Ready! Set! Curse!

I will throttle Pacman upon his return from NJ.

Not only for the fact that he failed to tell me how long he'll be out of town (no one is actually certain when he'll be returning), but also because his absence has placed me at the center of a potential s**tstorm of contention between the firm, the contractor, and the owners.

Big'un pointed out to me some staining on the wood framing, and I took a look at it. Radio had expressed his concern about some areas, too, when I casually dropped the subject in conversation. It looks like mold (black spots on the wood) and not like staining (black streaks running along the grain of the wood).

I discussed the problem with the guys in the office, Wednesday morning, and Scooter helpfully suggested that I discuss the difficulty with the contractor, and that I might moot the possibility of having a bleach solution sprayed on the affected areas as a precaution.

I followed through with that suggestion today.

I now know why Pacman swears loudly after every conversation with the contractor.

Not only did he address me by a nickname I loathe and that - if he were not in his 70s - would earn him a stern "My name is Ms. Strainedconsciousness," but he became immediately defensive. And worse, he became dismissive.

I'm the fourth person to bring this up - the third to broach the topic with him - but none of us know what we're talking about. I tried to suggest the bleach treatment as a preventive measure, seeing as the areas where there appears to be mold don't receive enough light to adequately treat it with UV radiation, and he guffawed as if I'd just suggested we sing to it or something. He also accused Big'un of talking through his hat in regards to who had initially brought the staining to light (Big'un told me his dad noticed it, and that it concerned both of them).

I shot back, telling the contractor - who might need a nickname... Connie? - that we had just recently had a GC replace all the framework supporting the first floor of the house because there was mold growing in it from improper storage, that the contractor had had to pay for testing of the material, and then ate the cost of the framing. It was sort of one of those "you can do this the easy way, or you can do this the hard way" implied threats.

And then, he asked me not to discuss it with the client until he had a chance to look it over and discuss it.

And he tried to tell me that mold won't grow if it's surrounded by open air.

Yeah, tell that to the apples in my fruit bowl...

Just kidding! I ate my last apple this evening!

The EPA, however, would disagree with him, and does, explicitly, in their handy guide entitled "A Brief Guide to Mold, Moisture, and Your Home."

And then he called me back ten minutes after he'd hung up to reiterate everything he'd just said, as if I wasn't listening.

So I am meeting Big'un at the site tomorrow morning to discuss mirrors in the exercise area (which is bigger than two of my apartments, just in case you were wondering), and Connie is meeting us there to discuss what he calls the staining, and what I call the mold.

Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen, for the battle of the century. Or, at least, of the week.

What the Modern Female Contract Administrator is Wearing NOW

I saw my neurologist, today, and it's okay, guys: my head is not going to explode any time soon (unless severely provoked by contractors and/or clients' sons). My doctor was a trifle worried by a few things, however.

1) The fact that the delightfully named Neurotin I'm taking - doesn't it sound like something Batman's nemesis would put in Gotham's water? - doesn't completely take care of the neuralgia I'm experiencing as a result of the pinched nerve.

2) The fact that I had three migraines in the past week.

3) The fact that my purse is too damned heavy for her liking.

Issues 1 and 2 are within her purview, but Issue 3 isn't, really. Except that migraines can supposedly by set off by carrying heavy weights on your shoulder. Supposedly. Attractive purses are expensive, though, so I'm going to hold off on satisfying her by buying a lighter one, for now. In the meantime, I've culled the herd of belongings within, and switched to a smaller, lighter weight one in dark green and black... which segues nicely into my post-doctor activity.

I decided I'd lighten my purse's load a bit by hitting The Gap's 40% off Wednesday. Last time around, the delightful cashier somehow managed to take 40% off my whole purchase (I bought a couple of T-shirts and a sweater, despite the 90+ degree weather outside). This time, he was not so generous, perhaps because I spent more.

With the advent of fall-ish weather (followed by its rapid disappearance, unless you consider 85 degrees to be fall-ish), I started surveying my clothes. A lot of the clothes I bought this time last year no longer fit me properly for one reason or another (no, I have not gained weight), and I'm tired of wearing jeans all the time.

But I don't feel confident in khakis. Maybe it was the summer spent trapped in the attic floor of a reputably boring architecture firm with a bunch of bitter female architects, all of whom wore khakis and pastel sweater sets every single day, but I just can't abide wearing khakis. I'd rather wear a nice pair of dark denim jeans with a trim crease down the front, thank you.

