yo austinites
friday five

that grinding noise you hear

While my week has not been nearly as sucky as Adam's, it has been full of its own challenges, most of which involve the land of half-information in which I currently live. The highlights:

--Just got back from the DMV, where I was trying to trade my Tennessee Liscence for a New York state one. So I called last week to find out what I needed to bring. "Just the form," said the brusque voice, whose owner smokes so much it was hard to really figure out gender. So, this a.m., I wandered down there, form in hand. "Where's your birth certificate? Social Security card? Two other forms of ID?" "No one told me to bring those," I said. And, predictably, the woman behind the counter didn't care. I didn't expect her to, really, came back here to dig up all of those other pieces of paper.

--My hope was that while I'd been gone the mortgage company had called to let me know the amount on the bank check that I need to bring to closing this afternoon. A closing that was supposed to happen two weeks ago, and would have had the finance company not lost most of the documents we'd sent to them. The current closing--the one today--was scheduled less than 48 hours ago and, given that pretty much every bank and lawyer's office was closed yesterday, getting all of the legwork done has been a massive pain in the ass. Adding to the ass-irritation is how little urgency anyone involved in the process seems to feel and how little shame they have at demanding things at the 11th hour, which we would have been more than happy to give them promptly had they been able to plan more than 15 minutes ahead. feh. Hopefully, this will all be over soon.

--Adding to all of this was the hour and a half that I spent in the pediatrician's office yesterday for a well-baby appointment. What kills me is that their panties wad up if I'm 30 seconds late, yet there is no problem with keeping me waiting for an hour. Which I wouldn't mind so much if I didn't have to keep a toddler amused for that amount of time in a tiny room filled with expensive medical geegaws. Feh, again.

And so now I wait--and hope that I can deal with all of this before I have to go teach. I doubt it'll be that simple.


I'm just waiting. Trying to stay positive, and just waiting. Because when I become the world's first casualty of mass attack by rabid weasels, I'm gonna be famous. Which should be some consolation to me as I die under a sleek tide of fur-bearing mammals.

"under a sleek tide..." I like that. I mean, I hope it doesn't happen, but the language works well.

Thanks. I occasionally turn a good phrase.

Weasels sleep nestled in their burrows with their tails curled over their noses to keep themselves warm. That's the only thing I remember from a really stupid required English class (it was the one where we painstakingly covered Ethos, Pathos, Logos, etc. as if these were all new words for college juniors, the one where I went to office hours just to tell the poor grad student who'd got stuck teaching the course how completely stupid and useless the class was, only to have her all but break down in tears in front of me telling me she knew it and was powerless to do anything about it). But anyway, one of our readings had to do with weasels, and it included that particular fact, which (sentimentalist that I am) stuck with me and forever changed my view of weasels. They sleep in their burrows with their tails curled over their noses.

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