Mawwiage is what bwings us togevah today.

I mentioned in my last post - just yesterday! - that I'm engaged to be married.

For a while, it seemed like it would never happen. I contemplated buying the China I wanted bit by bit, because I started to see myself as hip, single Aunt StrainedConsciousness for the rest of my life.

I'd been dating a fellow for a few months, and had informed him, on our third or fourth date, that I had some health problems, and that they weren't fun to deal with (I went whole hog and told him about the intestinal fungal infection, because that's attractive). His response was, "No problem."

At least, it wasn't a problem until it was a problem, until I didn't want to go to a concert because my infection was back, and I felt awful and exhausted and nauseous. And then, he just... stopped calling. Because five months of dating didn't warrant more than that, apparently.

When I realized that he had no interest in continuing to date me, I was pissed. Pissed that he didn't have the cojones to tell me himself, and pissed that I'd wasted my time on him, particularly since I'd straight up told him, in detail, how the infections affected me, when they happened.

I got on eHarmony that night, and responded to several messages that had been dropped into my InBox in the past two weeks.

One of those messages was from the man I will marry on May 30, 2015.

He was cute, judging by the picture, and wrote exceptionally well, and seemed to have a well-developed sense of humor. We met for coffee a few weeks later - we began corresponding over the Christmas holidays of 2013 - and I liked him immediately.

Except he needed a haircut. But hey, that's easily fixed, right?

He had a good sense of humor, a wide range of interests, and he was exactly like his picture on the eHarmony website. Except more handsome, so hooray!

Our second date was at the Museum of Natural History in Houston. I'd been wanting to see their Egyptian Hall, so we went. We also went through the butterfly exhibit, which was fun, but the best part was definitely the Egyptian Hall.

Why? Because of all of the amazingly hilarious jokes that can be made at the expense of mummies.

Yes, I know, I'm going to hell for mocking dead people. Or, at least their canopic jars.

As we wandered through the gift shop on the way out, a Triceratops mug caught my eye. Not just any triceratops mug, though: an over-sized triceraCHOPS mug, showing the different cuts of meat on a triceratops. My Future Husband bought it for me, and I still use it every day at the office.

By our fifth date - when he made me dinner at 9:30 at night because I was exhausted, on my anti-candida diet, and had just left work - I was hooked. I had to drive to my parents' house, the next day, and when I got there, I cancelled my eHarmony account. I'd found the one.

By our fifth date. Because I didn't feel like breaking my dad's record (He told my mom on their third date that he was going to marry her. She laughed at him.)

Jump ahead fifteen months, and I'm two months away from our wedding.

It's going to be pink. If you'd told me two years ago that I'd be having a pink wedding, I would have laughed in your face.

However, My Future Husband and I attend the Unitarian Universalist Church in Houston, and its interior is painted in two different tones of pink, with soft green accents and beautiful mid-tone wood paneling. It's a very Frank Lloyd Wright-ian building (as are many Unitarian Churches), and I'm thrilled to be having our ceremony there.

My niece was initially excited about it, because that means that her flower girl dress will be pink. Except she just told my sister/Matron of Honor that she wanted a gold dress.

TOO BAD, KIDDO. YOU WILL WEAR YOUR FAVORITE COLOR AND YOU WILL LIKE IT.

Anyways, we're having a morning ceremony - 11:00 a.m. - with a luncheon to follow at Ouisie's Table, a Houston institution, and also site of the one and only instance in which I've had a waiter pour a drink on me (it was a Bloody Mary, for the record, on my birthday. I think I was 22).

And then, the next day, My Future Husband and I will leave for almost a week in Santa Fe, New Mexico, one of my absolute favorite places to visit.

We've been living together since shortly after our engagement - I was very ill, unable to work, and could no longer afford the rent on my apartment - and My Future Husband has been doing an excellent job of dealing with Wedding Decisions.

