noideadog: (brain)
We're locked out! At some point we'll stop giving our house-guests the set of keys that includes the only key to a deadbolt we never use. I do hope so anyway. It's even possible that, since this is the third time that we've had this kind of adventure, we'll get around to removing the deadbolt completely. (Do you think we'll do this? Do you suspect we might have a fourth lesson in us?)

For extra points, we really can't wake up the neighbour who has our keys because (a) she has a three week old baby and therefore interrupting her sleep would be assholish and (b) it's been less than a month I woke her up one night for this exact same reason. She had to haul nine months of pregnancy up a flight of stairs from her bedroom to answer the door at 1am. She was... polite.

Joel's valiant attempts at MacGyvering the door open with a paint scraper, a multitool and a subway card were sadly unsuccessful, so we shoved a day's worth of cat food under the door and we're sleeping at the office. It's ok, actually. It has showers, beer, internet, phone chargers, spare shirts, couches and budda bags, breakfast at 8am. Not to Pollyanna it up too much, but it's kind of fun to have an excuse to write python and drink 90 Minute IPA at 2am.
noideadog: (Default)
The paint comes on little cat feet.

I painted. 'Gecko' coloured paint is not the happy and vibrant greenyellow that the sample pictures claimed; it's a dreary institutional pea soup. If it doesn't dry into something magically different, I'll be sad and also constantly craving soup. Institutional soup, the worst kind.
noideadog: (meerkat)

drywall
Originally uploaded by xymb.
Reason it is fantastic to own your own apartment, number fifty eight: after a crappy day, you can legitimately attack the wall with a hammer. (But be warned that your neighbours might rightfully say "Hey, it's after 10pm. How about you finish that tomorrow?" and you might feel like a bad person, especially because they were really polite and friendly about it. And, actually, you didn't really have a plan for after the drywall came down, and maybe you should have thought this through some more before deciding to execute step one and see what happened next. But nonetheless, it's a very good feeling.)
noideadog: (Default)
Hurray! I have refound my mojo and there is great rejoicing. Oh my god, I've been so low-energy and worthless for the last week, stuck in that state where you're working hard and frantically to stay in exactly the same place and where you can't work out why everything is so difficult. Of course, ENTIRELY COINCIDENTALLY, it is dark as fuck outside. I just ordered a light box, to see if I could go back to being enthusiastic about things, and my brain immediately revved back up. The weather wasn't like this last year, so it kind of snuck up on me. Winter, I DEFY YOU (a bit).

Lots going on. I'm looking forward to LISA next month, and then we're off to Portland and Seattle for Thanksgiving. As soon as we get back, we're, uh, going to Puerto Rico, like you do, for work. I don't really understand this, and I'm not sure it will stand up to deconstruction, so I'm just going with it. Puerto Rico. Okey doke.

After that, it's pretty much Christmas. This will be the first Christmas ever away from my family, which is both exciting and weird. And then I'm going to Dublin in January (I'm not even thinking about that because I'm looking forward to it so much), and then my parents are coming back here, and Joel's parents are coming here too, and they're going to meet each other and it will not be stressful at all. Hah. And then a few months after that we're getting married. Fuck, I should buy a dress or something.

In the meantime, the biggest decision in our lives is whether we should get a dog what kind of shelves we should put up in our house so we can unpack the twenty boxes of books that are in the hallway.
noideadog: (meerkat)
This week I have been mostly wondering where all of the time is going to.

Owning an apartment has so far been marvelous. After something like twelve moves in ten years, it's such a happy thing to be making long term plans, setting up house and planting things that might take years to grow but it's ok because we can stay here forever if we want to. I'd expected it to be exciting (and it was) but I hadn't predicted the inner peace and contentment and niceness of it all. I'm pretty peaceful and content, I have to tell you. It's all lovely.

The first project is painting the downstairs, which we'll probably start this weekend, once we decide whether the chosen colours (gloriously obnoxious children's television green and retina-searing fiery orange) are really what we want for the bedroom and the under-the-stairs-room respectively. They're splodged in swatches on the walls, and I'm looking forward to seeing them in real action and experiencing the regrets that my mother claims are inevitable: "You have to make your own mistakes", she says, cheerfully explaining that the stupidly-bright palette is one that new homeowners grow out of very quickly indeed and then have a hell of a time painting over. We'll see.

