIG, FAT LIARS because the room that was blue? Yeah, it's still blue. I mean, it's a slightly lighter blue, but it's blue nevertheless. So. Maybe....this is MAGIC primer and when I put the actual paint on top, none of the blue will show through? Right? Ok, good.

Feeding the Addiction

One of the things I didn't like about our new apartment complex before we moved in is that we were forced to get cable. I felt that it was being forced on me and that I shouldn't have been forced to pay the extra $50 a month for a bunch of channels that I would rarely watch. And I still think it's ridiculous that it's required for all residents. And it's true that most of the channels go unwatched, partly because all they ever play are re-runs of Judge [insert name of sarcastic TV judge here]. But. There are those two or three channels that I now watch NON-STOP.

So it occurs to me now that the real reason I was opposed to this whole mandatory cable thing was not so much because I was being forced to pay for something I didn't want, but rather because I was being forced to pay for something that I DID want. Desperately. TV is my addiction and I now have unrestricted access to it. ALL THE TIME. And you know what? Those documentaries about orphaned tigers? And about people growing all their food in a compost pile? And about people who believe that god lives in their right shoe? Yeah, all those documentaries are still just as good as ever. And I am LOVING IT.

A Physical Impossibility

When we first moved to Raleigh, we had very little working knowledge of the city, but we knew we wanted a place that was close to McMoose's office and also to my university. So we ended up at a place that was 35 minutes away from my university AND 35 minutes away from McMoose's work. Which might not sound too bad until you consider the fact that McMoose's office? It's about 40 minutes away from the university.

This time, we were more jaded and fore-armed with the knowledge that apartment managers will tell you ANYTHING to get you to sign a lease, so we very carefully picked out communities that we knew were closer for both of us. And we were very excited when we found our new apartment because it's almost exactly half-way, in terms of distance, between McMoose's office and the university.

Turns out I got excited a little too soon. See, the distance I'm traveling each day has, in fact, been cut in half. But. I used to drive on the highway, where 65 miles per hour was considered slow. Now I drive on regular roads with traffic lights that seem to be programmed so that as soon as one turns green, the next one turns red, so you have to stop every 100 feet. Plus, the moronic people who drive this road seem convinced that anything over 30 miles per hour is Reckless and Irresponsible. So end result? My 10 mile drive takes the same 35 minutes as my 20 mile drive used to take. You know why? BECAUSE GOD LIKES TO MOCK ME.

They'll Be Coming 'Round the Mountain

I always bemoan the fact that I'm quite possibly the most distract-able human being on the planet. I would rather be doing anything other than the thing that I'm actually supposed to be doing. Playing sudoku? Far better than reading an article or writing a paper. Knitting--much more enjoyable than doing the laundry or cleaning out the fridge. And anything, anything, ANYTHING is better than washing my car or walking the dog.

But today marks a victory for me. I went to work. I did not check my email. I did not read the news or do a crossword or play solitaire. I WORKED. Imagine that. Working. At work. And I didn't take any vending machine breaks or talking to my co-worker breaks or picking at my toenail breaks. And the task that usually takes me 5 hours to do took all of 90 minutes. Which means that today? I am the most productive human being ON THE PLANET.

And this burst of productivity couldn't have come at a better time because McMoose informed me yesterday that his aunt and uncle would be coming for a visit. Today. For those of you who are counting, that's 24 HOURS OF NOTICE. While we're in the midst of moving. In his defense, he did unpack a lot of stuff last night. In his not-so-much defense, he informed me that they might get here a few hours before he gets home from work and that I should keep them entertained with "chit-chat." Which in reality will translate to "sitting there and staring at each other for two. full. hours."

Every Silver Lining Has a Cloud

McMoose and I just spent the past two days packing, moving, and unpacking simultaneously. Why, you ask? Because apparently, stores have realized that giving away their old cardboard boxes is completely unprofitable, so instead they now sell boxes. For $2.50. Each. As a result of which we decided that 12 boxes would be more than enough to move two people, one dog, and two cats. Turns out we were wrong, so basically, we moved a set of boxes to the new place, unpacked, went back to the old place, and re-packed. So each trip took approximately 2 hours. And I've decided that I'M NEVER MOVING AGAIN.

