I think that the person I replaced had multiple personalities. One of them filed obsessively, cross-referencing, color-coding, duplicating entries, creating mind-boggling obscure abbreviations, and on and on. The other one tossed all of her files into one big manilla pocket.
I'm serious about this. I have a spreadsheet that I supposed to be working with that has thirty-one fields. Color coded. I tried to duplicate it, but the most fields I can conceivably use for this project is ten, and that's only if I pad it.

The documents that come about from the work requested in those spreadsheets, which are the things that I would file by State, Location, Year and Month, are dumped higgledy-piggledy into a single lump.

Of course, all filing by my predecessor stopped some time around the beginning of this year, so that means I have plenty of filing to do. And no file folders to do it in. I don't know which of the personalities ordered office supplies, but she must have been on vacation.

Now that I have my digital camera working again, I'll post the view from the 18th floor outdoor lunch room. And the hair cut.

Did I mention that here? It's been such a brutal summer that despite my desire to become an old lady with a long grey braid down my back, I whacked off all my hair. It's going to Locks of Love, where some poor kid will be happy to have my curls.

My hairdresser kept telling me that she was afraid to cut it as short as I was telling her to cut it, because my hair had been sooo long and she didn't want me going into hair shock. I told her that having spent the first seventeen years or so of my life as the only person with curly hair in my small town, any potential traumas and hangups I may have had about haircuts, I had gotten over by the age of ten.

You can't do anything to my hair that I didn't suffer through early on. Pixie cuts? Check. Pageboys and bobs? Check. A side part? A middle part? Check and check.

I think the last time I cried over a haircut, I was about 20 and it was the first time I got a GOOD haircut. But I digress. It's short, and as far as I'm concerned, it could be shorter still. It is just too hot this summer to have hair longer than an inch.

Anyway. It's hot. It's late. I'm going to the cool end of the house, and so to bed.

One of the things I learned at the mall was that, among the great unwashed, the plural form of the computer mouse is "mouses". Where are the mouses? Do you have wireless mouses? Like that. Don't ask me why, because I haven't a clue.
One of the last customers I had was adamant about finding a new Mighty Mouse.

Lame Ass Customer: "Do you have any of the new Mighty Mouses?"

Me: "Well, we have a couple on display that you can play with, but I'm afraid that we're out of stock."

LAC: "You don't have any?"

Me: "Uh, no... we are out of stock."

LAC: "I was here yesterday and you didn't have any. They told me that you were getting more in today."

Me: "Be that as it may, we are out of stock."

LAC: "I know what that means.* When do you expect another shipment?"

Me: "Well, every time a box comes in the back we all crowd around to see if there are any inside."

LAC: "Look, did you get any more today or not?"

Me (giving up): "Yes. We did. But we sold them all. We are out of stock."

* Thinking to self, if you DID know what that meant, this conversation would have been over two questions ago.


On a related note, when I was on the train yesterday, the guy in front of me had the telltale white cord of an i-pod trailing out of his ear. I poked him in the shoulder, held up the plug of my own headphones, reached over, unplugged his headset and swapped his for mine. Then I plugged him into my i-pod. We listened to each other's music for about ten seconds, showed each other our screens, and then swapped back. It was very cool. He was a khaki-clad, serious glasses-wearing sort of guy, and he was listening to Sting. I was dressed in a sensible work dress, in olive drab, and wearing scary-pointed toed shoes. I was listening to Tom Petty. I'm going to have to do that (swap i-pod jacks) more often with even more random folks.

Finally, here's a scary, scary photo for you.



Little Steven, baby, what happened to your neck? Please tell me that all that weight is for your role on the Sopranos. Eek.

The only good thing about this photo is that it accompanied a story that said that a judge in New York stayed the eviction of CBGB's saying that the landlord was just as culpable in not noticing for four years that the club was underpaying its rent as the club was for not noticing that the rent had increased. She even went on about what a landmark and historical site CBGB's is, which leads me to believe that she might have been walking around in the late seventies with purple hair, too, just like me.