But I wear jeans every day, now, so I decided to shake things up by buying a pair of *gasp* corduroy pants, cut similarly to jeans, in a nice shade of dark grey.

The (attractive and straight) cashier at The Gap looked at the clothes I was buying - a few long-sleeved T-shirts, a lovely and soft cream colored blouse, the cords, and two turtlenecks - and remarked that I seemed fond of grey and olive green and cream.

He has a point, and a well thought-out one, at that. I told him of my Master Plan for clothing myself, which involves buying limited colors of clothes that can all be mixed and matched in endless variations. So olive green, grey, cream, and a lovely rusty-orangey-pinkish color are my go-to colors. I'm not about to toss out everything that fails to conform to the New Closet Order, however, because navy blue chiffon blouses from DKNY... from 10 years ago, natch... look smashing with dark grey and olive green.

And, of course, I still have black clothes in my wardrobe, because I'd have to hand in my Architect Card if I didn't. The funny glasses were recently made optional in order to retain the (imaginary) Architect Card, but I cling to the old ways and proudly wear them on those days when I get shampoo in my eye.

Is It Friday, Yet?

I know it's not Friday, and I'm honestly glad it isn't, but good gracious, this week is fraught with difficulties, already!

Out of the past six workdays, I have been on the site five days. Today, Tuesday, I was there twice: once for the regular Contract Administration meeting (guess who's contract administrator since Pacman's in NJ?), and once because the owner's son sent me an email loaded with questions, after I settled the Great Screws vs. Nails Debate of 2010. I felt the need to look at the framing to see exactly what he was talking about before fully addressing one of the issues.

Hmmm... maybe the owner's son needs a nickname... We'll call him Big'un, because he's a big'un (granted, he's tall, not fat).

At the meeting this morning, Big'un questioned the framer's use of nails to attach the joist hangers, instead of screws, like the contractor on the family's ranch house is doing (this being their Texas ranch, as opposed to their Montana ranch: keep them straight, okay?). I told him that nails were acceptable, I'd never seen joist hangers screwed into a studwall before, and that it wasn't necessary to screw all the framework together.

He pulled a framer, on me. "Maybe you could just call Adam and check?" I wanted to smack him right in his 24 year old bearded face. But I didn't, because he's the client's son. Instead, I hailed Scooter, put the question to him, and Scooter reiterated what I had just said.

Big'un didn't seem satisfied. The other contractor, the one at the ranch house, uses screws after all.

I have a hunch that the frames aren't the only things that contractor is screwing...over.

Once back in the office, I researched the exact joist hangers we're using - which specifically state NOT to use screws - and emailed the Big'un to let him know. He shot back a looooooooooong email, full of questions that compared the construction of the house in town to the ranch house (the Texas ranch house).

Apples and oranges, kiddo. Apples and oranges.

For starters, the ranch house is a renovation. Different methods must be used to construct the houses. They have different building envelopes. And if his email was accurate, which I doubt it was, then their ranch house is a mold/mildew factory waiting to happen, because it's being built to prevent the walls from breathing properly. It took me a full hour to fashion an email that defended the building envelope we've designed without impugning the design of the contractor and/or architect of the ranch house (I'm not entirely certain they have an architect).

One thing he did bring up was staining on some of the framework. I decided to check it out on my way home - so I left to go home an hour early - and took some photos. I'm not happy, because the staining appears to be not so much staining as mold and mildew on the framework. If that's the case, we'll want to rip out the affected pieces and replace them. And by "we'll want to" I mean "we'll make the framers do it."

I also scared the heck out of Lord Midget, the Electrician, who feared I had returned to give him additional directions. He seemed relieved that I was just there to look at the framing and the ceiling in one of the offices.

Just before leaving our office, I was indulging in a fair amount of griping about Big'un, and the somewhat idiotic questions he asked (with the exception of the staining), and Radio made the remark, "You know, you shouldn't be complaining about him. You're really missing an opportunity, here. Sure, he may not be the brightest bulb in the box, but he's rich and not a bad looking kid."

"He's illiterate," I replied, brandishing the typo-ridden email. "Enough said."

"You need to be more materialistic. Money can make up for lots of things, even being an illiterate idiot."

I sighed. "You've obviously never dated an illiterate idiot before."

"You've obviously never dated a rich one."

I smiled. "You obviously don't know my dating history." And with that, I left the office. I have a hunch Radio hasn't spoken the last in his attempt to get me to marry our client's son, however.

At least it would guarantee the firm more business, right?

Eh...