But the new place? It is big. And bright. And there are walk in closets. And a pantry. And a storage closet...no, a STORAGE ROOM. I could live in that storage room. And best of all? IT HAS A BALCONY. Not just a little sun room that can never be used by human beings because it vacillates between being 150 degrees in the summer and -150 degrees in the winter. Oh, no. This is an actual balcony. We can GO OUTSIDE. Imagine that.

I'm loving this place. With one, small, little exception: the half-dead cockroach I found sitting in the middle of the living room floor this morning. I take comfort in the half-dead part, but the part where there was a cockroach in my living room? That's the part that makes my eyes hurt and makes me rethink my statement about never moving again. So for future reference: when there's a clause in the lease that says that an exterminator will be available once a week if you so desire? NOT A GOOD SIGN.

Movers, Shakers, and Tellers

The last time we moved, we were consolidating two apartments worth of stuff into one, which was...difficult. But on the plus side, the actual moving part was easy because we were moving within the same apartment complex, so all we had to do was haul stuff across a parking lot. This time, we're moving to a different town that's about 30 minutes from where we live right now, so although we don't have the same issues about whose stuff is kept and whose gets thrown out, there is the issue of getting things from here to there.

So we decided that in order to avoid the inevitable arguments and backaches, we would hire movers, at least for the heavy things. By some amazing twist of fate, McMoose got stuck with the responsibility of finding these movers (BWAHAHAHA). In case you're not familiar with movers? They're RIDICULOUS. One company wanted to charge us $50 for every 7 stairs that they had to go up or down. An excellent deal if you're moving between two ground floor apartments, but not so great if you're moving from the 2nd floor to the 3rd. Another company is based about 130 miles away from Raleigh, and were perfectly willing to come help us move, as long as WE paid for their gas. In a truck that probably gets like 4 miles to the gallon. HAHAHAHAHA, yeah right.

We finally managed to find a company that sounded somewhat reasonable and that had fairly good reviews online (aka: no one complained that they stole all their furniture and resold them on the black market). Just one little problem. They don't take checks. Did you know that when you go to the bank and ask to withdraw frightening amounts of money, the grandfatherly teller lectures you about MURDER and MAYHEM and DANGER AROUND EVERY CORNER? And in fact, he lectures you so LOUDLY that every single individual in the six storey building probably heard him. So if there happened to be a robber in that building, he's totally coming for me now.

Opposite Ends of the Spectrum

Picture morning rush hour--the long, slow moving lines of cars, the annoyed drivers, the talk radio show with the really annoying woman on it. Ok? Now, picture the obnoxious driver who feels the need to swerve around crazily in an attempt to pass one car at a time. WHY? Seriously, how much time could that person possibly save each morning? Why go through all the aggravation just to get to work 2 minutes earlier? And the thing is, most of the time, others around this driver are so annoyed that they go OUT OF THEIR WAY just to screw him/her over, so Crazy Driver probably isn't even getting to work a full 2 minutes earlier. Is this person's job really that much more exciting than mine that he/she cannot bear to be away from work for the extra 100 seconds?

Of course, on the flip side of the coin are the people who drive the mopeds. Ok, I get that gas is expensive and that it's nice and warm outside and these two things combined together create ideal moped-riding conditions. And it's great that these people are willing to take it slow and enjoy the scenery. But. After you spend about 10 minutes being stuck behind a moped moving at 30 miles per hour and you FINALLY see a big enough break in traffic for you to pass them, and then at the very next stop light, the moped squeezes up between the two lanes and gets back in front of you? Yeah, there are no words to adequately express how much I just want to reach out and SMACK the rider on the back of his helmet-less head. NO. WORDS.

The Great Statistical Adventure

"The more I learn, the more I learn how little I know." --Socrates

That quote there? SUMS UP MY EXISTENCE. Now that I've turned in my thesis proposal, I get to sit around and party all day long. And if you believe that, I have a lovely, golden bridge to sell you. What I'm actually doing is running various statistical analyses on data that we collected a few months ago. Or at least, that's what I'm supposed to be doing. What I'm actually doing is spinning my chair around in circles because (a) I can and (b) statistical analysis programs? THEY SUCK.