In my newest job, I am a glorified secretary. The official title for what I do is "Executive Assistant". But since the Skipper books his own travel, and can touch type faster than most secretaries, and keeps his own calendar, the secretarial portion of the job is minimal.
In fact, the majority of my work is low-level, designing-in-Word kind of stuff, and I'm down with that, y'all. The only problem I have is that I've inherited the work of an anal-compulsive. Things are cross referenced, abbreviated, listed multiple times, high-lighted, boxed, color coded (even though things are printed in black and white), available in multiple sizes, and in general, balloxed beyond all recognition.

It is so bad that even using a search field I can't find all the iterations of a person's name or phone number.

This just brings to mind what I used to tell the nurses at Jackson. Just because you can use seventeen different type faces in a document, it doesn't mean that you should.

Or, look. You went to school to learn certain things, and so did I. I mean, I could, theoretically, start an IV, but it would be messy and painful and you wouldn't want me to do it to you. Likewise, you could, theoretically, design a newsletter, but...

They never got it.

I'm getting it now. This is an unusable document, and I get to re-engineer it. But without stepping on the toes of the actual art director and her junior designer.

Yippee.

On the up tick, they have an espresso/latte maker in the break room. Do you people know how much coffee I can consume in the average day? Whee!

It's my first day at my (latest) newest job. I'm an executive assistant for a guy I've worked for twice before in the past 15 years. I hope that this one sticks. He's a great boss, and an intensely odd fellow. I absolutely adore him.
We once had a screaming match over whether or not he should have told me that Joe Dimaggio* was a patient at our hospital BEFORE he checked out. Our conversation was at top volume, held in the middle of the office, and went something like this.

Me: You should have told me. I would have prostrated myself on his floor and begged for an autograph.

Boss: No. He's a fucking Yankee pig.

Me: Hall of Fame Yankee pig. Joltin' Joe? Married to Marilyn? American icon? Worth prostrating for an autograph.

Boss: No. Fucking Yankee pig. And a real asshole.

Me: FUCKING HALL OF FAME YANKEE PIG!!!!

Well, it went on like that at some length. How could you NOT want to work for a man who has no respect for one of the greatest of all baseball players ever, just because he played for the (Evil) New York Yankees.

The boss and I agree that the designated hitter rule is an abomination and only National League play is real baseball.

Anyway. I'm back on the train in the morning. There will be photos, of course, of unpardonable sins against sartorial reason, and other crimes, like putting on foundation while in public. But I'm so in love with the Overheard In New York site, that I may start putting up actual eavesdropped conversations.

It's late. I put in a ten-hour day, and I'm making dinner while I write this, so in the immortal words of S. Pepys, and so, to bed.

*face lift.

I'm the happiest girly in the world these past couple of days, because my favorite human in the world (except of course for the RLA) has been visiting us from the wilds of Gallofornia. This would be our friend Paul, the genius behind my mermaid costume.
Paulie and I have been designing a web site for him, talking trash, drinking like fish and eating like pigs. We also worked out this morning with Nic Cage. It was muy swell. I know that the description of fun with Paulie sounds an awful lot like the fun I have with The Coolest Person In The World (TM), but that could just be a coinkydink. Or it could be indicative of my ideas of fun.

Anyway, it's been a lot more fun than I had last week, when in the space of four hours, I was (almost) in two car accidents. The first was after the RLA and I had lunch at the Ale House. Some random woman in a VW came barreling out from between two parked cars and nearly t-boned me. I stood on the brakes, and we avoided impact. She turned in front of us and proceeded to the stop sign at the end of the parking row.

And then, without rhyme or reason, she backed up. I was right behind her. I leaned on the horn, and I watched in horror and disbelief as she continued to back straight into me. I was right behind her. I was clearly in her rear view mirror. I wasn't on her bumper, I was a good few feet behind her and she, without so much as a glance in her mirrors or out her windows, threw her car into reverse and plowed into me, all the while my horn was bleating.