It's been a busy busy week. After discovering that the framers our general contractor hired roughed-in the windows on the front and rear facades approximately 2 feet away from their intended location (really?) and that they are putting up walls where they don't belong and leaving out doors elsewhere, Pacman was in a car wreck.

He's alive, but bruised and cut up from all the windshield glass. And guess who became de facto head of our project?

Ms. Strainedconsciousness, that's who.

I had a meeting Thursday morning with the framers and the superintendent to discuss the windows before they set about rectifying their mistake. During the course of the discussion, one of the framers asked Radio a question, who deferred it to me, and I answered.

The framer replied, "Maybe we should hold off until Pacman can give us an answer."

WHAT. THE. HELL.

I'm not usually the project head, so I don't talk a whole heck of a lot to the subcontractors, but the guy asked Radio first, and when I gave him his answer, he said we should wait until Pacman got back? Which could be as long as two weeks?

I suspected a bit of sexism was involved, and I looked the framer in the eye and said, "I just gave you the answer. Pacman would say the same thing. And I produced that drawings, not him. So you're ready to go."

The superintendent seemed to get a kick out of the situation. The framer just nodded and said, "Okay," in a somewhat cowed voice.

He was much more respectful of me when I met with him on Friday - along with the midget electrical contractor and the interior designer - to discuss electrical outlet and light switch placement. We had a couple of questions for him, and he answered, and then asked me a couple of things, and I gave him answers, which he accepted.

All is right with the world.

I may be pretty and I may look young, Mr. Subcontractor, but you sure as hell better not underestimate me. I can be just as aggressive as Pacman, when you push me to it.

OCDesign Taking Over My Life

Once again, I took out my OCD tendencies on the company archives. We ran out of archive tubes for the drawings, however, so I unleashed my fury on the jumbled slides of past projects and miscellania littering our slide and materials library.

I accomplished a lot. Whoever last attempted the project had no idea what they were doing. In all honestly, I don't always know what I'm doing, either, as some of the projects in the slides are older, less prestigious projects that aren't much discussed around the office. Putting them with their fellows is difficult, at best, and I can't exactly ask Oldsmobile for help, as he can't see the slides well enough to tell what they are showing.

During my lunch hour, I performed my daily cruise of the Dallas Craigslistings in the furniture section, and found a pair of lurvely orange chairs, very mid-Century Modern and fantastic. They are not quite what I'm looking for for my apartment, though, although the $200 price tag (for the pair!) made me stop for a second look. And then a third.

Of course, the idea of chairs for the apartment - to replace the love seat that is looking rather sad, even under its colorful coverlet - got me on a roll, and I obsessively began collecting images on the interwebs of the shape of chairs that would be acceptable for my apartment.

Because, you know, I don't need lampshades or anything. Or clothes.

I gave up looking for chairs online - I found the ones I want, and they're beautiful, but some jerk in Elle Decor already owns them, sheesh - and began obsessing about other facets of design.

Facets of design that include my personal appearance. In particular, a facet of design called My Face.

This is not an unusual phase for me. I'll go through a period of time where I'll roll along, same old same old skincare routine, and then BAM I will want to try something new, because what I've done for the past 27 years just isn't cutting it in the pore-refining category.

Over the weekend, I had a little bite of the Skincare Bug, in the form of trying to use a mudmask my dad brought me back from his last trip to Jordan. I had used some of it about a year ago with no ill effects, and decided to do it again.

It appears that Jordanian mud masks do not last more than one year. It smelled, quite literally, like perfumed crap, and the salts and solids refused to reincorporate with the liquids, so it was rather runny, blobby crap, indeed. Not a pleasant experience.

I manage to mix a bit of it together in my hands to the right consistency - at this point, I honestly don't know why I was proceeding - and rubbed it onto my face.

I have sensitive skin. Skin that is sensitive to past-its-expiration-date once-wonderful-now-crappy perfumed mud. It burned. It stung. I cursed.

I was nowhere near as happy as this lovely young lady appears to be:

The resurfaced top of my lovely rental vanity was covered with watered-down muck by the time I succeeded in rinsing off all the mud/muck-mask.

I pity my neighbor. Every time I whack an elbow in my closet (once per week, on average) or slather something on my face that I shouldn't, she has to hear me bellowing at the top of my lungs, usually in language about as offensive as the mud-mask turned out to be. She should get a discount on her rent, akin to ambassadors who get hardship pay for living in uncomfortable or hostile environments.