Last week, I told my advisor/boss that I'd have all these cool stats for here by tomorrow. Instead, I've spent the past two days trying to figure out HOW TO OPEN MY DATA. Seriously. I tried everything. Asked my co-worker for advice. Looked online. Did a rain dance. E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G. And after many, many hours of frustration, I decided that this was just another example of technology hating on me and that I should turn to someone with Greater Technological Prowess than myself. So I talked to the tech guy:

Me: Hi, I'm having some problems running a stats program. It gives me an error message saying the license expired.
TG: Oh, we had this problem with another computer yesterday. It's because you're using version 13, not 16.
Me: Version 16...Ok. But there's only one version on my computer, and it's 13.
TG: No, you have 16. It's just inside 13.
Me: Oh, ok. No...wait. Inside 13? What does that mean?
TG: It means you can't use it.

Ok, great. Thanks so much for clearing that up for me. Apparently, I had to extract something and do something with some code somewhere and threaten to throw my computer down the elevator shaft in order to get it to work. Welcome to the 21st century folks, where you need a degree in computer science just to open a file.

Not Your Average Message

Some strange human being keeps leaving voice messages on my cell phone. I say "strange human being" because in all honesty? I can't tell if it's a man or woman. After listening to the first message, I thought it was probably a woman, but then I listened to the second one and I could have sworn it was a man. And to make matters even worse? His/her name is Taylor. TAYLOR, for crying out loud. Could you PICK a more androgynous name?????

And this Taylor person clearly thinks I'm someone else. Up until now, the messages that Taylor sounded highly professional, which led me to believe that he/she was trying to reach a co-worker or client or some other work related contact. BUT. In the latest message, which was left at 9 this morning, Taylor informed me that he/she had a great time last night and that he/she is sorry for leaving without waking me up this morning.

So now, I'm thinking that maybe this isn't a work sanctioned situation after all. And also, it seems completely unrealistic that someone out there has not only my name (and come on. How many people do you know named Anisha?), but who also has a phone number that must be fairly close to mine. And also, now? I'm eaten up with curiosity about this Taylor and this Anisha and what sounds like a very interesting relationship. Who needs soap operas when you have a cell phone?

Celebrations Abound

I just handed in my thesis proposal to my advisor, not so much because I'm feeling confident about it, but rather because I've been looking at the damn thing for the past five months now and I'm ready to give it away. I know, I KNOW she's going to give it back with about 85% of it crossed out or altered. Know why? Because it SUCKS. Know why? Because at some point between applying to grad school and today, all of my motivation to do Big Things with my life has pretty much drained out of my ear. Given the choice, I'd gladly be a goatherd for the next fifty years. Good exercise, lots of time to think, cute baby goats to play with--not too many ways to go wrong.

But the fact remains that I've submitted my proposal. Apparently, this is a cause to celebrate. As such, I'll be indulging myself this afternoon with a bowl of chickpeas and a Brand! New! Jar of jalapenos! And then? I'll launch straight into my mid-quarter life crisis because now that my idea of a celebration involves a bowl of chickpeas, my life is probably not worth living anymore.

Opposites Attract, Apparently

We're moving in 6 days (whoo!). Actually, as McMoose was quick to point out, we're starting to move in 6 days. For 12 days, we'll be going back and forth between two apartments in an attempt to make this move less stressful than the last, when our two leases overlapped by exactly two days.

So we've spent a lot of time packing this weekend, and it occurs to me yet again that McMoose and I? We have completely different styles of doing, oh, EVERYTHING. When I say that I'm packing, for example, I mean that I'm putting things INTO boxes. Quickly. I just packed four boxes in 15 minutes. When McMoose says he's packing, he means that first, he's taking things OUT of boxes. Slowly. And then, he's sorting papers into piles. Then, he's burning some of the piles. Then, he's moving things from one room to another. And then, finally, FINALLY, he starts putting things into boxes. All in all, a very long and arduous process. Oh, and also? One that drives me CRAZY.

But here's the thing: I do things. He does things well. My boxes fall apart. His don't. My power cords are all tangled up and it will take approximately two months in the new place to untangle them. His are rolled into little balls and probably color coded. Half of my clothes are not folded, but rather smushed up and stuffed into suitcases. His clothes are organized by purpose. If this were a children's fairy tale, I'd be the hare, he'd be the tortoise, and I might win the race, but he'd be the one enjoying the scenery with trail mix and a soda.

