More Than We Bargained For

Aaron and I were driving out to the University Parks Trail for a pleasant autumn walk when we spied a large wooden sign with red spray-painted letters: COMIC BOOK SALE.

"...Did that just say 'Comic book sale'?" Aaron asked me. I answered him that, yes, it did.

We drove up McCord Rd. in silence for another block or so before Aaron turned onto a side street to head back the way we came. I checked the funds in my wallet: $7 cash. We figured that would be plenty for whatever we found — and, if it wasn't, we'd just ask the seller to hold our loot for 15 minutes while we located the nearest ATM.

As it turned out, we didn't have to make an emergency ATM run, but it wasn't for a lack of things to buy. We pulled up to the sale to find several large tables lining the perimeter of the front yard: one side was mainly figures, one was larger books and collections, and one was filled with longboxes of single-issue comics. The proprietor of the giant comic sale promised us a good deal on whatever we found. He just wanted it gone.

I'm admittedly not the biggest comic fan. OK, I'm not really a comic fan at all, but I don't dislike them by any means. I just never really started reading or collecting on my own. So, I followed Aaron around the sale, looking at what he looked at, and ponying up my $7 for a set of Sandman figurines he found.

As we completed our transaction and did the requisite haggling, we learned that the man responsible for all these comic goods actually used to own a comic shop in Sylvania (just northwest of Toledo), and that it had gone out of business. He'd been trying to liquidate his figures and comics for a few years, and the packaging and boxes were starting to show wear and age, and were no longer suitable for collectors. We told him we'd spread the word about his ongoing sale (weekdays and weekends, as long as the weather holds out).

We departed the comic book yard sale with our booty and headed back northward to hit the trail.

Until we both started to smell something. Something... shitty.

One of us must have stepped in dog shit at the damn yard sale.

I checked my shoes, carefully. I was clean. Then, as he drove, Aaron pulled up his left foot to check his shoe—

And got dog shit all over his right hand.

I located a napkin in the glove compartment and wiped the shit off of his palm and fingers while he drove one-handed. Meijer sounded like a good, close place to clean up, so we took yet another short detour from our original agenda to take care of business.

Turned out that Aaron had barely glanced the dogpile with his left heel, so he had it up the back and side of his left shoe, and up in his treads a little. There was also a righteous smear on the floor mat. So, the floor mat got carefully folded up and put in the floorboard of the back seat, and we both went into Meijer and cleaned up. Then we turned right back around and went home to put the shitty floor mat in the washer before it stunk up the whole car permanently.

So much for our pleasant autumn walk.

Let this be a lesson, I suppose, to all yard sale goers: watch where you step, or you may go home with more than you bargained for.

TSA Geeks

At the Providence Airport, after you check in and get your boarding pass, you have to take your own luggage to the x-ray machine and stand there as it's scanned and inspected. Aaron and I only had one large bag for the two of us, so we both took it down to the x-ray machine and handed it to two TSA gentlemen, who fed it through. We walked to the end, where our bag emerged and was tagged, then we turned and went back the way we came, bidding adieu to our luggage.

As we passed the first two TSA agents on our way out — young men, probably in their mid to late 20's — one of them called out to us.

"I was telling him," one guard said, pointing to his partner, "that he needs to watch Serial Experiments Lain. He hasn't seen it."

After a moment, we realized that they had seen Aaron's Serial Experiments Lain shoulder bag. We cordially agreed that, yes, this guy really needed to watch Lain. It's a great show.

Then the guy who hadn't yet watched Lain saw my Mr. Spork shirt. "Great shirt!" he called out, grinning. "Is that from Woot?" I answered that, yeah, I got it from Woot.

At that point, we excused ourselves with the normal pleasantries — "Have a good weekend!" — and made our way to Security. But we found it pleasantly strange to discover fellow geeks as TSA guys in an unfamiliar airport.

Crisis Averted

I bought some No-Pudge Fudge Brownies at Claudia's a couple weeks ago, and decided to make them for our trip to Canada this weekend. All they needed was a container of vanilla yogurt, mix 'em up, and throw 'em in the oven for a half hour. That I can do, no problem. Preheated the oven, stirred the powdered mix together with 6 ounces of vanilla yogurt, put it into a lubed-up pan, and opened the oven—

Why is only one little bit of the heating element glowing red? How odd.