While Joel's doing all of the work of sanding and preparing the walls, I've moved on to project two: the far more fun job of finding the garden underneath the mosquito-clouded jungle outside. TV programmes about polar bears have taught me that destroying habitat is the approved way of reducing the number of a species, and out I went on Sunday with a pruning shears and a spade and a rake and I joyfully annihilated almost everything in my path. God, destructive gardening is brilliant fun.

Foot-thick ivy perimeter? Gone. Twenty years of ant-infested tree bark? Gone. A-for-effort but ultimately failed tomato plant? Gone. Little leafy things that I don't know what they are? All gone. "Wait! I'm a perennial! I'll be lovely next year!": Gone. No mercy. Cleverly hidden pot of stagnant water, all tucked away behind the leaves? Aha! So very gone. No more illicit sex for you, mosquitoes. Go breed in someone else's garden.

Oh, of course they fought back. I counted 34 bites on Monday morning.

Lucy's been outside three times now, with increasing curiosity and confidence each time. She thinks it is the best. thing. ever, enough that she almost forgives us for the collar and the little bell.
noideadog: (Default)
Day two in Carroll Gardens, which, I don't think I mentioned, is a traditionally Italian neighbourhood. This is fantastic because the Italians are as good as it gets, neighbourhood wise, if you like good food. Fresh mozzarella. Barrels of coffee beans. Locally grown vegetables. Pastry shops every two blocks. You buy a sandwich from a sandwich shop here, it's going to be an A1 perfect sandwich. Add in a weekly farmer's market, a fine cheeserie, a specialty chocolate restaurant, several good bars and one of the most complete beer shops on the planet: this place is a joy of food.

The rush of things to do has slowed down somewhat, and either this made me feel like I had time to crash, or a week of highly scheduled organised chaos finally caught up with me. Either way, I powered down unexpectedly this evening and couldn't boot again; I spent an hour sitting very still and watching the cat and wondering whether I was going to stand up again, followed by an hour of achieving very tiny tasks. "Now it is time to wear shoes. Find shoes. Good work! Let's rest a bit before the next epic challenge.". This algorithm for greatness has gotten me out to Brooklyn, filled my belly with pizza and salad (the pizza was good; the salad was spectacular) , and will (after this little rest), put a beer into my hand and an episode of Doctor Who into my brain. Slow and steady.

Today was good otherwise, for me at least. Lucy Cat may feel differently, having today suffered her yearly physical, blood tests, a rabies vaccine, a cat leukemia vaccine, uncomfortable thermometer action and (presumably least pleasant) a microchip between her shoulder blades. If she's going outdoors, she's going to be as prepared as she can be. The vet suggested a quick-release collar with a bell, so the hyper-protective parent (that would be me) can be reassured by jingling noises. It might be one indignity too far for our girl though.

Lucy's still in Chelsea until after the movers come on Monday, and Joel's in Indiana until tomorrow, so I have the new place to myself tonight, all alone with the no furniture and an inflatable mattress and the lovely 1980s brown wood and cream metal Hotpoint appliances. Cheesemonger alert: there is no place I would rather be.
noideadog: (weirdofreak)
Wednesday:
Transfer everything from personal accounts into mortgage accounts, in case closing costs are higher than expected and we run out of money and hilariously can't make our first mortgage payment.

Yesterday:
Go to our attorney so Joel can sign over powers to me so he can go to Zurich during closing.
Write performance reviews for people at work, because it is that time of year.
Haul the old bed downstairs. (Dead furniture is collected on Friday mornings.)
Revise some Arabic.

Today so far:
Go out to Red Hook (Joel drove a zipcar!) to get more moving boxes from our movings company because apparently I was full of crap when I estimated that we have "very little stuff"; it turns out that we have "fucktons of stuff".

Later today:
Get building insurance, which insists on flood insurance, so get flood insurance.
Write performance reviews for people at work, because it is that time of year.
Choose a post-move and pre-move cleaning company.
Pack some things that are easy to pack.

