Easter Weekend

My weekend started out shitty. Why did it start out shitty? Because Friday evening Dan and I had to be in our seats for the play Doubt by 7:30 p.m. (otherwise they make you watch it on a television screen out in the lobby) and I still needed to go home, shower, and dress before we could leave and on top of that I was running late. As I drove home in the nearly insurmountable traffic congestion, I was getting nervous about our time constraint.

I finally made it to the lightly traveled secondary road which leads to my even less traveled road. My road is about 200 yards down and off to the right of this secondary road. Picture a road that is narrowish with trees and railroad tracks on one side, and more trees and fenced back yards on the other side. It is, by all definitions, a back road. The speed limit is 30 mph. Sitting at the intersection to my road in the opposite lane was a police car. You can see where this is going…

I really thought nothing of the police car. First of all, it looked like he was simply turning from my road onto the 30 mph secondary road that I was on. Second of all, a near complete stop is required to turn successfully onto my road so I couldn’t imagine that I had been speeding. Next thing I know, I was pulling into my garage when suddenly there was a cop knocking on my car window. After nearly jumping out of my skin, I swore loudly (probably too loudly in retrospect). The officer informed me that I had been going 44 mph in a 30 mph zone and he needed to see my drivers license and proof of insurance. Fuh-uck.

I have serious doubts as to the 44 mph accusation. I really do. Yes I was in a hurry, but the cop was sitting at the stop sign where I have to nearly stop to turn! And, again, I only had about 200 yards to pick up speed before I had to nearly stop to turn onto my road. But, let’s say for argument’s sake that he did in fact clock me at 44 mph, that’s ONLY 14 miles over the posted speed limit. It’s not like it’s a school zone or a neighborhood street. AND, further considering I have NEVER had a speeding violation (car accidents, yes…speeding tickets, no), I think it was totally unreasonable for him to issue a ticket. A warning would’ve sufficed. A “drive safe” lecture would’ve chagrined me sufficiently. Honest.

So then, not only was I REALLY running late and still had to shower and stuff, but had an expensive speeding ticket clutched in my steaming fist. Grrrrrrrh!

I could’ve let this incident ruin my night. Instead, Daniel and I made it to the theater with 3 minutes to spare, had really great seats and enjoyed a fantastic play. Afterwards we went to Agave so I could drown my sorrows in three shots of tequila and one glass of sangria. Despite the speeding ticket, it turned out to be a fun Friday night. And really, it only got better from there…

Saturday included a little shopping, a little lunch and a little tennis. And even though neither one of us celebrates or acknowledges Easter in any meaningful way, we did give Easter “baskets” to each other on Sunday. Daniel’s Easter “basket” was a stoneware baking dish containing rice, salt, oil and vinegar. Yes I know it sounds dreadful, but he liked it. Really. And my Easter “basket” was the Second Season of LOST. Woo hoo! Yay for Easter!

So, all in all it was a good weekend…even though I was wrongfully accused and punished for speeding! Hmmph!


Drive-By Shooting

I'm dog-sitting this week for my Jewish family who lives on a secluded mountaintop. While this location is mildly creepy, especially with only a big dumb black lab to provide protection, it also provides plentiful opportunities for deer spottings. This morning as I was headed down the driveway, I spotted three deer enjoying a morning nosh of...grass, I guess. Anyway, I stopped the car, dug out my phone and snapped a couple of pictures. Even though they look far away due to me not being able to figure out how to work the zoom feature on my camera phone, they were only like 20 feet from my car.

I am not a photo nazi at all, so I'm not sure what got into me, but as I continued my descent, I left my camera phone lying on the passenger seat ready to go. And as I drove the 10 miles to work, I randomly snapped some pics from behind the wheel. Which is much trickier than it sounds, trust me.

This is one of the horse pastures I go by every morning on my way to work. I like that the view in the side mirror is so crisp.

The next two pictures are two of the gazillion churches located on my route. And yes, they are all THAT enormous!

The last semi-succesful drive-by photo was supposed to be of the recently blossomed trees that are sort of visible in the upper left portion.

While I'm pretty sure it was probably not one of my bightest ideas to drive and take photos at the same time, it did make my morning commute far more interesting than it usually is.


Poetry Panacea

Ergh! I've been crabby this week.

Yesterday after work I was on my way to French class. The French class that is located on the absolute polar opposite end of Davidson county from where I work. It's never fun getting there during rush hour, but yesterday in my already crabby-ass mood I got stuck in accident traffic. Accident traffic in this instance meant crawling along at 7 mph in 6 lanes of exhaust-chuffing vehicles. There is no frustration equal to the frustration of being in 7 mph traffic when one is a crabby-ass with someplace to be!