I turned the oven off — I'm kind of skitchy with appliances that don't do exactly what's expected of them, especially when it involves electricity and lots of heat — and waited for the oven to cool again. I figured that maybe something funky had been spilled onto the heating element, and I could just clean it off and be on my brownie way.

So, once the oven was cool enough, I got a sponge (for lack of anything more abrasive) and got to work on cleaning the heating element. Carefully.

But apparently not carefully enough. Where the element looked like something had spilled on it and simply needed cleaned off, the element easily snapped in two like chalk.

Um... I think I broke it? Maybe it was already almost broken. At any rate, now we need a $35 - $40 part for our oven before I can a.) make brownies, which are now sitting raw in the refrigerator; or b.) test out any luau recipes. Oh, or c.) make any more tropical-scented candles.

So, why do I say "crisis averted," when my oven doesn't work now? If I hadn't noticed the weirdness with the heating element, I could have set the oven on fire with my brownie-baking. As it is, we'll just have to buy a part and either try installing it ourselves or pay someone to do it for us. We won't have to buy a whole new oven, or a whole new kitchen.

Crisis averted.

No Soliciting

Aaron was assembling his lunch this afternoon/evening (since he works nights) when we heard two quick rings of the doorbell and two quick knocks on the front door. That's usually the UPS man's MO, so Aaron went over to the door and peeked through the peephole.

"I don't know who that is," he said, turning back toward the kitchen, "so I'm not answering it. Some lady with a clipboard."

Not ten seconds later, the person rang and knocked again, and I saw Aaron's eyes flare before he turned to stride back toward the door. I stayed in the kitchen, unseen, while I listened to the exchange:

Aaron: Can I help you?
Woman: Good afternoon! How are you today?
Aaron: Can you read?
(I assumed he was pointing at our prominently displayed "No Soliciting" sign.)
Woman: Yes.
Aaron: Thank you.
Woman (just before door closes): Piece of shit.
Aaron (yanking the door back open): Fuck you, too!

According to Aaron, the woman flipped him off from the driveway as she walked off, and her clipboard read American something-or-other. I'm guessing she was a political pollster of some kind, and I'm hoping she wasn't working on behalf of a charitable organization, considering her reactions.

As for me, I prefer to go the more passive-aggressive route of not answering the door at all, even after the second knock, but it's easier to go that route when the car isn't in the driveway and I can feign not being home. Aaron's OK with being a little more confrontational than I am, generally speaking.

Still, though, I don't think it's unreasonable to expect to be left alone by pollsters and solicitors and proselytors when you post a No Soliciting sign right next to your doorbell.

Interesting Visitor

I just had the most interesting experience. I was down in the basement, messing around online, when I heard a knock on the door, closely followed by the doorbell. I had the door open and the screen door locked, so there was no pretending I wasn't home once I saw that it wasn't UPS. It was an older gentleman, bearded, tallish, wearing a short-sleeved shirt and shorts. No clipboard, no nametag.

"Hello," I called from the screen door.

The man introduced himself by telling me that he lived on the other side of South Avenue, was a retired English teacher and amateur astronomer, and was working on his third novel. He said that he takes a long walk every day — I was his last stop, and he'd walked three miles already — and that he stops along the way to ask if there's any yardwork or odd jobs that he can do for a couple of dollars. We talked politely for a moment, and I assured him that, no, I'd pass on the offer of yardwork.

Then we chatted for a while longer, briefly discussing his trip to Ireland, where palm trees apparently grow in people's back yards, because of the warm Gulf Stream bringing the large seeds up to the isle; his trip to northern Canada, where the nights are short and late and the sun barely moves from east to west; our trip to Japan and the accompanying God-awful airplane flight; his novel-writing experience and our mutual respect for short story writers; and his stint in the National Guard during the May Day riots in Washington, guarding the White House, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Vietnam vets who were accustomed to shooting human targets and feeling mighty uncomfortable about it.

Then he apologized for taking up so much of my time, and I assured him that I'd enjoyed talking with him — which, oddly enough, I had. He said, "Dou itashimashite," which means "You're welcome" (I think that may have been all the Japanese he knew, but it's more than most). I couldn't call up an appropriate answer in Japanese, so I answered him with a basic hai, and bid him enjoy his three-mile walk home.

I'm not entirely sure how much of that was factual, but he was certainly an interesting fellow. I didn't mind talking to him, really. If he came back some other day, I'd probably talk to him again, and ask him if either of his novels have been published.