Tomorrow:
Decide what to do about boxes of old hardware, etc.
Pack the hell out of as much as we can pack before getting crabby (part one).
Write performance reviews for people at work, because it is that time of year.
Revise some Arabic.

Sunday:
Pack the hell out of as much as we can pack before getting crabby (part two).
Take down shelves.
Write performance reviews for people at work, because it is that time of year.
Call home. Respond incredulously to detailed questions from family about wedding plans. What kind of food? Really?
Joel goes to Zurich.

Monday:
Arrange house cleaners for old and new place already.
Write performance reviews for people at work, because it is that time of year.
Bring clothes and stuff to the Goodwill box at work.
Revise some Arabic.
Freecycle a ton of stuff.

Tuesday:
Get mail from attorney with list of cheques we'll need to write. Check that money has all converged in mortgage account. See whether we can buy food this month. Pawn cat/sofa/Joel's right kidney.
Finish performance reviews for people at work.
Do some real work.
Meet Freecycle people and give them stuff.

Wednesday:
Get bank cheques which are different from personal cheques and seriously dudes, cheques? What year is this?
Continue to finish performance reviews for people at work, because it always takes longer than you think.
Insomnia of death (predicted)

Thursday:
Final early-morning walk through the apartment we're buying
Closing. Sign a million pieces of paper twice, once for me and once as Joel's agent.
Get keys. Become home owner. Walk around Caroll Gardens with overwhelmed expression.
Relocate bag of emergency supplies to new apartment. Walk around apartment with overwhelmed expression.
Go to Arabic class. Sit in one place with overwhelmed expression.
Resist urge to spend first night at new place all alone and quiet (and overwhelmed).
Spend quality time with the cat.

Friday:
Call utilities companies with meter readings.
Go to work. Do some work.
Joel's back! Spend first night at new place.
Talk about interior design when we should be sleeping. (We used to be cool).

Saturday:
Have new place cleaned.
Joel goes to Indiana.
Pack the stuff we never got around to packing because it was too hard and we hoped it would magically go away.
Spend second night at new place all alone and quiet.

Sunday:
Take lemon tree indoors and bubblewrap him up.
Extract cat from behind sofa and ditto.
Get a wodge of cash to pay movers.
Pack the stuff we really don't want but weren't sure how to get rid of and probably will take with us forever.
Joel and his parents arrive in New York.
Try to remember not to fart or swear.

Monday:
Move house.

Tuesday:
Sort out final crap in old place.
Go to work.
I don't know what else. This seems like a year away. Who knows what will be happening by then?

Wednesday:
Have old place cleaned.

Thursday:
Rest.

Friday:
Start planning a wedding, I suppose.

Tonight will be our last Friday night sleeping in Manhattan (unless it all goes wrong)
noideadog: (coffee)
The moving boxes arrived just before 8am. I don't think I even became fully conscious while I dragged my carcass to the door, mulled over whether one tips people who are delivering things that the same company will later collect, didn't, and then folded back into bed. Zzz.

My sleep cycle has been drifting later and later, and it was around 4am last night when my scheduler finally convinced the rest of my brain that it was not time to go ride bikes. Ugh, waking up hurt a lot. Recent sleep-resolutions were called upon: without enough sleep I'm useless and stressy, and I decided a while back that being well-rested will always trump having a normal human schedule. Which is to say that I woke up again at 1pm. *streeeeeeeetch*. And I'd do it again.

Lucy loves the towers of boxes. You know in the Sims where each Sim walks up to a new object all "!" and "What's this?"? Our girl does exactly that with anything she hasn't seen before, or presumably anything she hasn't already marked as her own. I plugged a new WAN card into my laptop once, and she immediately identified as a thing that hadn't been there before. I was impressed.

What do you think of these? Cat stairs!.
noideadog: (Default)
All going well, we're closing on the 24th. Isn't that after Joel goes to Zurich (and before he comes back)? Yes it is! Doesn't that give only seven days to get moved out of the current place? You betcha. Are we concerned? Ah, what's the worst that can happen. Pheeeeew.
noideadog: (coffee)
Irishers, how bad was the Tubridy-Cowen interview? From the way the Sindo tells it, Tubridy couldn't have been more UNFAIR and MEAN. Gosh, I had no idea that the Taoiseach was so beloved these days. Was it really like they say?