Thinking I was going to be miserably late, I almost talked myself into just going home and skipping the amusing antics of Alf-Paul. Instead I grumbled on the phone to Daniel until I was able to resume my normal speed of 75 mph. Running through the empty high school halls in my echoing heels, I showed up to the classroom breathless, a mere 3 minutes late only to find Sara waiting outside the locked classroom door. Huh. No Alf-Paul. No Stuart.

Expecting our teacher to arrive at any moment, Sara and I chit chatted amiably for 15 minutes or so when we both sort of realized at the same moment that Alf-Paul had never been so late. I suggested we take ourselves to the Community Education office and assess the situation. Upon entering the CE office, one of the coordinators said, "oh yeah...I was wondering if you guys were going to have class tonight because it's Spring Break and I had called Mr. Aruna to see if he had made any arrangements with you guys but hadn't heard back from him". Ooohhhh. Okay. Sara and I sort of glared at the woman with blatant irritation, and left in a whoosh of annoyance.

Gah! So now my crabby-ass was Crabby-ass with a capital C!

I flew home like the wicked witch of the west to find Daniel grimacing on the couch from being in severe back pain all day. Poor guy. He knew from our previous accident traffic phone conversation that I was not in a good mood. He broke the bad news to me as gently as he could: we have no water.

WE HAVE NO WATER!? What do you mean WE HAVE NO WATER?!

He shook his head. No water. None except the pitcher in the refrigerator and the water in the toilet tanks. The faucets, when turned on, gave pathetic gurgling noises but no liquid.

It was too much. I vacillated between the strong desire to crawl under the covers where I would consume an entire package of oreos and the equally strong desire to commit homicide. I succumbed to neither of these desires. Instead, I went to a poetry reading.

I think I've mentioned my poet friend in Columbus before. She writes a fantastic blog covering her adventures, accomplishments and observations as a competitive poet. Sadly, I have never had the chance to see her perform, but her latest post inspired me to do a little looking around to see if I could find some kind of poetry event here in Nashville.

Kelly and I met at Cafe Coco for the Open Mic Poetry Night at 8 o'clock. First of all, let me describe Cafe Coco. It's like Cuppacino's in Erie married to The B-Side of Hiram with a twist of The Coffee House in Lincoln. Cafe Coco has a very college-y feel to it, but patrons of all ages could easily be found there. They promote local musicians and artists. They are purveyors of coffee, alcohol, and food (much of which is vegetarian or vegan). The bartenders and baristas sport pink highlighted hair and lip rings. Neat place if you're in the mood for that kind of atmosphere. I ordered a drink (Coffee!? Are you kidding me? I need a DRINK goddammit!) and settled into the back room where the poetry was to commence.

The host was a young, clean cut college-y looking guy and was surprisingly funny. A few of the "regulars" got up and did pieces. One was entitled, "The Fucking Condom Broke" and was a hoot. The same woman did another piece about a visit to her auto mechanic (which was so funny to me because I had such a similar experience). Very well done in my humble opinion. The host did a couple of pieces which were well executed. And an older looking guy read a poem about stealing a girl's water-bra in college. Heh. Good stuff.

There were also the "other" poems. Like the one read by a girl who used to fantasize about kidnapping her kindergarten teacher. And then there was the tiny Asian woman who read a never ending poem about her father's bleeding roots or smashed skull or something. I stopped listening to her after the first 5 minutes or so. At some point the "Persian Mafia" got up and performed a rap-like poem about smoking weed and being in the Top Ten Dicks. *shrug* I don't know. And then there was the small gaggle of college freshmen girls who showed up en masse clutching their pastel-striped diaries. Call me a bitch, but I could not help rolling my eyes. They got up on stage one at a time, each one standing stock-still at the microphone. Noses buried in their journals while they softly mumbled cliches about broken hearts and first-time sex. Oy.

That was when I decided to leave. But I left lighter. I left not so crabby-assed. I left thinking I'd like to see more sometime.

I've never been all that into poetry. It always seemed so esoteric, so fussy, so inaccessible to me that I couldn't be bothered with it. But I have to say, I really like the whole performance aspect of poetry and am hoping to find more local opportunities to enjoy it. And maybe one of these days I'll take a road trip to Columbus to see how it's really done!