The Perils of Suburban Life

There's some sort of little-league football team that's been practicing in the vacant grassy lot across the street from our house. Mind you, we live on a dead end, so when all the parents come to watch little Tyrone and Jamal play football, they park their cars / trucks / minivans / SUVs such that our comings and goings are challenging at best. They don't seem to comprehend that it's a big, open field, with plenty of room for you to park your vehicle. No, they have to park either on or in the street, often simply stopping to idle in the exact middle of the street, forcing me to come to a complete stop and glare at them until they get the idea and move to the side so I can get around their giant SUV and actually park in my own goddamn driveway.

We were upset on Tuesday morning, when the garbage men actually took the giant branch that had been sitting on our curb for two weeks; that branch had kept the annoying minivan fucker from parking in front of our house. Somehow, though, the inconvenience must have trained Minivan Fucker not to park in front of our house anymore, as she's continued parking in front of our neighbor's house.

We've had quite enough of the peewee football practice, thankyouverymuch. We're ready for it to be over, or for it to move elsewhere.

This evening, they seem to be having some sort of cookout. There's a charcoal grill puffing smoke and tables laden with buns and paper plates. The boys are playing football without their pads and uniforms, and someone is booming rap music out of their truck.

The good news is that this could conceivably be the end of peewee football season. The bad news is that I have to put up with rap music and hollering kids (and parents) for a few hours.

I think it'll be worth it in the end.

Earwashing

I'm not quite sure what happened.

One of my co-workers had mentioned this week that he had to have his ears cleaned by his doctor. A few of us ended up discussing various good and bad ways to clean out your ears: borax, hydrogen peroxide, Q-Tips, etc.

This evening, I decided to clean out my ears with hydrogen peroxide and a warm water rinse, just like Mom used to do. Did it shortly after dinner. One capful of peroxide in the ear, head tilted all the way to the side, with a washcloth standing by for drips. After the fizzing died down, I flipped my head over, washcloth to my ear, and dumped the peroxide out of my ear onto the cloth.

When I came upright again, I felt a little funny. Dizzy, almost. I figured it just had to do with me having my head on its side, and went ahead with the second capful of peroxide. Same thing — I was *really* dizzy when I straightened up this time. But I still had to rinse, so rinse I did. One capful of water in the ear, same way.

Then I was unusually dizzy, but not off-balance. Not too much, anyway. Almost disoriented. Nauseous.

I laid down on the couch to watch World News, then changed to the Food Network to watch Good Eats. Still nauseous.

Even now? Still kind of sick to my stomach. Something went horribly wrong during what should have been a welcome ear-washing experience, and I'm still not sure what.

And I didn't even get to wash out my right ear.

Update, 8/18/06: I did some Googling to see WTF I ended up doing to myself. Read on to see the sources I found...

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Today Sucked.

Sure, I've had worse days... but this was the worst day I've had in quite a while. Read on to hear all about it.

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Tonight's Wrong Number

9pm: *ring*

me: "hello?"
man: "hi. i'd like to speak to an officer?"
me: ... o_O
man: "is this the minneapolis police department?"
me: "no, it isn't."
man: "oh, i'm sorry!"
me: "that's ok."
man & me (unison): "bye."

WTF?

Google says the Minneapolis Police Dept's number is (763) 525-6215. That's only vaguely close to our number — the prefix is similar, and the two's in the same position. Weird.

Giving Blood Can Be Fun

I donated blood for the first time yesterday.

It wasn't bad.

Sky Insurance, across the street from the Sky Service Center where I work, hosts a blood drive every so often. I'm not sure what made me decide to donate this time, after being eligible for 13 years and never having done it before. It just seemed like a simple thing, a no-brainer. I asked our department's regular blood donor about the process, and we opted to make back-to-back appointments and walk over together.

I'd like to give a detailed account of everything that went on, just for my own journaling's sake — but, honestly, it was pretty tame. Jess and I went in, read the blue binders of donor prerequisites and information (no, I haven't visited the UK recently and gotten the bird flu or mad cow or some other fool thing, but thanks for asking), and finally were invited behind a privacy screen for our mini-physicals. Basically, they pricked my finger and checked my iron levels (which were declared safe enough to allow me to donate), took my blood pressure (which, from what I could tell, seemed to be 120-something over 88 or so), and had me answer the insipid questions I'd already read in the blue binder.