For instance, he chose the wedding invitations. I stood in the living room, with six different invitation samples in hand, hemming and hawing about which ones I liked, and he took them, sorted through them, and held up the one we are about to mail out to our guests. "I like this one," he said.

It's pearlescent pink with black lettering. I would never in a million years have thought he'd pick it, but he did! And I like it.

When we went to pre-shop for our registry, I couldn't decide on the Formal Flatware I wanted, and he opened a drawer of flatware, said, "I like this one," and voila! It looked better with our China than any of the others I'd seen.

And then we bought chocolate at the fancy candy counter in the store where we registered (if you're ever in Houston, check out Bering's Hardware: you can buy chocolate, Herend porcelain, William Yeoward crystal, and lawn mowers).

It's nice to have someone who can defuse some of my OCDesign. And he hasn't built a bonfire out of my design magazines, either.

Yet...

Taking Care of Business

I read a book about the diamond trade (called Precious Objects), and one of the men featured wore a necklace with the letters TCB on it, an acronym for Taking Care of Business.

I want one.

I've been taking care of A LOT of business, since my return to Houston. I've been organizing like a ninja (ninjas are very organized, in case you didn't know), unpacking bags from my 3-week sojourn in Dallas, and restocking the old pantry with everything I could possibly need for the upcoming semester.

I also notified the office of my apartment complex about a sizable rat inhabiting a hidey-hole in the breeze way.

But I digress.

By the end of the week, I plan to have made gluten-free bison meatloaf to freeze, spaghetti sauce, and spaghetti squash (also to freeze). My unusable/broken scanner will be taken to a recycling facility, and the faded clothes I no longer wear will find their way to a Goodwill drop-off station. My apartment will be sparkling clean, from top to bottom, and my allergies will probably be raging as a result.

I will start this semester off properly. I will be ready for anything the professors throw at me.

No, really. I will.

Fill 'Er Up

With Botox, to be exact.

This coming Wednesday, I receive my first Botox treatment.

No, the Botox is not to hide unsightly wrinkles, or to try to freeze away the years by paralyzing my facial muscles. Seeing as I'm regularly told that I look like I'm 19 years old, I have no reason to try to make myself look younger.

I do not want to get ID'd when I go to PG-13 movies.

The Botox will (hopefully) help my migraines even more. Sure, my migraines have lessened considerably in the past month or so, but I'm still having them a couple of times per week, and that's a couple of times too many.

In some ways, I'm excited. The procedure is being performed by Dr. Pain, so I'll spend several days in Plano prior to and after the procedure. I'll get to see my mom, and one of our friends who is recuperating from a massive surgical procedure. And I'll get to hang out with Major Tom Shadowmaker for a few days, which is always nice.

My excitement at returning to Dallas for a few days is kind of overshadowed, though, by my fear of having yet another treatment for migraines/pain that could, potentially, go awry.

I'm having injections in my forehead, scalp, neck, and shoulder muscles: a total of 21 injections in all.

I most likely won't be able to move my eyebrows afterwards, so there go the amusing facial expressions I use to get my niece to giggle. There's also the possibility that my head could drop forward, as happened to a former architectural client of mine who had the injections in his neck to treat spasms from Parkinson's Disease.

Having to work harder at holding my head up, not being able to register emotion using only my eyes: these are things I can deal with.

My biggest fear is a recurrence of daily migraines that could, potentially, derail my whole reason for moving to Houston. No one has mentioned more migraines as a potential side effect of the treatments, though, and so I'm hoping it's unheard of.

But then again, the epidural steroid injections I received weren't supposed to exacerbate my migraines, and they did.

And if my migraines do get worse, how does that affect my schooling? The fact that I'm now living in Houston with an apartment I have to pay for, partly out of government loans?

If things get worse, then what do I do?

Braving the Elements

The elements, in this case, are not the those typically discussed by mystical New Agers: Earth, Wind, Fire, and Water. No, the elements I reference are these: the Great Outdoors and the Not-So-Great Indoors.