Great Ab Workout

You know how when you get to laughing so hard your stomach muscles ache and you feel like you're going to throw up? That's what this video does to me. Doesn't matter how many times I watch it, that guy's laugh is ridiculously contagious. Awesomeness.


WHAT Were You Thinking!?

I typically have very few complaints when it comes to my work. I like what I do. I like the people I do it with and feel generally fortunate to be in such a position. Though our office is “small” by office standards (30-ish employees), unfortunately, we still experience our share of office politics. Up until this job here in Nashville, I had never encountered any sort of stereo-typical office culture. I never had many officey jobs in the first place, and the semi-officey jobs I did have were comprised of like 3 or 4 people. 3 or 4 people does not an office culture make…more of an office folklore…or something.

Anyway, so here I am. Going into my third year of being a member of this office family – a family which is often fun, supportive and encouraging, but which also has its stunningly dysfunctional moments as well. It is one of these latter moments that has my knickers in a knot.

First of all, architects are not business people. I know this. But beyond my own duly recognized non-existent business skills, I remember in grad school being told by more than one professor that small architecture firms often don’t last long because instead of the partners coming from degreed business backgrounds, they are themselves architects (i.e. non-business-oriented people). Naturally, there are firms that defy this rationale. My firm, for instance, was started by 2 architects, was run by 4 architects up until recently, and is now up to 5 partners – all architects.

The problem is, despite being talented architects, none of them have professional or educational backgrounds in business management or human resources, and sometimes it shows.

Last Friday at 4 o’clock we were all prompted to go to the conference room. In the middle of the large granite conference table was a monumental white-frosted cake with “Congratulations” written on it in blue, red and yellow icing. Some promotions had recently been doled out and this was the official firm-wide announcement.

Yay for promotions! I’m all about promotions…when appropriate. And by appropriate, I mean deserved. Needless to say, I wasn’t the only one who had to figuratively pick my jaw up off the floor after learning who amongst us had been promoted (and more importantly, who had NOT been promoted).

Here’s the thing, if you want to give someone a merit-based raise for doing their job exceedingly well, then give them the raise they deserve. But don’t feel obligated to also give them a title that they not only do not deserve but will never be able to live up to. All that does is cheapen what those with that title have done and continue to do. Further, it’s an enormous slap in the face to those who are CLEARLY much better-suited to that type of promotion. It just puts a bullshitty tinge on the whole affair.

I blame it on architects being terrible human resource managers. But even crappy-ass managers should have the capacity for fairness and the integrity to make decisions not based solely on placation. It doesn’t take a degree to know that making major decisions, decisions which will assuredly effect the future of the firm, on principles of keeping the peace and not stepping on anybody’s toes, is fucking retarded.

It's maddening when people desperately try so hard to be fair and diplomatic that they end up being tragically UN-fair. And the fact that they aren’t even aware of the tragedy is more cause for irritated bewilderment.

So, for today (and maybe tomorrow – I haven’t decided yet) I am giving office politics, and office culture as a whole, the bird. That’s right, I am flipping off office politics. So there.


Party Like a Jew!

I have been trying to finish this post all week – apologies for the massive delay. I presume you’ve all been waiting on pins and needles wondering how the Bar Mitzvah went? No? Whatever.

So, there’s this family here in Nashville that I sometimes house-sit for, sometimes dog-sit for and sometimes kid-sit for. This family is Jewish. This family has a Bar-Mitzvah-age son (which I’m fairly certain is 13 years old). This son had his Bar Mitzvah last Saturday night.

I had never been to a Bar Mitzvah (or a Bat Mitzvah for that matter). And I was really not adequately prepared for the stunning hoop-lah that accompanies a Bar Mitzvah these days.

Here’s the deal: the mother of Bar-Mitzvah-Boy asked me months ago if I would be willing and able to be sort of a chaperone (me – a chaperone! ha!) at her son’s Bar Mitzvah in March and asked if Terah would also be available for said Bar Mitzvah gig. So, I’ve had this thing on my calendar for months and in the meantime I have been kid-sitting the younger brother of Bar-Mitzvah-Boy while parents and Bar-Mitzvah-Boy have been attending various Bar Mitzvahs on a nearly weekly basis. (I’m going to try to work “Bar Mitzvah” into this post as much as possible just for the fun of it).

According to the father of Bar-Mitzvah-Boy, his own Bar Mitzvah (like 30 years ago or so) consisted of cookies and Kool-Aid served in his parent’s basement. These celebrations have since morphed into grandiose wedding-reception-style events that have Jewish mothers frantically running around like headless chickens for months prior.