Then it was go time. I climbed up into the bed thingie and offered forth my right arm. Got swabbed with iodine a couple times, had tubing taped to me and a blood-pressure cuff wrapped around my arm, squeezed the squishy ball like the nice lady asked, and pointedly looked at the ceiling while she stuck me with the needle.

It wasn't bad. At all.

The needle only stuck a little. I don't have a "thing" with needles like *some* people I know (ahem), and I haven't been to a doctor in years, but I know enough about myself and past needle experiences that I know I'm OK if I don't know the exact moment of insertion. If I watch, I get all tensed up and it makes things worse. So, when I felt the moment coming, I looked up at the ceiling and let the nurse do her stuff.

The nurse, Michelle, had told me to squeeze the squishy ball every five to ten seconds. I was hesitant at first to squeeze it too hard; I could feel that there was a needle in my arm, even though it wasn't painful, and I was worried that squeezing too hard might *make* it painful. After a while, though, I got up the nerve to squeeze a little harder than just with my fingertips, and it was just fine.

Then I got really brave, and took a look at my arm. Attached to it was a length of tubing. Clear tubing, made an oddly opaque red from the inside. From the blood coming out of the crook of my elbow. I could feel warmth where the tubing was lightly fastened to the inside of my wrist. It was strange. But I was OK with that. At that moment, I actually wished I'd brought the digital pocket camera to take a picture of my arm as I was donating blood, because I thought it looked so... unusual.

After a few minutes, I noticed that Jessica's blood bag was starting to fill up. I wondered how the staff knew when the bag was full. As if on cue, the metal arm holding the blood bag tipped downward with a clunk. A balance scale! Not even a minute later, I felt my own stand clunk, and one of the attendants came to disconnect me. I don't recall the exact sequence of events, but she took the blood that hadn't made it into the bag and filled up several vials — for testing, presumably. Handy, that — very little wasted blood. Once she was done, she deftly removed the needle from my arm and pressed gauze to the puncture, telling me to apply pressure and hold my arm up over my head. No problem.

Jessica and I lay there on our elevated beds with our elevated arms, feeling only a little silly, with the Sky Insurance employees watching us through the windows from their smoke break outside. Then we got bandaged up — "This stays on for five hours," the nurse said as she applied a standard-looking medical-grade Band-Aid. "This stays on for one hour," she added, applying some folded gauze on top of the bandage and securing it with medical tape. She then instructed us to spend ten minutes at the "canteen" before we left.

One small bottled water and two chocolate-chocolate-chip cookies later, we were on our way back to work.

As we left the building, Jessica asked how often I'd given blood. When I told her this was my first time ever, she said she had no idea I hadn't given blood before. Apparently, I was a "champ." :-)

I was a little fuzzy for the rest of the day, and I took a nap after work. The area inside my elbow didn't bruise at all, though. Not even a little. I can still see the stick-mark, but it's only sore when I deliberately press on it.

That wasn't bad. I'm planning to do it again, next time Sky Insurance holds a blood drive. I could make this a habit.

I Think I'm Dumb

After several years of use, our trusty Fuji FinePix 2400Zoom is finally starting to call it quits. The clamshell-style lens cover no longer latches closed, and it's difficult to open it far enough so that the camera knows it's open. Besides that, it still takes decent pictures... but it's really kind of a pain to deal with.

So, I took it upon myself to research and purchase a new digital P/S (point-and-shoot). After the general annoyances from the Fuji over the years, I had an idea of features I wanted. The new camera had to be an ultra-compact. Fits in any pocket. Unobtrusive. It also had to have a *fast* start-up time and minimal shutter lag. Too many photo ops were lost while waiting for the Fuji to power up. The new camera only needed to be more than two or three megapixels, so discontinued models were fine. Keeping it on the cheap, preferably around $200. It needed to take SD Memory Cards, which my new Nikon D50 uses (as no cameras seem to use the SmartMedia cards the Fuji used). And finally, it had to have positive reviews from "real" photographers who use the camera as their own P/S.

I finally narrowed the playing field down to two contenders: the Canon PowerShot SD300 Digital Elph, and the Minolta DiMage X50. After checking eBay, I decided to go with the DiMage X50, since it is regularly at least $50 cheaper than the Elph.

Next step: do some bargain hunting. I figured out early on that my best bet would actually be to go with eBay, since both of the cameras I was looking at were discontinued models. I found some for parts, and some with cracked screens, but I finally found a DiMage that I thought looked good. I bid $115 plus shipping, and won.