So my disastrous dalliance with the mud-mask launched me on my newest skin-care expedition. When I had my facial a few months back, the aesthetician used some lovely glycol peeling pads on my face. I cannot locate them online. I could call the Spa at Nordstrom and inquire about them, I guess, but they're really expensive.

Or, I could go to Sephora when I go pick up my jeans (they're being hemmed, and not for free, because I wanted it done correctly), and hunt around until I find the particular product I saw recommended in a friend's copy of Real Simple magazine. It's the mid-range one, pricewise, and it looks promising.

Hmmm... Of course, that's one fewer shirt next month.

Decisions, decisions.

The Gods Must Be... Kind of Mean

The Good News: I found my beloved teardrop necklace. It was sneaky, hiding under the stiffener-board in the bottom of my cowhide duffel bag.

You read that correctly: cowhide duffel bag.

The Bad News: The Gods of Lost and Found Articles decided to exact a price for my being able to locate my necklace. The price? An earring, sent into a death spiral down the drain of my sink.

I considered buying a wrench so I could save it. I went to Home Depot to price wrenches - the big kind, that you use to remove P-traps where your favorite earring lies, lonely and abandoned.

Buying a decent wrench - because I do not buy cheap tools - would cost more than buying a new pair of earrings.

I bought a new pair of earrings.

Ralph Lauren makes this particular pair every season. They're little silver pebble-shaped studs, and they're unobtrusive and classic. Like my teardrop necklace.

So I paid my pound of flesh to the Gods of Lost and Found. And then I paid about 6 pounds of flesh to Seven for All Mankind to buy a pair of new jeans, because they last a long time, and they're low maintenance, and they hem them for free.

So my clothing budget for the month is gone on a pair of earrings and a pair of trouser-cut jeans, and I will just have to wait until next month to buy anything else, I guess. Hopefully, it will cool off by that time, so I can break out my fall/winter clothes. Hopefully, but - this being Texas - doubtfully.

Lying Abed After Work

Yes, I am already happily ensconced in my bed, and it's only 6:30, Texas time. I have downed a bowl full of curry and rice, followed by a white nectarine for dessert, and am taking a well deserved rest.

You see, dear reader, I am almost finished with my archival duties.

Almost.

Today, more boxes were sorted through, albeit with less gusto than on previous days. Today, the routine was more along the lines of my poking through the box, saying to myself, "Yup, they're all project files of one form or other," and putting a new lid on the box.

Most of our file boxes are lidless, a fact that initially struck me as inexplicable, given that file boxes are sold with lids. The mystery was solved when I found a stockpile of unassembled file box lids lurking in a corner of the office. WHAT. THE. HECK.

And the guys complained that the boxes didn't stack properly. No kidding, geniuses! They DON'T HAVE LIDS.

Anyway, Radio was kind enough to haul out four file boxes to the recycling dumpster for me yesterday, but did not make the mistake of doing so today. His comment to me after completing that task was "How are you able to carry these things around?"

"I just move them a few feet at a time, or I incrementally lift them and carry them on my shoulder," I said.

"Huh." I only have to move them a few feet at a time, as I decided to just sort through them all in the archive room, rather than moving them around.

Nothing interesting really stood out, today, insofar as archival articles go. I did find a box of framed pictures - mostly limited edition cartoons and prints - stacked at the bottom of a tower of boxes, all of which were much heavier and less fragile than the box full of pictures, none of which had the glass broken.

I also decided that I would reward myself, today, by taking a full lunch hour and by taking a few goodies from the archive room.

Now, before you call the police, or the TBAE, or something, let me state that nothing I took had anything to do with the firm, and they were duplicates. As in, I took a postcard, because there were literally 20 of them in a box, along with a Key Club bumper sticker (I have no idea how many of those there were, because there were so darn many). After carrying a 4-foot wide and 10-foot long roll of gridded mylar into the office and saying, "Uh, guys? What do I do with this?" and being answered with "Throw it away," I decided that it would be better off coming home with me for art project purposes.

Speaking of art, did you know it's almost impossible to find colorfast grey tissue paper? Anywhere? I tried "making my own" by layering black and white tissue paper (it's for a collage) but that didn't work out. It appears that if you want colorfast grey tissue paper, you must buy 480 sheets of it. So I now have 960 sheets of grey tissue paper coming my way, because I needed two different colors of it.

Everybody, prepare to have all of your gifts wrapped in grey tissue paper until the day I die. Or, conversely, if you'd like some, let me know, and when my project is finished, I'll send you some.

Or maybe I could just end my clothing crisis and start wearing tissue paper clothes.