She jumped out of her car and said "I didn't mean to hit you!" No shit. I should fucking hope you didn't mean to do it, asshat. "I didn't see you," she continued. Really? I sort of guessed that from the fact that you ran directly into my front bumper with your rear bumper. That and when you came racing through the lot, turning between cars instead of at intersections and nearly t-boned me. Yeah. That was a clue that you aren't a particularly observant driver. Asshat.

There was no damage to Zelda Bleu, and so off I drove to work. Where I was almost involved in a head on collision as some moron decided to pass a car coming toward me. He passed, and in order not to hit me head on, turned left across my lane and into a driveway on my right. Once more, I found myself standing on the brakes and screaming "HOLY SHIT".

And then I got to work, and had a lovely day straightening up the stock and trying not to apply discipline to undisciplined and unaccompanied children.

It's been a busy few days here at the Casita de Zapatos. The RLA put up a ceiling fan/light fixture in my studio, and for the first time in 12 years I can work after dark or work during the day without fainting from the heat.
I have accepted a new job, working as the personal assistant to a man I've worked for twice before in the past 15 years. This means no more mall stories (thank the gods) but it also means a return to public transit, a mixed blessing at best. On the one hand, there will be plenty of "overheard on the train" stories. On the other hand, there will be more photos of women putting on makeup and doing other things best done in private.

An aside: I think that "on the one hand, on the other hand" has to be the phrase I speak most often... well, that and "what the fuck are you looking at?" I always considered putting the latter on my tombstone, but maybe something could be done with the former, as in "On the one hand, I'm dead. On the other hand, I don't have to listen to politicians anymore."

Anyway. I also finished all three thousand pages of Neal Stephenson's Baroque Cycle. What a great read. A hard read, and a dense one, but also brilliantly written and wonderfully funny. I've now moved on to a Harry Flashman knock-off series about a cad in the US military during the turn of the last century. It isn't nearly as well written as either Fraser or Stephenson, but it's a breeze to read, and keeps me busy until I can find the next ten-pounder to slog through.

The RLA reads constantly, but mostly sci-fi, not that there's anything wrong with that. I have read about a bajillion sci-fi books my own self, it's just that I'm on an historical novel kick that seems to have started several years ago with my finally making it through Marcel Proust's Rememberance of Things Past (all million plus words of it.)

There is just something magical about being able to be transported to another time and place through the power of imagination.

Yesterday, Miss Jojo learned to swim. She is a veritable merdog. She'd been watching the Noble Dog Nails as he did laps and chased the tennis ball around the pool, but was loathe to actually get more than a paw in the water. All of a sudden yesterday, she put first one front paw, and then the other on the top step of the pool. Then her whole head went under water and she snapped away at the wet. Then, without warning, she launched herself off the steps and proceeded to do doggie laps. She can do the side stroke, the dog paddle and something that could be a backstroke. We had to bribe her with cookies to get her out of the pool. We've got a monster on our hands.

Finally, to George in Tennessee, the rumblings on my horizon which you found ominous, were merely the sounds of the job coming to fruition and my increased hours at the gym with the Marquis de Steve.

And by here, I mean on Earth in the 21st century. I need new friends, because my old ones are fighting for the honor of shredding my last nerve and exploiting my last drop of human kindness and tolerance.
The old adage "you're only as old as you feel" seems to friend number one a challenge to see if, before he reaches the age of 60, he can make his heart and head feel older than Methuselah. He is drinking himself to death, and let me tell you, it isn't as romantic an image as he would like to believe.

When we were younger, it was an interesting conceit on his part to be a dissolute blade of the Belle Epoque. Now it is merely tiresome. Cognac doesn't make for as entertaining a drunk as absinthe may have done, and neither drunk is entertaining on this side of the glass.