I told Aaron about it that weekend, and showed him the completed auction.

And saw the fine print.

My camera had a cracked LCD. D'oh! I couldn't believe I'd missed it! I could only wait until the camera arrived and hope that it wasn't as bad as it could be.

Today, my wait was over.

I opened the carefully-packed box as Aaron watched, lifted out the retail camera box from within, and opened that box to see what awaited me. The camera looked great from the front: amazingly small, stylish. From the back? A small black mark spidering from the lower left corner of the LCD.

I thought I'd gotten all worked up over nothing. Surely the LCD would still work!

Not quite.

If I tilt the camera just so, I can see enough of the menu to know that I'm changing, say, the resolution or the white balance. There are several features that are impossible to find, due to the nearly inoperable screen.

There are two particularly good things about this, though. First: the camera does work. I can test it out, quality-wise, and I have every intention of posting it back on eBay and trying to get some of my money back. Which brings me to the second high point: there was a 256MB memory card in the camera when I received it. This card was *not* listed in the auction.

So, as long as I resell the camera (sans 256MB card) for around $90, I'll actually come out even. In truth, though, I'm assuming I'm going to take a loss for this one. Karma is going to bite me in the ass for being stupid and not reading the auction thoroughly before bidding. And I'm OK with that.

Next time, though, I'm bidding on a refurbished camera with a 90 day warranty...

Update: Both the cameras I was considering have video capture capability. Fun! I took a test video to see if it would work... and, lo and behold, it does. Fun stuff.

Things I Shouldn't Share With The Entire Internet

I haven't been to a dentist in... *counting on fingers* ...probably five or six years.

When I did go last time, it was in Parma (where my family no longer lives), and I had several visits' worth of very deep cleaning. My gums hurt like a bitch for the next couple of days, but I actually felt a lot better about myself afterward. I was even OK with letting loose a big, toothy smile every now and then (even though my teeth are still crooked).

I kept up with my "tooth maintenance" pretty well for a couple years. Brush twice a day, use those crazy orange Stimudent sticks, floss (sometimes), and swish the mouthwash around. It was a pain when I still lived in the dorms and had to cart all my tooth maintenance sundries down to the bathroom, halfway to the other end of the wing. But I digress.

After a while, my tooth maintenance fell by the wayside, and I returned to my old habits. Suffice to say that, if I'm running late in the morning, I'd rather spend two minutes throwing together my lunch than brushing my teeth. My only saving grace at this point is two years of the Atkins diet: no refined sugar. Or, rather, very little — I won't pretend I don't ever cheat and buy a cookie or a Frappucino out of the vending machine.

So, from what I can tell (and I'm admittedly not a dental professional), I have much less plaque than I had before. I've still got tartar, though, and it's pretty gross. See, my bottom front teeth are very, VERY unstraight — one grew in almost entirely behind the others, so only one-third of the middle of the tooth is actually showing. Someday it would be cool to have my teeth fixed, I think. Aaron thinks otherwise, since he had braces when he was a kid and didn't take kindly to it. But, again, I digress.

Here's the entire reason for this blog entry.

I was in the bathroom just now, examining my bottom front teeth, and being understandably grossed out by the amount of tartar buildup behind the teeth. They all come together in funky ways, and the tartar tends to fill in the cracks where they're crooked and don't meet the way they should. It's weird. Anyway, I stuck a finger in my mouth to pick at it, maybe see how thick the layer of tartar was—

And a piece of tartar CAME OFF.

OMG gross.

What was grosser was that its absence left a weird depression/hole in the normal profile of the back of my teeth. Also, where the tartar had been encroaching on my gums, they were much redder than the rest of my gums. That was also pretty gross. I stood there in the bathroom with an extra pair of tweezers, peering into the mirror and trying to pick off the rest of the chalky tartar behind my teeth.

And I thought to myself, "If Aaron were here, I'd just show him. As it is, I'm probably going to blog this."

Anybody in the Toledo area know a good dentist or dental hygenist?

...

Some complete stranger is going to find this blog entry and comment on my hygiene like this person commented on my lack of style. Heh. I'll try not to be offended.

Restrooms

The first floor women's restroom at my work has three stalls. This is not usually a problem, as we don't all have to go at the same time, so three stalls are sufficient.

However, the middle stall has been out of order this week.

