USPS or FedEx?

I'm seriously impressed by our mailman. Actually, I've been impressed by the mailman for about a year and a half now because the guy knows both me and McMoose by name and face, and he RECOGNIZES THE DOG. And considering the fact that he comes around at 2 in the afternoon and so he's probably seen us out with the dog maybe, oh, three times in the past two years, it's pretty damn conscientious of him to know he belongs to us. Actually, he probably knows me because half the time, my car insurance bills still get sent to the old address, despite the numerous phone calls I have made to the insurance company. And apparently, the post office itself sucks, and cannot be bothered to put the little change of address sticker on my mail, despite the numerous forms I have filled out for them. But it's all good because my mailman? Oh, HE IS AWESOME. And he brings me all the mail that's addressed to my name, even if it has the wrong address on it.

As it turns out, the FedEx delivery guy recognizes me too, but for different reasons entirely. Thanks to all the wedding presents that have been shipped to my name over the past two months, the FedEx guy now knows me by name and by the fact that I always get Bed, Bath, and Beyond packages. As a result of which I just had to show him two (2!) pieces of mail with McMoose's name on it to convince him that he does, in fact, live here and that I am fully capable of giving him his package. So I'm thinking the mailman definitely trumps the FedEx guy in terms of awesomeness.

In Which I Dread Tomorrow

Ok, confession time: I'm a procrastinator. As in I'd-rather-get-a-root-canal-than-fold-laundry type procrastinator. Which might explain why there are two baskets of unfolded laundry and one dishearteningly large pile of unwashed laundry vegetating in my apartment. And it might also explain why I still have a bag left to unpack from the honeymoon (but it's a small one...minuscule, really). And it might also explain why I haven't called the management at our new apartment complex to make sure the application went through, and why I still don't have a notarized copy of the marriage license, and why I have no idea how to go about changing my last name.

And mostly, I'm okay with all the things I just mentioned because most of those things are at least marginally interesting, so I know that eventually, they'll get done. Well, except the laundry, which is not at all interesting, but eventually, we run out of underwear, which tends to be a pretty powerful motivator. But. There is one task that's so burdensome, so uninteresting, so completely UNSAVORY that I've conveniently managed to not think about it for about 4 months now. And that task is called "Writing my thesis proposal."

And today? Today is the very last day that I'll be able to not think about it because tomorrow, I have to go back to work and I know, I KNOW that the first question my advisor will ask me is "So...How's the proposal going?" And I'll have to make the shameful admission that in fact, it's not going anywhere. And that in my enthusiasm to avoid writing the thing, I've knitted 3 hats, 1 sweater, 1.25 blankets, and 1 mitten, and that I've cleaned rooms that don't need cleaning and bathed dogs that don't need bathing and in fact, that I've even gone so far as to START A BLOG. And then, if all goes as planned, I will step into the GIANT BLACK HOLE OF MY EMBARRASSMENT and fall into the center of the Earth.

Dear Dog: CHEER UP

While we were in India, the Dog was staying with some friends of ours who are trying to decide whether they want to enter the realm of pet ownership themselves. I was worried about leaving him, because the Dog? He tends to be kind of...troublesome. He has to be watched constantly. He's scared of thunder and diesel engines and the FedEx guy. He tries to run away every chance he gets. He licks the carpet. That kind of thing.

Apparently, I underestimated just how much these friends wanted a dog though, because they were very interested in keeping my oh-so-troublesome dog forever. And don't tell McMoose, but I thought about the extra 15 minutes of sleep that I could get in the mornings, and I seriously considered it...for about 53 seconds. So a couple of days ago, I drove up to Virginia to pick him up--in the middle of the day, so that I didn't have to face the heartbroken 8-year-old. Yes, I'm that much of a coward.

And that darn Dog has spent the past two days pouting. Like as if THEY'RE his family and I'm just a common kidnapper. If it weren't for the 4 hour drive and the RIDICULOUS price of gas, I might be tempted to go drop him off again.

The Greatly Peskiferous System

McMoose has a GPS thing that he got last Christmas, and the thing has its benefits, but for the most part? It kinda sucks. I mean, it's useful when we want to find a gas station in the middle of nowhere (really, really useful), but that's about it. For one thing, it talks with a British accent, and although that was cute at the beginning, it's not so exciting when you have to try to figure out that it's telling you to "Take ramp ahead" as you're driving 80 miles per hour down the interstate.