Technical Difficulties

I'm not having a good technology day. Actually, most of my days are pretty far from perfect, technologically speaking--a fact that makes me believe that god or the universe made a mistake and that I should have actually been born into a Sub-Saharan tribe or a Sherpa family or an Amish community. You know, someplace where my woeful technological inadequacies would never be noticed?

Today, I got a call from our new cable lady, wondering how come I hadn't faxed back a form she had sent me three days ago. Here's the thing: I HAD faxed it back. Incorrectly, as it turns out. So after I spent about ten minutes trying to decipher what this woman was saying (did I mention that my cell phone hates me and refuses to get reception in my own apartment?), she managed to convince me that I had to resend the form RIGHT NOW! At which point, I had a rather unsettling argument with the laptop, which refused to open the attachment. And then another one with the printer, which spat out a piece of paper which was empty except for a rainbow colored splotch in one corner and then shut itself down.

By this point, of course, I was ready to call a moratorium on all technology for the REST OF MY LIFE, but the memory of the cable lady's angry voice kept me going. So after cajoling the printer with the promise of a Caribbean cruise, off I went to the nearest Kinko's, only to be faced with a fax machine that informed me that "The drum is unclean. Please remove the cover and clean the thread." Um. Drums? Threads? WHAT? Turns out, the Kinko's employee had no idea what was going on either, and after standing around and pushing various buttons, informed me that their fax machine was experiencing technical difficulties. To which I responded by saying that no, it wasn't their fax machine that was experiencing technical difficulties, IT WAS ME.

Super Duper Wasp Killer

About a week ago, this wasp decided that right outside our front door would be an ideal place for a nest. Which meant that for a few days, I refused to enter or exit the apartment without McMoose because my reasoning is that if one of us has to get stung, it should be the one who ISN'T already phobic about every flying insect, ever. Apparently, McMoose didn't agree with my reasoning, so he went and bought some wasp killer, which he sprayed liberally around the nest, while I cowered inside the apartment.

Turns out the wasp killer kills EVERYTHING that might remotely resemble an insect because today? I came home to find 1 dead wasp, 1 dead cockroach (ick), about seven dead beetles, and a spider, which was very much alive and enjoying his feast. So. Not that I'm complaining about the fact that we no longer have a threatening wasp living with us. But. The crunch of insect corpses under my flip flops every time I leave the apartment? Not so pleasant.

The Inspection, Take Two

I was woken up this morning by the maintenance man POUNDING on the door so that he could do a pre-move out inspection. Not pleasant. So in my still-half-asleep haze, I grabbed a robe, put Yellow Cat in a cage, put Black Cat in the closet (I'm not really sure why), and let the guy in. And this inspection took all of, oh, three minutes, as he walked through all the rooms in the apartment (including the bathroom where McMoose was trying to take a shower...MUAHAHA), commented on my choice of paint colors, talked to the Dog, and then left. And I went back to bed because by that point, I had decided that today would be a "working from home" kind of day.

90 minutes later, I was woken up by the maintenance man POUNDING on the door so he could do a pre-move out inspection. Ok. So. Did you just have a sense of deja vu there? BECAUSE I SURE DID. Turns out it was a different maintenance man, and that he had no idea that his co-worker had already done the inspection. He was deeply apologetic as he stood in my living room FOR TEN MINUTES waiting for the first guy to radio him back and confirm my claims that the apartment had already been done. Because apparently, I look like the kind of person who would lie about something like that.

So how come when I need them to fix a leak in my shower, it takes a week and a half before I can get even ONE maintenance man to come by, and yet when they need to do an inspection, TWO of them show up within a two hour period? Huh? HUUUUHHHH????

Obstacle Course Summer

So I've decided that the best part of being around campus during the summer is that I get to see all the construction. Granted, the novelty wears off a little when I walk down the hallway and a splotch of white paint falls on me from the newly painted ceiling, but other than that, it's pretty exciting to see the projects when they're still new. Plus, during the summer, construction actually PROGRESSES instead of stagnating like it does the rest of the year. And of course, there's the added benefit of having a free, easily accessible obstacle course that changes by the week.