Incidentally, the middle stall is everyone's favorite. The stall closest to the door is the handicapped stall, which our resident wheelchair-bound employee mocked openly as being entirely too small to fit a wheelchair into. (Another single-person restroom was constructed for her use.) The stall farthest from the door is awkward, as the toilet is slightly off-center, so the user has to check between her knees before sitting to ensure that the target is, in fact, locked-on.

The broken middle stall caused a minor traffic-flow problem around lunchtime, when a group of women attending some sort of training session at our building swarmed the restroom. This required me to wait in a five-person-deep line for my turn to pee. Five minutes of my life wasted; not that big of a deal, I guess.

The broken stall caused a problem of a wholly different sort later this afternoon, as the toilet-choking load of shit still in the bowl began to smell. Bad. I dislike spending a short amount of time in a wretched-smelling bathroom considerably more than I dislike spending a lengthy amount of time in a normal-smelling one.

The odor wasn't bad enough to induce gagging, but it was very unpleasant. Just knowing that someone's shit was festering and fermenting behind that closed door was disturbing enough.

Update, 4:15pm: Someone finally made the stinky load go down the hole, but the john is still faintly redolent of shit, and the middle stall is still marked out of order.

Dancing In The Dark

I had spent probably an hour or so fiddling with the new LSM site, saving to the server every few minutes.

Thank goodness for my particular choice of workflow, because shortly before 9pm, the power went out. I had been listening to some Oakenfold (generally my soundtrack of choice while doing webstuff), and suddenly I heard a popping noise outside as my monitor winked out. Then silence. And frustration, until it occurred to me that I'd been saving every two minutes. :-)

I got up from my desk, walked over to the cabinet o' candles, and pulled out a couple. Lit one for the basement, one for the living room, and one for the dining room. It wasn't actually dark yet, but I like to be prepared.

Anyway, it was too dim to really do anything indoors, even with the candles lit, so I went outside to see if the neighbors' power was out, too. (Yes, I left the candles lit like an irresponsible Diana.) Sure enough, the neighbor lady was outside, and so was the one a couple doors down from her. Our whole end of the street was out.

Went back inside and located the old-school phone that doesn't need plugged into a power outlet. Not the cell, although that would have worked, too. Anywho, I dug out the electric bill and called the 24-hour Emergency / Outage number I found listed there. I was expecting some surly switchboard operator, but it ended up being one of those automated voice recognition systems. At first, I thought it would be voicemail hell, but once I figured out that it was that voice recognition shit, it wasn't bad. Just weird.

Once our power outage was reported to the nice computer, I grabbed a book and sat out on the front step to read for a while. After about 20 minutes, though, even the light outside wasn't sufficient for reading. So, I went inside, blew out the rest of the candles (I'd extinguished the one downstairs before I went out to read), put on socks and shoes, grabbed my keys and my cellphone (it has a built-in flashlight) and went for a walk. Hell, nothing better to do, right? And maybe by the time I got back, my power would be back on. Right?

Wrong-o. Got back half an hour later, and still no lights. Not even any streetlights. Went back inside, re-lit the candles, and got out the Palm IIIc to write this entry. Thank goodness for backlit screens.

So, here I sit, at... *checks watch in glow of Palm screen* ...10:45pm, covered in a thin film of perspiration thanks to the impotent and powerless box fan—

Holy shit. The power just came back on. I'll be goddamned.

Two hours without power. Could have been worse.

Now to go upload this entry, and see whether my computer's fried...

Happy Birthday To Me!

When I was little, I would get excited about my birthday, just like all kids do. As I got older, and grew to expect less out of birthdays, I got less enthused about them in advance. After all, what's the point of getting worked up just to get let down? These days, I go into birthdays expecting a day like any other; then, if something good happens, I'm pleasantly surprised.

Today, I was pleasantly surprised.

I'd already gotten my iPod from Aaron, thanks to my managing to ruin the surprise. I knew something was up with Sheryl, because earlier this week she'd asked where my office was. I also knew that our department was planning a pizza party for lunch, because Holly couldn't keep it a secret, and had to know what kind of pizza I liked. So, I knew something was up before I even came in this morning.

I'd thought maybe the early arrivers would decorate my cube before I got to work—but no. I arrived to two cards (one from the whole department and one from Scott) and a lucky bamboo plant (also from Scott). That was cool. I put water in my bamboo plant's little home and prepared to start my workday.