Apartment update: The seller is ready to close, and we're ready to close and the bank says that they're ready to close[1] and maybe we'll own an enormous debtapartment really soon. As per guidelines, I'm doing three hours of wrist and forearm exercises every day to prepare for an epic day of contact signing. Maybe it will be this week; maybe not. Either way, we've been thinking a lot about how to turn our new place into a machine for living in, and late this evening it became obvious that interior design literature would help. Was it unreasonable to expect Chelsea, the gayest part of the city (male division), to be a font of interior design advice? Well, perhaps it was, and anyway I was disappointed: I had to go all the way to 5th Ave to find an open magazine shop. The apartment-as-lifestyle section was a bit overwhelming, but I bought a few of the least aggressive titles (I'd tell you which ones I bought, but the cat's asleep on them now), and they were also out of Irish Timeses so I got the Sunday Independent. I wouldn't have done that at home, but it's different here; I was so impressed at them having an Irish Sunday paper on a Sunday that I couldn't not buy it. (I mean, I could have not bought the Sunday World, but you see what I mean).

Sunday update: We went to Blue Hill and had the tasting menu. They didn't have a veggie tasting menu, but they invented one: Joel mostly got slabs of pig (pork face, pork belly, pork I don't know what else) and I got baby tomatoes and peppers and weird mushrooms and quinoa from the single place that grows it around here. We had two courses of fresh berries for dessert. Very highly recommended.

[1] Sometimes mismatched pronouns sound nicest and I am defensively mentioning this here so you can know that I thought about this for far longer than was appropriate.
noideadog: (Default)
The co-op board said yes! Dudes, we are totally buying a duplex apartment with a garden in Brooklyn and living in a brownstone on a tree lined street. OH MY GOD.
noideadog: (meerkat)
After midnight and I'm not even a bit sleepy. Here's a life update.

Apartment: Some day this won't be the first thing I think about when I ask my life how it's doing. Whew. After hours of poring over small print, I think I might have a handle on what's left to be done. It's all in a list now, twenty eight items like "arrange lien search" and "give two copies of recognition agreement to co-op" and "authorise UCC Financing Statements". At the closing they'll want two forms of photo id from each of us, both of which must be issued by the Government. Which reminds me that I should add Item Twenty Nine: find out if an irish passport is sufficient id.

Oh, and now that I think about it, I didn't include the co-op interview (August 17th!) or the process of giving the down-payment to someone, whatever that involves. Thirty. Thirty one. And I still need to get the cat micro-chipped. Thirty t.. no, that's a different list.

My complacent lack of knowledge (a happy state before reading the loan commitment letter) has travelled through fear and incomprehension and stress (first several readings of the loan commitment letter) and ended back at complacency again. I'm still not claiming to understand allmostany of this (because that would be a hilarious lie), but we have an ordered list of the things we don't know and need to learn about, and I trust that the attorneys and brokers and realtors and lenders will let us know if we left anything off the list.

Check that out, by the way: a loan commitment letter! Banks want to give us money! Did you see that xkcd strip last week? That is exactly how I feel. Especially about Batman.

Code: Things are a bit quieter recently (despite what I just said), and last night I picked up the old laptop again and wrote some C++. I should probably be less impressed with myself for completing basic undergraduate student exercises, but I am so proud! I made C++ go! Life will be better when I stop generating "Invalid conversion" errors on every second line (C'mon, compiler, it's obviously an integer. Look at it!), but I'm starting to only hate it a bit. It'll be a while before I can solve problems without the code getting in the way though.

You know, the way I got decent at shell scripting was to stop writing perl, and I only know python because I forbade myself from writing any shell for three months, so there's an obvious and unpleasant path to not having to fight for every line of C++. Shudder.