Ever since I moved to Houston, I have noticed the large quantity of mosquitoes that inhabit the place. They mostly seem to reside in my apartment.

Although their numbers are dwindling, I often find rogue members of the insect kingdom hovering hungrily around my bathroom (while I'm in the bath) or circling my bed, waiting for me to go to sleep so they can gorge on my blood.

I'm very fond of my blood. I've been through a lot, just so I can continue making it: 2.5 years of almost-daily chemotherapy, to be exact on what "a lot" is.

If I was still on chemotherapy, I'd have the joy of knowing that the mosquitoes wouldn't live long, as they used to bite me (yes, I let them), fly about three feet from me, and then drop out of the air.

At the time, I took a certain macabre joy in being a walking talking vessel of poison. I was something of a super-villainess to biting insects, complete with shiny bald head and everything.

A female Lex Luthor of mosquitoes, if you will.

But these days, my body doesn't kill the skeeters like it used to do, so I'm left frantically trying to get them before they get me.

There are a lot of tiny bloodstains on the walls of my apartment from mashed mosquitoes.

So that covers the Not-So-Great Indoors.

The Great Outdoors weren't all that great, either, in truth.

Today I visited the campus of the University at which I begin my Master of Architecture degree. I attempted to go, yesterday, but Google Maps was on crack, and so its directions sent me... not to the University. I ended up in north Houston - in a not so great part of town where I was too frightened to exit - and drove for about twenty minutes after I realized my (or, rather Google's) error just so I could find somewhere "decent" to pull a U-Turn.

I'd been on the road for about 60 minutes, by this time, what with the wreck that blocked the right lane on I-45 and all.

I decided to try again, and to go back to my neighborhood to start all over.

Easier said than done, as the entire freeway was shut down in the southbound direction due to a massive wreck involving an 18-wheeler.

Three hours after I first left home to visit the University, I arrived back at my home without having so much as glimpsed it.

Attempt #2 took place, today, and it was successful. I reached the University in about 15 minutes, found a parking spot, and got out of the car.

I immediately wished I had not done so.

Fortunately, there are trees where I was walking at first, so I had the benefit of a bit of shade. Unfortunately, I had to cross into an area of ineffective brise soleil, no trees, and no other vegetation to reduce the heat of the microclimate.

The University has an architecture school. They have no excuse for environmentally ignorant buildings.

Anywho, I finally found the Student ID office, and had my ID made (not too terrible, but not nearly so flattering as my drivers license picture. Yes, I am serious: I want 8x10 glossies of that DL picture). I went to the book store and discovered that 1) only one of my classes requires textbooks; and 2) I would have to special order the "clicker" to be used in one of my classes, and I'd be emailed when it arrived.

The clicker is used for attendance (it's a little electronic device, similar to a remote control) and to show that I'm paying attention in class. I have a feeling that my professor might be, erm, a bit obsessive-compulsive.

As I walked around the campus, finding my way back to my car, I remembered the Asian women at my alma mater who carried parasols to shield themselves from the blazing sun. After the amount of exposure I gained to the sun, today, I'm thinking it might be a good idea.

Thoughts?

Oh Blah Di, Oh Blah Da!

Life goes on!

Things are starting to take on some semblance of normalcy, around here.

And by "here" I mean my apartment in H-Town.

I have cooked a real meal on my stove, and discovered that its Level 4 setting is about what my old stove's Level 6 setting was. Fortunately, my 14 oz. sirloin didn't suffer too much in the searing!

I have unpacked more things, and put them away. Some are relegated to a cardboard box that will be unceremoniously shoved underneath a skirted table.

I have received a number of packages via UPS, so my UPS guy and I are now on smiling, "Hey, how's it going?" terms.