Our long-standing Thursday night dates have become an ordeal that neither the RLA nor I anticipate with anything other than loathing and pity. Interventions have not worked. How do we ditch someone we used to love, and who, despite his pitiable state, still, in his own pathetic fashion, loves us?

Friend number two. Ah, friend number two. She is a workaholic in denial of her addiction. If, in fact, it isn't addiction, then it is a sorry example of the Peter Principle, and she is overworking in order to compensate for the fact that she can't do her work in a 40 hour week. She has no life, except work and her children. Unfortunately, two children have flown the nest, and the last one is a fledgling, eager to get her feathers and go.

When that happens, what will happen to my friend? There will be nothing to distract her from her lack of a personal life except more work, and, I am afraid, that old demon gin, to which she shows a particular fondness.

Friend number three has a place in the dictionary, right next to the words enabler and co-dependent. I can't listen to her anymore, either. Wrong choices about almost everything to do with her kids lead to more wrong choices and tragic consequences.

As I tell so many others, you can't fix anyone except yourself. My fix is coming, and I am sorry to see it on the horizon. But I can't take any more of any of my friends self-destructive behaviors when I have my own to tend to.

Still, even in the driest desert, some flowers bloom, and last night I went to a lovely flowering: young April was ordained a priest in the Episcopal church, and the RLA and I were priveleged to be at the ceremony.

I love ceremony and rite, and this was particularly lovely. Love being the operative word. She is a woman full of love, and the church was full of people who love her. I promised TL (the prettiest man in the room, always, but particularly last night) that I would blog about it (and about him) so here it is.

The sermon given likened April to McGiver, a charismatic fellow of infinite ability to conjure salvation from a paper clip and a need. I ask you, when was the last time you heard McGiver's name mentioned in church? And why not? The world needs more McGivers, and that was the gist of the sermon: that our friend is a McGiver, able to pull the rabbit of hope from the world's top hat of despair.

She is, and in the mood I've been in, it was a reminder I needed to hear.

So the other day I held a party and (almost) nobody came. First time that ever happened to me in the history of my throwing parties. Granted, the theme was a little obscure: Shahruhk Khan Day, and the kitchen play involved Indian cuisine, but really. All most folks had to do was show up, eat and watch some Bollywood. How hard could that have been?

* the recipe calls for letting the eggplant weep out its bitter juices.... yeah, ok, right, it was a stretch, title-wise, but cut me some slack.
But RJ came through, and the two of us had a wonderful time, cooking up a storm and weeping our way through all three-plus hours of Kutch Kutch Hota Hai, arguably one of Shahruhk's more romantic fil-ums. Sigh. That Shahruhk, he is SUCH a hottie.

RJ made paneer, and Publix had fresh peas and lovely eggplants, so the menu included motter paneer, lamb with coconut and peas, eggplant a la "the imam wept", kir, mango lassis, motter paneer samosas, and plain old rice.

Here's a couple of photos of our endeavors, kitchen-wise





In other ramblings, my tat is finally healing up. Note to self: don't wear anything with straps that rub a fresh tattoo, it makes for a big mess, and a miserable healing experience.

Things I'm not allowed to say to customers, but wish I could: Hey, stupid, the i-pods all sound the same, even if they are different colors. You don't need to listen to all of them, one will do.

I'm amazed at how many different ways there are to (mis)use a cell phone. I have grown accustomed to seeing people treat them like walkie-talkies, first holding it up to an ear, and then repositioning it to in front of their mouths, like the mic isn't multi-directional, but the variety of positions is astonishing.

One woman kept holding the mouthpiece at right angles to her ear when she was trying to listen. Imagine the cell phone was a q-tip and she was digging in her ear... that's how she was holding her phone. The mouth end poking into her ear. And just how did that help her hear?

Another man was flipping his phone around so that he was trying to listen to the back side.

Ah well, technology is difficult, eh?