Terah and I arrived at the Hillwood Country Club promptly at 6:30 where mother of Bar-Mitzvah-Boy showed us around the extravagant lay-out. Okay, when I say extravagant, I’m not exaggerating. Seriously. They had rented out the enormously glamorous ballroom which was set-up at one end with a DJ on a stage next to a huge projection screen in front of a dance floor. The room was dimly lit with brightly colored dance lights shooting around the room to the sounds of thumping hip-hop music. Along one wall the buffet was set up with kid-appetizing food (like wings and quesadillas and BBQ chicken sandwiches and fudge brownies), an open “bar” and a cotton candy machine (which I just knew would become the bane of my existence for the evening). In the middle of the room there were tables festively decorated and along the back wall there were more tables set up for the photographers (yes, plural).

Okay, THAT was just the kid portion of the Bar Mitzvah! The adult scene took place in the Dining Room adjacent to the Ballroom which was separated with a row of large double doors. The adult dining area was elegantly subdued with a string quartet and no flashing disco lights. Their appetizers were passed around by smart-looking waiters and their buffet and open bar were set up out on an enclosed stone terrace adjacent to the dining room.

Terah and I took our places as the young, hip (in our own minds of course!) chaperones in the Ballroom with the approximately 100 teeny boppers and another dozen or so younger kids. Being involved with ACE mentoring, junior high career fairs and summer career camps, I pretty much know what to expect when it comes to teenagers. I expect a high degree of entertainment value! And we were not disappointed.

Imagine, if you will, a dance floor full of awkward 13 year olds. To do this, think back to your Junior High school dances. Okay, now further imagine that these 13 year olds are all white Jewish kids. Now imagine, and this may be difficult, the hordes of awkward 13 year old white Jewish kids dancing to Baby Bash’s Cyclone and Soulja Boy’s Crank Dat. Hee. Awesomeness.

The only non-hip hop song played all night long was at the very end of the night when Bar-Mitzvah-Boy’s mother insisted that they all dance to the Horah (you know, the Jewish dance where they put the guest of honor up on a chair and everyone dances around them in a circular pattern to the Hava Nagila song? Yeah, that one.)

Also entertaining were the slow dances (again in the hip-hop/thug genre) wherein the girls and boys engaged in the ever-amusing zombie dance. Oh you KNOW what I’m talking about! The position where each partner has their arms outstretched to their maximum length (go go gadget arm!) and tentatively wrapped around each other. They then proceed to sort of sway back and forth from foot to foot in a zombie-esque manner. So funny!

In addition, there was the group of boys who refused to dance and instead preferred to engage in pickle throwing contests, butter-knife fights, and general annoying 13-year-old boy behavior (this is where our chaperone talents came into play). Also requiring our chaperoning abilities were the dozen or so younger kids who were so wired from all the cotton candy, Coca-Cola, and fudge brownies, it was a challenge to keep them even moderately under control. At one point, after being informed that Bar-Mitzvah-Boy’s younger brother was going on his 5th stick of cotton candy, I banned all further cotton candy consumption, only to see a line of munchkins carefully sneaking their way over to the cotton candy vendor on hands and knees in a futile attempt not to be detected. I swear, that stuff is like kid crack!

So, there you have it. My first Bar Mitzvah.
Damn, those Jews know how to throw a party!!


A Southern Winter Storm

Friday, there was talk. Oh yes, there was talk. Warnings and nervous anticipation. Excitement and vague threats. SNOW was coming. That’s right, a bonafide Winter Storm Warning was in effect for middle Tennessee. The snow was supposed to hit us at around 5 pm (rush hour, naturally). At 3:30 we were encouraged to leave work to ensure that we all got home safely. Terah informed me there were people out buying sleds and shovels (where? I have no idea - it's not like Kroger stocks sleds and shovels). Plans were being cancelled. Grocery store shelves were quickly being emptied by anxious housewives. And here was the imminent threat: Accumulations could be from 3 to 5 inches with heavy snowfall at times.

Uh-huh. A forecast of 3 to 5 inches and suddenly we’re in a state of emergency here in Nashville. Despite the warnings, our religion class was meeting as scheduled and so Terah and I drove down to Franklin just as a few big flakes started to fall.

A mere two hours later after plates of chocolate chip cookies and discussions of Judaism, we emerged from Jon & Becky’s into a winter wonderland of big fluffy flakes falling from the sky and a 2-3 inch blanket covering every still thing. It was soooooo pretty. And so surreal. We actually had to use Terah’s snow brush to wipe her car off (fortunately she’s a northerner too and still keeps a snowbrush in her car – old habits die hard).