The aforementioned old laptop: Apple haven't made a computer I liked since the 12" powerbook. I love this little guy but, even maxed out in memory and running his little heart out, you can kind of see the cogs turning inside him. You can certainly hear them. Churn, churn, wharrrrnn, gurrrrg. I don't know what I'll do if he ever stops. Very regular backups, for now.

Visitors: [livejournal.com profile] shootbambi and [livejournal.com profile] rbpixies were here and brought brown bread: actual soda bread with actual buttermilk in it. The first loaf went directly into my belly and the second one is in the freezer and I am currently resisting it using my superior will. Seeing Mark and V was just joyous, but three days wasn't long enough: I barely had enough time to fully register that they were here before I was putting them on the E train to JFK.

[livejournal.com profile] jillzilla was also here, and, since we'd arranged to meet about twenty minutes after the aforementioned putting-on-train excursion, I was worried that I'd be too brain-tired to maintain conversation. But, on the contrary, we had excellent Mexican (God, I could eat chile relleno right now. Why is it 1am?) and then a couple of cocktails at Pegu with lots of stories and belly laughs, and it turned out to be one of the most enjoyable nights out I've had in ages.

Gym: I'm going a lot. I like it. It makes my brain feel so good. The only time I don't like it is when there are distractions, like when I get stuck beside a hyperactive TV that won't switch off, or like the dude who was beside me last night who spent forty minutes of loud monotone telling his friend about health problems (detailed) and people they both knew (boring) and the health problems of people they knew (detailed and boring). I felt bad for the friend for about five seconds until I realised that he had the sort of mild snotty cold that requires occasional throat clearing to avoid making constant slurping rattling bubbling phlegmy noises. He chose to not take this path however and OH MY GOD the horrible sounds he produced every time he spoke. I was distressed. I sang out loud to try to distract my ears, but it didn't really happen. Earphones from now on, or becoming more comfortable with punching strangers.

Lucy: Is shedding. She says to say hey.
noideadog: (natural dancer)
Question: what's the difference between a cellar and a basement?
Answer: about two hundred thousand dollars.

Gosh, what a week, and it's only Wednesday. (It's telling that I had to look that up.) Our apartment purchase trundles towards completion, having just gotten past a big complication: our surveyor noticed that the downstairs was listed in the building plans as a cellar, not a basement. Doesn't sound like a big deal, right? It completely is: a cellar is a place to store your root vegetables or engage in hobbies, but it's not a habitable room; you can't legally use it as a bedroom or a living room. If it's a cellar, the property magically morphs from a duplex to a tiny studio with attached storage, and the bank looks at how much we want to pay for it, and laughs and shakes its big bankish head.

The co-op plan said "basement". The certificate of occupancy said "cellar". The final arbitrator is the City, which keeps building records on microfiche, and a person called an Expediter who has access to read and photocopy them.

The list of people I think of as our apartment-buying staff: the realtor, the mortgage broker, the attorney, the surveyor, the expediter, and now the bike messenger who arrived today with an envelope of building plans and an expediting invoice for an amount of money that I would describe as "unsettling".

You know that thing where you're really excited about waiting for an answer, and there's such huge tension, and then... huh... it's a huge anti-climax as you realise you live in an analogue world and a lot of the time the answer isn't "Yes" or "No" but "Well, it depends.". We had one of those. The documents were drawn up before the invention of word processing or legible handwriting, but if you peer at the small print, it's pretty clear that it's a cellar. And, ok, that would be crap except that they also clearly say that it's a habitable room. Uh? So we read housing law until long after it stopped being interesting, and scanned the whole lot and sent it to the surveyor. He replied "It appears you have the very rare legal cellar bedroom." WINNER!

All going well, we're signing the contract this week. The current owner resisted putting an escape clause in there, so if it turns out that we can't get a mortgage for some reason (I am a filthy foreign national after all), we're pretty much screwed. Our broker reckons we're safe, but I'd really appreciate it if you don't attack New York or crash the stock market this week. This is a precarious and scary time.