And, yes. This entry was created on my mac. Sigh. I love this machine.

I fought the urge as long as I could but finally had to cave in to the baser longings of my heart. I bought a new Powerbook. This should be the last entry using the Sony Vaio.
When the hospital took away my Mac, I felt like a converso during the Spanish Inquisition. Yes, you could make me denounce my religion in order to stay alive, but you could never make me love the new one, or even practice it with the fullness of my heart.

Now that I've been liberated from the toxic waste dump of county employment, I decided to take the paltry remains of my severence package (most of which has gone to paying the COBRA bills) and buy myself a new laptop.

It arrived yesterday, and today I'm loading up software and cooing over it like the newborn it is.

In other news, Miss Frances Langford died. She was the local celebrity in my home town, and many are the dinners my family had at the old Outrigger.



I once got Susan Hayward's autograph there. She smiled and asked me if my father had told me to ask for it, because I was way too young to know who she was. But she was beautiful and gracious, and I still have the autograph, on the back of the blue valet parking stub. Unlike the celebrities of today, you could read her signature, too.

It's been a busy weekend at Girlyshoes. The RLA and I had a road trip Saturday, partly on purpose and partly by accident. We had planned to go to Boca to pick up fireworks for the Fourth, added in a jaunt to Lake Worth to see a tattoo artist, and at the last minute rounded off the day with a chance to meet Dan.
And the plan went off without a hitch, if, by without a hitch, you mean that the RLA got the name of the tattoo shop wrong, and copied their phone number wrong, and I read the map to the fireworks store wrong, and caused us to drive about ten miles east of where we needed to be, which in turn let us take the very scenic drive north to Lake Worth on Old Dixie Highway.

Well worth the drive, however, was Altered State when we finally found it. I ended up with a new tattoo. I don't know why it is that the RLA, who WANTS a new tattoo, can go to a tattooist and leave with nothing, and I end up with ink. They (tattoos) are like potato chips: nobody can have just one.

Scott is my newest ink idol. Not only is his color sense incredible, but he also has a wicked capacity to draw freehand, and his touch with the needle is very light.

He added a flaming star to my existing angel cat. When he asked if the flames were a little too hotrodish for me, the RLA just snorted and said "Hell no. She's a gear head." Isn't he romantic? And he even paid for the work.

After the star was done, we went back south on I-95 to Donny Aaron's Arsenal of Fireworks, a 6,000 square foot, air-conditioned palace of all things Black Cat. Smoking eyeballs, a case of bottle rockets and more things that blow up or emit smoke, flames, shooting balls of fire, or sparks later, we were ready to head even further south and east to meet up with Dan.

In order for him to recognize me, I wore my "I'm blogging this" t-shirt. It worked. It also worked that I forgot to take along his cell phone number, and since we'd had a couple of unexpected extensions on our drive and were running late, I ended up calling the restaurant to tell them if a tall guy with glasses and a shaved head came in looking for someone, but he wasn't sure exactly who? that would be Dan-the-blogger and they should seat him at the bar and tell him that MizShoes-the-blogger would be along shortly. Dan was recognized as such, and was happily slapping back a bourbon and beer when we arrived. He did keep them separate, so it wasn't technically a boiler maker. Not wanting, ever, to let a guy drink alone, I had a shot of tequilla and a beer chaser. The RLA is always the designated driver, and I the designated drinker, so things worked out well.

Dan is as wonderful in person as he is in pixels, and a fun time was had by all. I think. He wouldn't have lied about it, would he? No. Dan left with a bag of mangos, fresh off the tree. I hope they made it back to the other coast without getting impounded at the border.