Thinking the interstates would be the first arteries to have been cleared, we opted to take 65 home from Franklin. We thought wrong.

I’m used to there being fleets of snowplows and salt trucks standing at the ready to be deployed throughout the region with a moment’s notice. Not to mention the plows attached to the front of every 4-wheel drive family vehicle and snow blowers waiting in every garage. I’m also used to people being able to drive competently in a few inches of snow.

Listen up people of the South, traffic rules and regulations do NOT magically evaporate if there is snow. Yes, you still have to merge intelligently, you still have to stop at red lights, you still have to stay in your lane, and you still have to maintain a reasonable speed on the interstate. Going 10mph in a 70mph zone is not reasonable. No it is not. Here’s another tip from me to you: if you should happen to slide in the icy slush on the roadway, DO NOT slam on your brakes. Bad idea.

Needless to say, what is normally a 30 minute drive turned out to be a 2 hour drive.

Sadly, I didn’t have an opportunity to take any pictures so you could see just how little snow there actually was, but really, it was no more than 3 or 4 inches. There was enough for a few small snowmen and enough to slide down the hills a few times, but that’s about it. Too bad for the kiddies that it happened on a Friday night (i.e. no school closings). By Saturday afternoon, only a few isolated patches of lonely snow remained.

Admittedly, it was kinda freaky to have that much snow down here especially in March, but we got through it. We survived the Winter Storm.


Zeal with a Side of Crazy

There are times, times when I am feeling unmotivated to do work, times when I am bored, times when I am procrastinating, I find myself randomly reading blogs of people I have never met. The words of complete strangers, that I often stumble across through however many degrees of separation out there in the blogosphere, call to me during these times. And even though I have found some amusingly well-written blogs out there (as well as some poorly written annoying blogs), I rarely find any that I feel compelled to grace with a follow-up visit. Still, it's highly entertaining to see what one can dig up on Blogger.

Aaaaanyway, one of those times when I am feeling unmotivated to do work settled around my shoulders, and as I browsed around the blogosphere I came across The Jesus Christ Fan Site. Yes, that’s right. In case you weren’t aware, he’s got his very own fan site. Who knew? Heck, for all I know, there could be multiple fan sites.

Perking up a bit at this discovery (after all who doesn’t love a good Jesus Christ Fan Site?), I anticipated the blog was going to be kind of humorous, expecting it would most likely be sincere, but intentionally cheesy and goofy (I mean, c’mon, it’s called The Jesus Christ Fan Site!). Wrong. It’s more of a disturbing, fanatical, non-humorous virtual shrine. I imagine it would be like stumbling down into someone’s basement expecting to find a ping pong table and a game of Twister, and instead discovering scary-ass pictures and candles glowing ominously in the corner. Go if you must, but I warn you that it is rather frightening (if you scroll down and read the Declaration of a Jesus Christ Fanatic, you’ll know what I mean).

Also, if scary is your thing, in the spirit of my blog-browsing through random degrees of separation, I clicked on Tamara's Blog. Again, if you go, remember that I have warned you.

Even living here in the “Bible Belt”, but still being rather insulated from religious culture as a whole, I guess I sometimes forget how crazily fanatical people can become. And certainly not only Jesus Christ Fans can be fanatical, but I haven’t as of yet come across any Buddha Fan Sites or Vishnu Fan Sites (don’t you worry, I’ll keep my eye out!) It makes me wonder what causes this seemingly insane fanaticism. It’s so foreign to me, I can’t even wrap my brain around it. Being passionate about something I can understand. Having conviction about something I can also understand. But fanatical thoughts and behaviors transcend passion and conviction and roll right on in to Crazytown.

Dictionary.com defines fanatic as:

1. a person with an extreme and uncritical enthusiasm or zeal.

2. a person marked or motivated by an extreme, unreasoning enthusiasm.

3. c. 1525 “insane person”, from L. fanaticus

4. a person motivated by irrational enthusiasm.

Is it only a certain type of personality who is susceptible to fanaticism? Or, given the right circumstances or catalyst, is no one immune to fanaticism? It makes me wonder what drives a person to irrational thought, unreasonable zeal and uncritical enthusiasm. Maybe an outrageously traumatic event in someone’s life would propel them towards the dark side, like (excuse me while I show my geek) Anakin Skywalker who became fanatical in the eradication of the Jedis after his trauma.

