Currently Listening To: Rasputina, "Cabin Fever." It rocks. The ladies' cello society continues to turn in some really unusual, different stuff.

Currently Reading: Gardening 1-2-3. Once upon a time, you would have told me I'd be engrossed in books with the Home Depot logo on the cover. And I'd have told you to get bent.

Oh, and Waiting, by Debra Ginsberg. And Holy Terror: Andy Warhol in the 70s, by Bob Colacello. I haven't gone completely suburbanite bore. Yet.

Currently Watching: Same Guys, Different Dresses, a documentary the Kids in the Hall did of their 2000 tour. Bill picked up the DVD at their 2002 tour. We caught that a few weeks ago. We had a hell of a lot of fun.

Random Picture Of The Day:

Cleo says "Thanks for the cool leopard print chairs, Larisa! We sort of match."












And Now We Are Very Grumpy.

Turns out the bunny who starred in the last entry is something of a neighborhood fixture. For the past two Saturdays, I've stood out on the deck at almost the same time in the afternoon and watched the bunny do a tour of everyone's backyards. He (she) also showed up in our yard again last Sunday. Today, Bill and my mom and my aunt and I watched the bunny hanging out in the yard across from ours.

Yep -- after several false starts, my mom and aunt finally came over to check out The New Place. Although I had little doubt they'd like it here (the colors and the layout make the place pretty much a smaller version of my mom's new house), I went a little crazy anyhow. I spent most of yesterday doing the cleaning so I wouldn't have to worry about it this morning. Which is terribly, horribly, shockingly, unbelievably unlike me. Generally I will wipe no grime before its time, and if our guests are expected at 1:00 that means I can get up at nine and have coffee until ten and then wash a couple of dishes and then go take a break and then catch something cool on TV that I just have to watch and then oh my god it's almost noon and I haven't even showered and the place is still a disgusting mess. Many a guest of mine has walked in to the scent of still-drying 409 spray and the lingering bouquet of overripe garbage that was just hustled out to the trash room minutes before. And use the bathroom? They had to be kidding.

But that was Old Nicole. I cleaned yesterday, and then this morning I went completely neurotic and did most of the cleaning on the main floor all over again to get rid of the incredible amount of filth and grime that can accumulate in just one night. I was falling asleep on our sofa by the time they got here.

But we had a great time. And they did love it.

And tomorrow, back to work. Ugh. I may have mentioned that we moved offices a couple of weeks before Bill and I moved in, so for the past month I've been walking around with this strange uprooted and unsettled feeling.

At first I thought I hated the new office building. Now, after almost two months of due reflection, I know: I really fucking hate the new office building.

The pro (because there's only one): There's a nice view of the woodsy part of Georgetown, with the university visible in the distance, from the windows that line our work area. And the cafeteria in the lobby is a half-pro -- the food's only decent, but there's usually enough variety that you won't mind going there a few days in a row during those April heatwaves.

The cons: Everything else. People in the building never learned that it's generally considered polite to allow others to get off the elevator before one charges on even if you are that much more important than they are. Get off swiftly, or be Gaines Burger.

Can we talk about the bathrooms? The toilet seats were apparently installed some time during the Eisenhower administration: they're scratched and nicked and pitted. I don't even want to know how a ladies' room toilet seat gets so pitted. It certainly isn't due to the toilet paper, which has the consistency and strength of a piece of two-ply that's been peeled apart to make two sheets of one-ply and then peeled apart again to make 0-ply. Someone thought it would be funny to put the paper towel dispenser right by the bathroom door and see how many people whack someone with the door on a given day. Ho ho.

And we also have a full complement of Cranky Note Leavers on our floor. If you've worked in an office lately, you know the kind: someone who has to state the painfully obvious and make sure everything in the entire world is arranged to suit them even when they aren't there to bitch at you in person. "Please LABEL YOUR LUNCHBAGS when using the FRIDGE!!!!!" "Please CHANGE TONER when copier is low!!!" "Please if you take the last cup of coffee MAKE A NEW POT!!!!" (Lots of capital letters and exclamation points make you sound more forceful.) Even when The Cranky Note Leavers have a point, their notes are so goddamn annoying that they make you want to dump a full jar of Frito-Lay dayglo-orange cheese dip on the bottom of the microwave tray and nuke it for 20 minutes and not clean it up just for the pleasure of imagining their faces when they see it.

And then there's the Donkey. He does everything loudly; even though he's in an office and well down the hall from us we always know when he's just gotten back from Manhattan or if the copy editor bounced a piece back to him for a rewrite or what the interest rate on his new mortgage is, because he never shuts his door and his normal speaking voice is like a sonic boom.

That's bad enough, but he also does this:




He clears his throat compulsively every minute or so. And not even a simple "Ahem" sound like you or I might do. Oh no. He might just do a smooth HnnnnHHHNNNNN. Or he might fire off a full complement of rapid-fire whinnying hn-hn-hn-hn-HNNN-hnhnhnhnnnns that make him sound like a cross between a pony with a sore throat and Beavis. Or Butthead.

It's maddening. I thought I'd get accustomed to it, but the sound pierces right through the sweet tones of whatever the iPod is serving up, to be followed by the sound of me and my coworkers hissing "Shut your damn door! Try Ludens! Jesus, see a freaking doctor!" We hate the guy. He could well be suffering from something awful and incurable, but we hate him. Rumor has it these people didn't want US moving there because they weren't happy about the potential noise level. Ha ha. Heaven forbid we drown out the Donkey.

So hmph. It's not even Monday morning yet, but I'm already in my cranky Monday mode.

Memo to self: Write about Shiny Happy Stuff on Sunday nights from now on.

Or rather: "Please write about SHINY HAPPY STUFF on Sunday nights from now on!!!!!"

The next entry.

Previously, in Insomniaville...

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