Not long after, I got a hand on my shoulder and a "Boo!" shouted at me (in an indoor voice, of course). I offered the standard reply, "Boo who?" before I turned around—and, holy shit, it's Sheryl! She brought me two pots of mini daffodils and a gift card to Lane Bryant! *squee* She hung around for a couple minutes before going back out and heading to work (but not before talking to Rob Wozniak, who didn't recognize her at first).

I coasted on a good mood for the rest of the day, enjoying my springy cubicle and the Twinkie tiramisu Scott made and the pizza for lunch and... yeah. It was a good birthday. At least, as good as having a birthday at work can be. :-P

And now, the documentation:

My shelf is all springy now! Daffodils from Sheryls in back and bamboo from Scott in front.

I put the other daffodils by my computer, so I could look at them all day. I actually took this pot home with me after work, though.

My birthday cards: The one on the left is from my coworkers, and the inside reads: "Smells just like a birthday card, doesn't it?" or something to that effect. The one on the right is from Scott, and the inside reads: "Forget about that low-carb diet!" Heh. Then there's the gift card from Sheryl in front there.

OMFG. Twinkie-misu. Twinkies cut in half, soaked in espresso (or strong coffee), layered on the bottom of a 9x13 pan. Coffee ice cream on top, Kahlua (if you're not at work), Cool Whip, with mocha fudge drizzled and chocolate crumbled on top. To. Die. For. (Assuming you like coffee.)

Good day. Yeah. And Amy's coming over tomorrow! Yay for birthday weekends!

Reynolds Laundromat: Maiden Voyage

After last week's highly disappointing trip to the Marathon Laundry & Tan, I decided to try out the other local laundry.

First, though, do allow me to tell you of the highly annoying experience I had at the Marathon Laundry & Tan last weekend.

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Losing Ground

I find that, when I get home from work, I don't have enough mental energy left to work on my novel. (NaNoWriMo has at least upgraded my terminology for my "story" that I started a few years and 18,000 words ago.) I come up with plenty of ideas while I'm at work, and I've even written a little longhand, although it took me a good ten minutes to really get into the groove. (More about that later.) But, for right now, I find that I'm more interested in vegging in front of PBS or blogsurfing than adding to my story. I'm just so tired.

Of course, that has nothing to do with the snack-food potluck we had at work today, wherein I ate four dry Atkins muffins, a piece of veggie pizza, several crackers with spinach dip, several pieces of fruit, a few pigs-in-a-blanket made with Li'l Smokies weiners, a few pickles, lots of cheese, some salami and pepperoni, et cetera, et cetera. I'm positive I ate more sugar (and carbs in general) than I had originally intended today.

But back to my original rant. I find that my creative juices have changed from flowing at night to flowing during the afternoon. Of course, I now get up at 7:15am as opposed to 10am (or later, when I could get away with it) during college. So, I try to make the most of it when I'm at work: I keep a piece of scrap paper handy by my desk for to-do lists and general ideas, and I've taken to writing longhand in a journal over breaks and lunch. Thankfully, a Quiet Room has been instituted at work for people like me who would rather write or read or nap during my personal time, and that's where I've been spending my time this week. In the big comfy fuzzy chair with the ottoman, my shoes off, one foot tucked up in front of me to make a little slanted writing desk out of my thigh.

Today, however, I was intruded upon. Just as I was moving from journaling to noveling, two young women came into the quiet room. One held a ball of yarn and two knitting needles, and the other brought nothing. They started talking quietly amongst themselves about this-n-that: "Did you start over with your knitting? I wish I'd brought a book. They seem really strict about this 'no talking in the quiet room' thing. Can you believe the traffic over there?" All in that low almost-whisper that is more attention-grabbing than normal speech.

I had been having a hard time getting started, anyway. I stood up, put on my shoes, grabbed my paper and my purse—and then they realized they might actually be disturbing me. They apologized "if they were bothering me," and I pretty much blew them off. I crossed the hall and sat on the floor in the empty corner room with all the big windows, which is where I've been sitting to read up until now, and was where I had thought the Quiet Room was going to be.

Even with people walking past in the corridor and talking, with the ding of the elevator and the sounds of people downstairs echoing up the stairwell, I got more written on the floor of that sunny room than I would have fighting the distractions in the Quiet Room sitting in the comfy chair.

The underlining point of all this is that I'm losing ground on my 50,000 words. I'm hoping for a prolific writing day tomorrow while I'm off work, and for some more stamina in the evenings.