But yesterday, I didn't feel like turning the computer on, waiting through all of its tantrums, and then waiting for the wireless Internet connection to kick in just to get some directions, so I took Diana (Yes, we named the GPS) along. And for the first 15 minutes, it was smooth sailing. And then, it decided it hated interstates, so it directed me along every back road between here and Virginia. And because I had nothing else to do that day except drive to and from Virginia, I decided it might be fun to take the back roads. Turns out, I was partly right because it's a much more scenic route. But then, there was the part that made me want to pull out my hair, strand by painful strand.

The problem with back roads is that they don't have much in the way of gas exits, so when you get to the first gas station in 50 miles, you convince yourself that even though you still have half a tank left, you still need to fill up or else your car will die and the grizzly bears, THEY WILL EAT YOU. So I filled up at a station which had exactly 1 working pump. And then I thought maybe one of my tires looked low, so I pulled up to the air pump, only to find that the gauge was broken. So I decided, in my great foolishness, to go talk to the attendant.

Me: Hi, the air gauge on the pump is broken. Do you have another one?
Attendant: Now, why don't you ask your Daddy to fill up your tires for you?
Me: Um. Because my...daddy...lives in Canada...but I can do it myself, if you just have an air gauge?
Attendant: Well, then, I see you have a ring on your finger. I'm sure your husband would be happy to do it for you.
Me, getting a bit annoyed: Yeah. Actually, I know how to fill the tire, I just need an air gauge.
Attendant: Well, see, my son-in-law took it to Wyoming and hasn't brought it back yet.

Ok...so (a) why didn't he tell me in the first place that he didn't have an air gauge? Was all the added commentary really necessary? And (b) could someone please explain to me why it's apparently IMPOSSIBLE for me to meet a halfway normal human being, EVER?

Why I Shop at the Dollar Store

While in India, my uncle bought me a new watch and a pair of sunglasses. They're both very nice, and both more expensive than I was comfortable with, but that whole not looking a gift horse in the mouth thing? Yeah, I'm a firm believer. Of course, now that it's a week later, I'm remembering why I'm so uncomfortable with anything that costs more than twenty dollars.

The sunglasses? I really, really thought I packed them. I mean, I checked the ENTIRE ROOM before we left, and there was NOTHING left. Except that when we were unpacking, they were nowhere to be found. So my theory is that I packed them, but then a burglar hid in the cargo hold of the plane, unlocked my suitcase, carefully extracted the sunglasses and left everything else untouched, and then re-locked the suitcase so that no one would ever suspect what had happened. It's possible, right?

But at least I know where the watch is: on my left wrist, where it's supposed to be. It keeps time masterfully and looks very cool. Just one thing: I can't figure out how to make it tell me the right date. I've set it approximately 14 times in the past two days, and still, it finds a way to jump to some strange date. So this morning, I decided to just let it do its thing, and what I have figured out is that apparently, this watch changes dates about every four hours. Super. Now all I have to do is move to Jupiter, and I'll be set.

The Intricacies of Good-bye

It's considered bad luck to say "Good-bye" in India. My grandmother, in particular, disliked it when I would say good-bye to her. "Never say good-bye," she would chide gently, "it's too permanent. Always say 'I'll see you later.'"

When I visited her this time, it was almost impossible to believe that the woman who corrected my when I said good-bye was barely capable of saying hello. The woman who used to spend hours telling her grandchildren stories and who knew all her family members' favorite foods couldn't speak without being instructed to do so, couldn't recognize her own children. And although I used to spend my weekends at a nursing home visiting with Alzheimer's patients who didn't know me from one week to the next, this was different. This was ridiculous. The grandmother who had helped name me couldn't remember my name.

She would be proud that I remembered to say "I'll see you later" at the end of the visit, but this time, it felt like "Good-bye."

...But Not a Drop to Drink

We're gonna talk about water some more today (excited, aren't you?) No, I'm not going to ramble about showers again. Instead I'm rambling about drinking water.

Before we left Raleigh, McMoose spent a few hours searching for Iodine drops (maybe?), which turn your water orange, but make it much safer to drink. Being unable to find any, he promptly turned into THE MOST PARANOID PERSON EVER. By which I mean that if he could, he'd gladly shower in bottled water. He'd turn the ocean into bottled water so that when we walk along the waves at the beach, he'd be touched only by Pure, Filtered Goodness. As it is, he unhappily settles for just brushing his teeth and washing his toothbrush in bottled water.

Whenever we go into a restaurant, he owlishly guards his glass against the onslaught of waiters whose PURPOSE IN LIFE is to poison him with bad water. And he looks suspiciously at any beads of water left on dishes after they've been washed. And he questions the Character and Upbringing of every bottle of juice and soda and beer before letting it pass through his lips. And the worst part? He has ME doing it too.