This morning, for example, I had to take a book back to the library because it's about two years overdue and the librarian who emails me faithfully once a week threatened to send fireballs in my direction if I didn't bring it back. So I started out on my trek, carrying a cookie and a bottle of water in case I was taken hostage by cannibals during the 5 minute walk. Turned out to be a good thing I was prepared because what used to be a 5 minute walk during the school year has morphed into a 35 minute adventure in the summer because EVERY SINGLE PATH from my office to the library was closed. So I improvised. I went through buildings. I climbed mountains. Ok, they weren't so much mountains as mounds of dirt, but I climbed them nevertheless. I even accidentally walked into a classroom where they were having class. People stared. I left. Eventually, I did make it to the library, to the great delight of the librarian, who then informed me that there was a back path that would take me back to my building in exactly 3 minutes. Huh. Good to know.

Patience: Not MY Virtue

While we were walking around the Newark airport a couple of weeks ago, there was a woman with three very young children and a cartful of luggage who was simultaneously trying to feed her infant, keep her toddler from pulling the bags onto himself, and keep her other toddler from rolling around on the floor. And as she stood there making what seemed to me to be a superhuman effort to keep all of her children alive and safe, she very quietly chanted to herself, "Patience is a virtue. Patience is a virtue."

So two things here: (1) Wow. Just really wow. If I were in charge of giving out awards for superhuman serenity, that woman would definitely get one. And (2) I can never, NEVER be like her. And I want to. I think it would be very good for my blood pressure if I could be like her...the patience part. Not the three kids under the age of two part. That part would probably kill me dead because OH MY GOD, CAN YOU IMAGINE THE CRYING?

See, patience? Not so much something I'm good at. When I'm waiting for something important to come in the mail, I look out the window approximately every 58 seconds to see if the mail truck is visible yet. I start asking about what I'm getting for Christmas right after Halloween (which, by the way? Drives. McMoose. CRAZY.) And rather than order a DVD on sale from the BestBuy website, I'll drive out to the store and pay an extra $10 just so I can have it RIGHT NOW. Which is why we spent about an hour this weekend driving to all the BestBuys and Circuit Citys (Cities?) within a 10 mile radius, looking for the lowest price on a DVD box set, only to find that NONE OF THEM carried the set in store. So I was forced into ordering it online. And now I have to wait FOR TWO WEEKS before I get it. TWO. WEEKS. AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH. *Melts into puddle of impatient, green goo.*

Introducing...The Shiny Laptop

I recently got a new laptop, thanks to McMoose's connections with the mob. And by "the mob," I mean "the computer world." And it's very, very cool and very shiny, but it's been a few years since I've owned a laptop and it's taking me a while to get reacquainted with some of the, um, eccentricities. For example: the whole being mobile thing? It's fantastic. Except. The battery life is about an hour, maybe an hour and a half, depending on how benevolent it's feeling. And once I plug it in, I forget that I'm no longer mobile and I try to get up and walk around. End result? The computer has a hissy fit and shuts down and I have a Very Sore Leg from tripping over the cord.

And then there's the whole "Where's My Power Cord?" Drama, which is always fun, because for whatever reason, I CANNOT KEEP TRACK OF THE DAMN THING. At all. Ever. And one time, I even said to myself as I was placing it carefully upon my desk that "The power cord is on my desk. I will not forget that the power cord is on my desk. When I am looking for the power cord, I will remember that it is ON MY DESK." And 45 minutes later, I was accusing McMoose of stealing it and feeding it to the dog.

And if the power cord problems aren't bad enough, the laptop? It makes a noise. Like a kind of squeaky, whiny noise. Except that it makes it at strange intervals and whenever I try to show McMoose, it goes silent. So now, I look like a crazy girl who thinks her computer talks to her.

Putting the Crap into Scrapbooking

I feel like I should preface this by saying that I'm not usually a scrapbooking kind of gal. In fact, I'm not even a putting-photos-in-albums kind of gal. Generally speaking, I'm the person who feigns a headache whenever someone says "Oh, you have to see pictures of [insert event name here]." And yet, for some reason that I can no longer remember, I thought it might be fun to do a wedding scrapbook. Silly me.