I will be sending back the contents of one package - wheeled ferrules for my sofa, to elevate it since it was made for wood floors, not carpet - because I only measured one of the six legs on the sofa, and four of them won't accommodate the ferrules. Other brass wheels will be exchanged for the ones I mistakenly purchased.

I've read a book, which I'd read once before but was absolutely certain that I had not read. It was Wilkie Collins' The Woman In White. I read the copy I already owned, so it's not in any way like my proliferating copies of The Count of Monte Cristo, which I misplace and then buy a duplicate of, only to find the original right where it should have been.

Besides, you can never have enough Counts of Monte Cristo lying around.

I received a shipment of shorts from The Gap, one of which will be returned because 1) they're too big; and 2) I look like I'm wearing baggy liederhosen. Not particularly flattering.

The last thing I want is to be mistaken for Kurt Von Trapp while traipsing across campus.

I'm still not 100% on board with the whole "wearing o the shorts" bit, mostly because I've spent the last ten years keeping my legs covered so they don't blind everyone in the vicinity. I don't do tanning. So I feel, I suppose, the way the young ladies of the 1920s felt when fashion dictated a raise in the hem-line: somewhat scandalous at all that bare skin - and with a 33 1/2" inseam, that's a lot of leg - but still condoned by society (to a degree).

I've spent 45 minutes on the phone with a surprisingly delightful and helpful young woman from AT&T who helped me re-register my wireless router/modem thingy after it inexplicably ceased to function, yesterday.

And now, I'm about to head to bed.

At 7:40 p.m.

Hopefully, I will finish the book I am currently reading (The 6th Lamentation) and begin reading another one, perhaps Spy Princess: The Life of Noor Inayat Khan or The Memory of All That: George Gershwin, Kay Swift, and My Family's Legacy of Infidelities by one of the Warburg family's descendants, who apparently has made a career out of outing her family's little secrets.

I look forward to some scandalously delicious reading, to go along with my scandalous shorts.

Getting Settled Into the New Digs

On Thursday, July 28, 2011, I became a Houstonian.

I left my cozy little parquet-floored apartment in fancy-schmancy Highland Park, Texas, and moved a few hundred miles south to the Upper Kirby/Greenway neighborhood of Houston, also in Texas.

There are a lot more mosquitos in Upper Kirby/Greenway than in HP. And they're all in my apartment, I think. Hopefully, if I stay inside (and the weather stripping around the front door is repaired) I won't be providing free room & board to the skeeters much longer.

It's mostly the mosquitos' "board" that concerns me, at present. I slap exposed parts of my body at random just to make 'em nervous, keep 'em guessing.

In honor of the move, I did something I haven't done since high school: I wore shorts. And I believe I will do it again, because it gets seriously humid down here. Really. It's like swimming through medium-warm water when you step outside.

I only brought two bookshelves from Dallas (the other is currently residing in my parents' home), so it's been - interesting - trying to shoehorn all of the books onto the two shelves. There's a lot more double-stacking, this time around (books in front of books, that is). At present, there is still a large quantity of architectural reading material strewn about the Persian rug in the living area, but that will be attended to tomorrow. Maybe.

Oh, and the Persian rug is being a real creep. In other words, it is slowly creeping across the pile carpet beneath it towards the patio doors. I think it's trying to make a break for freedom, but I could be wrong. A coffee table might be in order to slow its westward progress.

I went to IKEA, today, with my sainted older sister. We were lucky enough to encounter a delightful yellow-shirted fellow at IKEA who helped us load a couple of storage units into the boot of my car. Despite what you might assume from the yellow shirt, he was not an employee, but simply a gentleman. And an attractive one, at that.

Back at my apartment - sans attractive blond yellow-shirted men (sigh) - my sister and I ripped open the boxes containing the laminate covered particle board. We opened them right up while they were still in the trunk of the car, then made four trips from the car, down the length of the building (about 200 feet) and into my little apartment, carrying heavy boards and oddly shaped boxes full of screws and bolts and wooden pegs.