On Sunday night, I was in the kitchen when I heard Jojo chewing on something that didn't sound like a doggie toy. It was a box of safety matches. I pried it from her jaws and noted that the box was burned along one edge. Ever attentive to details like that, I went off looking for the matches. Yes. Yes, most of them were burned as well. It seems that she was somehow able to light the box of matches whilst chewing on them. Only I could have a dog that plays with matches. Luckily for all involved, her muzzle did not catch on fire, my kitchen cabinets did not catch on fire, her mouth was not burned by either fire or sulphur, and the tile floor only had a tiny scorch mark. She must have slobbered enough to put the spark out. That's why fire should be left to professionals, or at least persons with opposable thumbs.

Yesterday we packed up the fireworks and headed over to the Rancho De M&RJ for a traditional bbq. There was beer, burgers, doggies, potato salad, grilled corn, grilled chicken and much hilarity among the participants. For desert there was red velvet cake with blueberry sorbet inside. Then fireworks at the park. Then more blowing things up at their house. There was even real fire, when the spinning flaming thing that we nailed to a tree in the back yard caught the dead leaves below the tree on fire. Luckily one of the gang had gone into the house for more beer, and saw the flames in the back yard when they were merely three feet high, and we were able to put the fire out with a garden hose.

That's why fire should be left to professionals.

Didn't stop us, though. Once the fire was out, we were all back in the front yard blowing up more stuff. Did you know that a six-foot pvc pipe makes a most excellent launch pod for an M-80 bottle rocket? Now you do.

Happy fifth.

Yeah, baby. There is nothing I like better than taking part in a random survey. This one is being run by MIT's Media Lab, and any time I can be part of their science, I am one happy puppy.

My sistergirl sent me an article about Mars being closer to Earth this August than any time since the Neanderthals looked up, but it turns out it was one of those web things that circulates and circulates and circulates. The actual time of the Mars event was two summers ago. Still and all, I suppose that looking up is a good thing to do anyway.

And if you're looking up and out in mid to late August, you'll be seeing the Perseid Meteor Showers. So how bad could it be, if you get to see a few shooting stars?

So I have this friend, a very dear and wonderful friend. She's been a mentor to me professionally for years, but also a true girlfriend. A soul sister. To be honest, she scares me a little, but only a little, and considering that she can, if she tries, make men in business suits wet themselves, being only a little bit scared of her is fine.
But she is my friend, and I hers. She's a military brat, and like all military brats, has a hard time making friendships. She is self-contained, and the fact that we are close is a treasure I do not take lightly. I know how hard it is for her to give me as much of herself as she does, and I aprreciate her for it, and the friendship we share.

Of course, these are not things I could say to her face, because the sheer emotion of it, the bare exposure of self, would embarrass both of us. But sometimes, you have to put things out in the universe, so that, like the butterfly's wing beat in China, that causes a hurricane in the Gulf, the reverberations and vibrations can be felt where they should be.

I have another friend, my sistergirl. She and I have known each other since before we were born, quite literally, as our mothers were friends and pregnant at the same time. We truly are the Petit Ya-yas. She and I can pick up the phone at any time, and continue a conversation that began 40 years ago, even if we haven't spoken in weeks or months, or even years. We share a knowledge of each other that is bone-deep. My fairy garden, that is part of my koi pond, is an homage to the moss gardens we built together when we were ten or younger.

For years and years, I had a friend from college. He, too, had scared the piss out of me when we met, and then became close. We were hanging out buddies, go to movie buddies, mooch dinner off of me buddies. We were not an item, not ever, not even thinking about it. We kept in touch off and on, more off than on in some years. Then one day, after not having seen each other for about five years, we got together for an art opening and dinner. By the time I said goodnight, I knew that I was going to marry him. He's now my husband, and you all know him as the RLA.

And then there is the Coolest Person In The World. We can, and have, gone years without talking to each other. Then the phone rings, and it's like: Hi. Howyadoin? I'm going to be in your part of the world next week. Want to get together? And of course we do.