So there ya go. You never know what you’ll find in the depths of the blogosphere.

“A fanatic is one who can’t change his mind and won’t change the subject” ~ Winston Churchill


Movin' On Up

So, I am NEVER moving again. No, seriously. I know I’ve said that before (like EVERY time I’ve ever moved) but this time I mean it! I have moved 8 times in the past 13 years and I have had enough. Y’all will just have to bury me where I now reside because I am dunzo.

Things I Hate About Moving:

1. Acquiring Boxes: Yes I know it sounds like a small thing, but it’s such a pain in the ass going around trying to procure suitable moving boxes. If I weren’t so cheap I could’ve just bought them from U-Haul or somewhere, but even THAT is a pain in the ass because then you have to assemble the boxes. In any case, due to the pain-in-the-ass-ness of box procurement, inevitably I ended up with less boxes than I actually needed which then required packing the box, moving it to new residence, unpacking it immediately and taking it back to old residence to be packed again. This gets VERY old VERY quickly. Similarly, I do not and never have subscribed to the newspaper. I do not read the newspaper. I do not buy the newspaper. Thus, I also ended up with less packing material than was required. Which brings me to my next point…

2. Breakables: If all I ever had to pack was clothes and books, moving wouldn’t be nearly as annoying as it is when I have to pack up dishes and glasses and bakeware and other miscellaneous breakable doo-dads (and I don’t even own many breakable doo-dads for this very reason!). It’s just WAY more time consuming wrapping all that shit up than I ever anticipate. And is even more annoying when you run out of newspaper and have to start using the glossy Wal-Mart ads and coupon sections to wrap up precious wine goblets, martini glasses, vodka tumblers…oh, you get the idea.

3. Moving Anxiety: Perhaps if I were a more laid-back sort, this would not be such an issue for me. Alas, I am besieged with worrisome thoughts running on a constant loop in my head. Thoughts such as: must fill out change of address form, must cancel gas and electric service, must order new checks, must change address on drivers license, must get white paint to paint over wall I painted dark brown, must find spare keys to turn in, must take things to Goodwill, must try to organize all packing efforts, must remember not to pack away tax forms, must confirm with movers, must breathe deeply, must not expect the worse... must not expect the worse... must not expect the worse….oh my god – I’m. Moving. In. With. A. Boy! (Or, as Joanna refers to it: shacking up, cohabitating, or good ole living in sin. Hee.)

4. Disorganization: I enjoy organized spaces. Further, I enjoy clutter-less spaces. When one moves, no matter how one tries to organize the packing and moving effort, things end up all over the fucking place! And unless one is able to take a week off of work to combat the mountains of disorganization, one will have to be patient and put up with it for a while. Patience I do not have. A week of time-off I also do not have. Thus, the disorganization is one of things I hate about moving.

5. Hauling Boxes and Bags of Crap: (up three flights of stairs) Okay, so I hired movers to get the big stuff like the bed and the couch and the washer and dryer…but, again, due to my cheapness I thought, “oh I can get the other stuff – no problem!”. Admittedly, I am not in the best of shape, but even the young strapping guys who hauled my big items into my new digs were sweating and panting after just a couple of trips up and down. Now, multiply those trips by like 5 million (well okay, maybe 5 thousand) and you have one tired, cranky girl. (Daniel of course was a trooper and was just out to make me look bad!)

6. Cleaning: I don’t mind cleaning. No, not at all. In fact very often I take great satisfaction in cleaning. (Just ask Sara – we were the only people in our dorm with a floor you could eat off of. Not that we did, mind you.) Hoowwweeeeever, when moving, the last thing I want to do is clean my OLD apartment. Ya know? It’s just so goddamn annoying to have to waste precious time and energy cleaning my previous residence when all I really want to do is spend that time and energy on my new residence. More crankiness.

Okay, so now that I’ve firmly established myself as a whiny, cranky, ungrateful wretch when it comes to moving, there are some things about this move that have me grinning like an idiot.

The new place is lovely. Plenty of space for me, Daniel and my cats. Plenty of space for all of my crap. Lots of trees outside. A garage for my car. A hot tub for my tired legs (due to the three flights of stairs). A big ole Jacuzzi tub in my bathroom for when my legs are too tired to go downstairs to the hot tub. Hardwood floors. Close to work. Close to downtown. Yes, a genuinely lovely place.

AND, I have this great roommate who I dig – he’s no Sara, but he’ll do.