Next steps: sign the contract, pass the co-op interview (they can still say no without giving any reason, and this process just immediately ends.), do the mortgage things (vague, vague), live in Brooklyn. We're starting to kind of believe that it will happen. I feel accomplished and terrified all at once.
noideadog: (monkey!)
We just had an offer accepted. If nothing goes wrong (and oh there are so many things that could go wrong), we could be living in our own place in Brooklyn by Autumn.

I am making a face like this: :-D

Edit: Actually, I'm making a face like this:
noideadog: (meerkat)
It's interesting, buying houses, because the rules aren't really obvious. Do you offer the asking price, if it's a reasonable price? My dad says no, not under any circumstances, are you a fool? But the internet says both yes, offering a lower price might alienate the seller, and maybe, depends how much you want it, and some co-workers agree that it's good form to offer the full price if it's not overpriced. Overpriced is a funny thing too, because after a while the numbers stop having meaning, and you start referring to a $600k apartment as "way too cheap", and wondering what's wrong with it, because you just don't get a thousand square feet in commuter-Brooklyn for that kind of small change unless there's only one window and actually it's boarded up. How can an apartment be worth so much money? You don't even get to own it, you know; you get to own shares in the co-op that owns it. It's so strange.

We sat down with some internets last night, and looked at every single place which was comparable to the place we've decided we might probably want, and read too about what kind of offer is a good offer to make. The conclusion that there's not a single better place on the internet (for the kind of money we can convince a bank to give us) is both exciting and scary; maybe this is going to be where we settle down and grow turnips and small dogs and domestic joy, or maybe this place is already gone and we have to wait for something else good to come along, or maybe it's not gone and we buy it and move in and hate it straight away and they shut down the F train and the cheese shop goes out of business and and we catch swamp-lung from the canal and end up all negative equity and depression (and swamp-lung). So, it's pretty exciting, is what I'm saying here.

Neighbourhood of the week is Carroll Gardens.

The other thing that's going on with me is that the hotel we've been wrestling with for wedding stuff finally sent a picture of the room they're pushing for a wedding ceremony, and it's a lot like where you'd hold a small internal conference if you were a beige reseller of enterprise human resources middleware. You can just about see the three ring binders with inspirational slogans about customer trust. I mean, I think there are some in the photographs. The Church of Elvis gets more and more tempting. (Or faking Catholicism, but Elvis has better music.)
noideadog: (nyc)
Joel and I went to Milk and Honey last night, where I said "Because I have already had two delicious rye-based cocktails, as well as a pint of Old Speckled Hen, I will sit out this last round and just have water, which I have also been remembering to drink all along." Except that of course that's a lie. Sigh. I wish that's what had happened. Stupid delicious rye-based cocktails are my nemesis. They're so delicious.

The other thing we did yesterday was go out to Brooklyn for the next round in our exciting game of discovering which neighbourhoods we'd like to live in. The answer is still Fort Greene, but Fort Greene is rather small, so there just aren't that many places coming up in searches. Yesterday we stayed as close to Manhattan as you can be in Brooklyn and saw the rather posh Brooklyn Heights and the improbably named post-industrial wasteland that is DUMBO.

Neighbourhoods (or "nabes" as people say, and I'm never sure if they're being ironic) are interesting to me, because they have such strongly different characters. DUMBO is old factories and warehouses converted into arty lofts, lots of decent quality graffiti, a weird sort of well-kept desolate feel: vacant lots and barbed wire and not much light, but expensive cars and no litter. And then you walk for a minute and a half and you're in Brooklyn Heights, all lofty brownstones and calm (and wealthy) suburbia. I find it so weird and lovely that areas that live side by side can keep their personalities like this without blending together like Plasticine colours.

Brooklyn Heights is gorgeous, and it aces the rye test (We're back to rye again. I swear I have other things in my life.) which has been the only objective measurements we found for evaluating neighbourhoods: does the nearby alcohol shop sell rye whiskey. Most places don't, and nowhere has passed as well as the Heights did, with two whole shelves of ryes, including some bottles we'd never heard of. That's very promising. The area's quite sedate though and maybe boring. Joel asked "do you feel like you need to lower your voice around here?" and that was exactly it; it was not a high-spirited sort of place. We'll have to go out there again at a busier time of day and take another look.
noideadog: (coffee)
I don't know which is worse, that our new mop has an instruction manual, or that I honestly needed to read it to figure out how to insert the batteries. Normally when I say "We live in the future", I mean that the world is an exciting, wondrous place; I'm not so sure about this one.