On the flip side of this is the friends who have gone and can't be regained. Not through arguments or fallings out, although there are a gracious plenty of those in my life, as well. I'm thinking specifically of Leapin' Larry. He was another college friend, and someone I spoke to once every ten years or so, and swapped outrageous e-mails with with a greater frequency. He was killed in a helicopter crash over the Gulf of Bahrain several years ago. Not a week goes by, that I don't think of him, or how I miss knowing that he's around in the world, making award-winning news videos and just being the unique and wild man he was. I can't bear to think of how much his wife and sons miss him.

Next week or so Reecie is going to be here on my turf. We've met face to face once before and totally enjoyed one another's company. I'm looking forward to face time with a person I consider a friend, although we only "know" each other through our blogs and on-line correspondence.

Is this a cool world, or what?

But I'm holding on. We're here on the left coast of Florida, and there is a red tide holding us hostage in the room. First of all, you don't want to swim in anything that kills fish, secondly, you don't want to sit on the beach and smell the rotting fish, and thirdly, the wind and waves and general evapotransporation puts the deadly red algae in the soft sea breezes, leading to a hacking cough.
All of which is fine with me, anyway, because to me a vacation entails a lot of naps, and if I can't take them on the beach while toasting myself to a crisp, then I'll do it in air-conditioning with no problem.

The other vacation staples: drinking and shopping, can be done at leisure, sun, red tides or rainstorms notwithstanding.

As far as I'm concerned, this is a fine vacation.

Add to that that I can access my blog account and there is nothing at all wrong in the world.

Excuse me, gentle readers, but there is a fresh mango margarita upstairs with my name on it.

For reasons I won't go into here (my brother, Biggus Dickus, bought it) I have in my possession a bottle of Grey Goose vodka. This would be just fine by me, except the tea-totaling bro bought vanilla-flavored vodka, which is practically undrinkable.

This, combined with the beginning of mango season, brought me to this morning's experiment. Can I make chicken salad out of chicken shit? Or, to be more exact, if I let most of a ripe Springfels mango steep in a mason jar of vanilla vodka for a while, will it be any more drinkable?

I'm thinking mango martinis. Mango martinis, or swill. It's got to be one or the other, and since I already have swill, what do I have to lose?

This is a day off for me, and it started out lamely enough with me waking up with a headache. Like, the kind of headache that feels like someone with a fifty-pound thumb is trying to press out your eye, from behind the eyeball.
Ignoring that, I went off to work out with Nic Cage (aka The Marquis de Steve). There was no parking at the gym within a three-block radius. I circled three times. I would have gone into a four-block radius, but the fourth block is Dixie Highway or residential areas and they frown on parking in either location.

I had to valet park. At the gym. Which is so against my religion. That religion being if you're going to work out, anything that makes it easier (i.e.: parking next to the door, valet parking) is prohibited. You're there to sweat, not take it easy. And yet, due to the fact that there was absolutely no place to put Zelda Bleu, I had to valet. Which I still would not have done, had all this circling around like a shark hunting blood not made me very late.

Got home and logged on to the i-tunes music store, because there were some things I wanted to download. I shopped until I had a cart full of obscurities, then went to download and check out. No can do. Need to update to i-tunes 4.8. Not a problem. Except, it was a problem. For some reason, I can't update because, although I'm an administrator on my own computer, the stupid Wintel device thinks I need to talk to a system administrator. I even tried creating a new account that was strictly admin with no customization at all. Still won't let me update. Fatal error.

Yeah, I'll say. The fatal error being it's a piece of shit Wintel computer that I had to buy because the hospital took away my Mac and wouldn't let me use one anymore, and then gave me such a load of work that I had to get a Windows machine on my own dime so I could work at/from home, too. Then the asshats laid me off and here I am with a stupid Windows machine that I'd never in a million years have bought of my own volition.

Except. Now I don't have to use a Wintel machine, do I? And if I wanted that sweet, sweet, sweet 15" PowerBook, I could get it. And you know what that means, don't you? This Windows machine would be a doorstop faster than than you could say reboot.