I mean, the pages I've already done--the save the date cards, the invitations, the what's-its, the whose-nots--those were all fine. But now? Now I'm smack dab in the middle of the photo part. And the first step to the photo part? Going through the TWO THOUSAND PICTURES that McMoose's cousin (a.k.a. Official Wedding Photographer) sent us. Hear that soul rending cry? Yeah, that's me.

So all crying aside, I finished step one and thought I was home free. Except that when you weed through 2,000 pictures and pick out the ones you think are important, there are STILL over two hundred left. Right. So I'm going to put the scrapbook thing aside for a few years...I mean...hours...and try to channel Martha Stewart. She'd know about this kind of thing, right? RIGHT??? Good.

Well, If You REALLY Want Fashion Advice...

I hate holiday shirts. Ok, hate may be too strong a word. Let's rephrase that. Holiday shirts make me want to do like Oedipus and poke needles into my eyes, just so I no longer have to look at them...Better? And it's entirely possible that the 4th of July ones are THE WORST. Or maybe second worst, because the Thanksgiving ones are pretty awful too. I mean, come on. Is there really no better way to show your patriotism than by dressing like the flag? Seriously? Couldn't you just walk around singing Yankee Doodle and passing out apple pie instead? Because I, for one, would greatly enjoy that.

And I can even understand holiday shirts if you're in certain professions. Teachers, for example, who want to use their wardrobe as a visual aid. Pediatric Nurses who want to distract crying children. Day care workers who...also want to...distract crying children. I can see why these people would like the bright colors and the whimsical patterns. But if you're, say, a brain surgeon? Or the dean of a college? Maybe wearing a flag vest and a straw hat that says "Born and Bred American" isn't the best way to command respect. Just a thought.

Anisha and the Strange, Bizarre, Not-At-All Usual, Very Odd Day

-Woke up this morning to my cell phone alarm, only to discover that I had made three phone calls last night. In my sleep. To someone I haven't seen or talked to in nearly three years. Oops.
-As I was walking from the parking lot to my office building, I saw a man making balloon animals. At 9:30 in the morning. On a deserted college campus.
-The elevator at work stopped halfway between floors, and opened its doors. Being completely confused by this point, I actually stuck my hand out to test whether there was actually a wall there. There was.
-The construction crew was still jackhammering the office above mine. I found this perfectly normal until I remembered that I'M ON THE TOP FLOOR, so there is no office above mine. What the hell are they jackhammering??? And as an added bonus, they were listening to a Ricky Martin CD today, which they had turned up AS LOUD AS POSSIBLE in order to hear it over the jackhammer. Which meant that I could also hear it over the jackhammer.
-The woman in the office next to mine decided to counter the jackhammer and the Ricky Martin by turning up her Whale Song CD. I'm not even kidding. And you know what I discovered? Whale songs at 80 million decibels? NOT SOOTHING.

Yeah, I'm starting to think this whole day might have been an alcohol induced dream...although I guess the fact that I haven't had any alcohol in over a month now kinda shoots that theory full of holes.

Bring on the Limes

You know the nice part about my job? I work for a woman who has three different offices. Which means the chances that on any given day, she'll be in the office that's close to mine? Pretty damn low. Which is super-duper-fantastic, considering I'm trying to avoid telling her that I've accomplished a grand total of NOTHING over the past several months.

The not-so-nice part of my job? The building is currently under construction (or very possibly demolition). And although we haven't been kicked out of our offices, we ARE subjected to dust and noise and stinky paint. All of which was not great, but could be endured. Until today, when they began jackhammering the floor in the room directly above mine. And let me tell ya, it came as quite the shock because I didn't even know there WAS a room above mine, so my first thought was that the building had been hit by a meteor. And as pleased as I was that the world was not, in fact, coming to a loud and painful end, the fact remains that I still have pieces of the ceiling IN MY HAIR. And the cover fell off my fluorescent light, as a result of which my office is now brighter than the sun.

Between the ridiculous, never-ending construction and the fact that I worked for a solid 4 hours today and accomplished more on my thesis proposal than I have since April, I believe I deserve an 8-day weekend and a case of Corona.