I wanted to write about a bunch of mundane but interesting-to-me stuff, like how going to Bed, Bath and Beyond (land of tinny muzak and heavily scented everything) on a weekend close to Christmas is probably proof that I'm too stupid to live, and about this amazing travel bookshop I found entirely by accident (and gave most of my life's savings to) today, but I've just had an American Trilogy (rye, apple brandy, regan's bitters and big chunks of ice) put into my hand, so I'm going to stop internetting and go enjoy that instead. Life is good. Oh, and it's snowing! Happy snow day, nyc!
noideadog: (monkey!)
"I should tell you", Joel began, making me freeze and brace for bad news, as bleary and disoriented as one tends to be when wakening to "I have to tell you", "that there is a man standing on our fire escape. He was looking in the window."

I tried hard to understand.

"Why?"

"I don't know. I just locked the windows. There's someone outside on the stairs too."

"Oh" seemed inadequate, but it was the best I could do.

Thoughts flow slowly at 5am. I had twenty seconds of being excited about a siege before ..tick.. tick.. realising that a siege wasn't a very likely scenario and ..tick.. tick.. a siege wouldn't be all that pleasant actually and ..tick.. tock.. hang on, what the hell is going on?

Joel guessed that Jim-downstairs was having something structural done to his apartment. That wasn't exciting at all, but, since nobody seemed to be crashing through the window or kicking the door down, we went back to sleep.

It was a music video, Jim-downstairs told me this morning. The landlord asked if he'd like to make some money by allowing some filming in his apartment. He hadn't quite realised what would be involved; they'd been filming since 5am, and would be there all day, to make a three minute video. He brought me to the apartment door to see. There were so many people, tightly shoulder to shoulder, that an extra body in there would have had to sit on somebody's shoulders.

I texted Tina all "OMG MAYBE CELEBS!!" and she's disgusted with me for going to work instead of hanging around outside to see what happened next.
noideadog: (nyc)
I got sunburned today (but only a little) while walking from the office to the coffee shop. For the first time in my life, the sun is darkening my skin. You couldn't call it a suntan. A darker shade of pale, maybe.

Joel's been in Phoenix for a week now, although I was away for the weekend so it only feels like four days.

On Monday I cleaned the apartment, then read about dead Russians.

On Tuesday I went to the pub with my colleagues, had two small beers over five hours[1], then went home and read about dead Russians.
[1] I'm still bewildered by how much easier it is to do that here than it is in Dublin.

On Wednesday I worked late, debugging something urgent, then went for pizza with colleagues, then read about dead Russians.

Today, still wanted by the Government I worked late again, but not on anything urgent. It's close on midnight now, and I can't think of anything to do other than go home, discuss philosophy with the cat[2], and see whether one or other of the Bolonskis tells their da to die in a chemical fire. Oh, how I hope they do.
[2] Our ethics are far apart and she's more of a free marketer than I am, but we're currently coming together on some aspects of John Stuart Mill.

My work objective of "leave the office by 7:30pm" has suffered since I've had the house to myself. When Joel's not here, I'm also far more likely to stay up reading until my eyes burn out, or to decide to make a cocktail at 2am, or to sleep in for an extra two hours, or to eat pizza in bed. When I lived on my own before, I had little urge to do any of these things. Now.. now I must live like my student self, because when will I get the chance again? The extra foolish thing is that I'm certain that Joel's doing the same thing in Phoenix.
noideadog: (meerkat)
We can haz apartment. After a day's hard work, our house is now in a state where I'm not ashamed to have visitors. At last it is a real, homely apartment, with plants in the windows, paintings on the walls, furniture in useful places, attractive lighting, working airconditioning, and all the regular stuff you might expect. I feel very happy this evening. It feels like home.

The lemon tree arrived. I put it in a bright red pot. No lemons yet. Expect to hear about [the continued absence of] lemons at intervals.

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noideadog

February 2014

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