Edit: I just calculated that I've only added 1,440 words to my novel since the beginning of the month. I am way behind.

A Visit To The Optometrist

I practically had to take out a loan to order my new glasses today.

Is six months at 0% financing on credit close enough?

I took the afternoon off of work today so I could go to my 2:30pm appointment at Lifetime Vision Care in Maumee (formerly the office of Eugene Levey Philip Levy, Aaron's optometrist since 1980—now a partnership between Dr. Levey and Dr. Henry). The exam was no sweat; typical questions (any problems? headaches? changes in vision?), typical tests (which is clearer: 1 or 2? A or B?), and to my joy, I got to forego the jet-puff-in-the-eyeball glaucoma test in favor of the yellow eyedrops. Yay!

Now, the bad news. My headaches may be caused by eyestrain from working at the computer all day (ya think?). The solution? Two pairs of glasses: one for computer-work, one for everyday use.

Oh, my God... It's like having reading glasses. I'm getting old.

But the humiliation of having two sets of eyeglasses isn't the end of it. Don't forget the price of said eyeglasses.

$693.71—and that's after insurance and discounts.

After I'd picked my jaw up off the office floor, Dr. Henry's wife gave me a credit application good for 0% interest and no fees, as long as I get my seven hundred bucks paid off within six months. That I can do, so I gratefully and willingly signed on the dotted line. I'll soon be receiving a card that I can only use at Lifetime Vision Care, that's mainly just a reminder that I still owe them a crapload of money.

Granted, I'm looking forward to being able to see properly again, and to not having headaches anymore... and I'm highly grateful to Dr. Henry for the 25% discount on the second pair (since Aetna only covers the exam, $15 toward lenses and $30 toward frames)... but still. My God.

Dan!

Yesterday evening, Dan stopped by on his way from Cincinnati to Ann Arbor. Very cool. I don't know why, exactly, but Dan makes me smile. He's just got that kind of personality, I guess, where he makes everything seem exciting and invigorating. I like Dan.

We ended up having dinner at Easystreet, where Michelle from Madhatter was our waitress. She was in rare form, too, and talked up a storm. Dan wasn't sure what to think of her... Come to think of it, neither was I, at that point. Anyway, Dan and I spent quite a while just sitting and talking after dinner. Afterward, we took a short walk (short because it was so f*&%ing cold out), and then stopped into Grounds For Thought, but decided against getting anything after staring at the menu board for a couple of minutes. Dan really wanted to see our new house in Toledo, so I Mapquested directions to my own damn house (how pathetic is that?), and I navigated while he drove. The trip was a little anticlimactic, but at least he kind of knows where our house is now. When we got back to BG, we came home and fired up the computer again so Dan could show me the scooter he wants to buy off of eBay. We talked for a while after that, and ended up crashing at 11:30 or so, which is waaay past Dan's bedtime. :-)

At some point during the evening, we were discussing actions vs. intentions, and how important it is to follow through on your promises, to have integrity, especially as you get older and (supposedly, theoretically) more responsible. Of course, he was talking about someone else, not me, but that sort of follow-up is one thing I've always struggled with. It goes hand-in-hand with procrastination (which I'm doing right now by posting this entry). I always have the best intentions, but I end up finding different or more pleasant things to do, rather than what I know I should do.

So, today I proclaimed to Aaron over e-mail that I am going to begin cleaning and packing my desk area. Anyone who hasn't been to my apartment, let me explain: my desk is a disaster area. I write notes on scraps of paper, or I work with genealogy documents, or I read mail and open bills, or get reference books from the bookshelf. These items I then stack neatly on my very small desk real-estate. And on the defunct scanner. And next to my mouse. And on top of my tower. And on top of my other tower. And on top of my file box. And on top of my printer. And on top of my other printer, sitting underneath the desk. And, well, it's a bunch of crap that I don't want to throw away, but don't know what to do with. So, this is no small feat to clean and pack. But I have committed myself to at least beginning to tackle this monstrosity tonight, and tackle it I must.

So, off I go.

Really.

...Have I started yet?

—Oh, by the way, before I go: My high school buddy Melody got accepted to BGSU as a Vocal Performance major! Wheeee! Congratulations, Mel! Now we're going to hang out again on a regular basis, for the first time in years and years... damn, almost ten years it's been since we really got to spend much quality time together. This is going to be cool... for both of us.

OK, now I'm really going to clean and pack. Really.