My sister went home, and I proceeded to clear some space in which to assemble the monsters. Then, I got down to business. The first storage unit went together beautifully, without a hitch. Obviously, after building one, I no longer needed the directions to construct the other (which will be screwed onto the first in an unapproved-by-IKEA product hack).

I got so far into the process, then hit a snag. The screws that held the bottom to the sides would go in 2/3 of the way, but then the screw head started getting stripped, and my Phillips-head screwdriver wouldn't drive them in any farther.

I was furious! What kind of company makes a product with screws so soft that the heads strip midway through the screwing? Utter crap! I was so seethingly furious that I mentally began composing letters to the president of IKEA about how they should include a warning in regards to the foul language employed during assembly, etc. My main focus was going to be the tendency of their screw heads to strip.

And then, I saw it, and I felt like an idiot.

Somewhere around step #4,659, I was supposed to start using an Allen wrench.

I looked closely at the screw heads, partially embedded in the laminate-clad particle board.

Ahem.

They had indentations in them where tools were meant to be inserted.

The indentations were hexagonal in shape.

Ahem.

Thank goodness I'm an architect and not, you know, an actual construction worker, otherwise I'd be (wait for it...) screwed.

It's Been A While

Yes, it's been a while, but I've been busy. Busy booking movers for the Big Move to Houston next week (eep!). Busy arranging for telecommunications services for the Big Move to Houston next week (eep!). Busy boxing up my apartment for the Big Move to Houston next week.

Busy wrecking my car and having to deal with insurance, body shops, and renting a car.

NOT for the Big Move to Houston next week.

Tonight's post: AUTOMOTIVE REVIEW.

I rented a Chevy Malibu, today. My usual vehicle is a 2005 Honda Civic.

Cue the disinformation:

You: I thought architects made a lot of money?

Me: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!! (crying, wipes away tears) Oh, you're funny! And seriously, man: have you seen my health insurance premiums? Hah. You're funny.

Anywho, I'm currently driving a Chevy Malibu.

It accelerates when you don't want it to (i.e. right before you hit an intersection)

It does not speed up when you want it to (i.e. right as you turn in front of a car, full of confidence because it accelerates when you don't expect it to so it must have tons of unused horsepower, right? RIGHT????).

Its radio decreases in volume whenever you take your foot off the gas, so you can't rock out to "Big Pimpin' " when it magically comes on the radio while you're en route from Container Store to your apartment to finish packing boxes (but you run out of tape, so call it quits after an hour).

Its interior finishes look like a gallon of Neapolitan ice cream just threw up everywhere.

My next-to-final recommendation: don't buy one, unless you need to fit large boxes in the back (while your friend from work kind of bends the boxes so they'll fit; friend from work not included with car rental).

My final recommendation: if you forget to buy more packing tape, just remember: you still have a 1/4 bottle red wine to finish before you go to bed! It's just something else to move!!!

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-check It Out!

I now have a tentative idea of what my monthly income will be once I move to Houston. As a result, I was able to begin apartment hunting today, if only virtually.

I emailed an apartment location company recommended to me by my sister, via one of her friends. I told them what I'm looking for and the areas in which I'm looking, and continued to look online.

A few minutes on Craigslist.org led me to another property locator that specializes in 4-plexes, duplexes, etc. It allows you to look at the different properties, and then request more info. I thought it was pretty cool.

Then, after submitting the list of apartments I would like information about, I received an email that definitely qualified for a "Too Long: Didn't Read" response. If printed out, it would be 4 pages long.

Seriously, who the hell is going to read through 4 pages of snarky commentary? The people who wrote it pretty much say, "We run this website as a business, but we might choose not to get back to you because, meh..."

And I quote:

Obviously we cannot help 10 or 15 or 20 people a day--which means that it is inevitable that many prospective clients are going to fall through the cracks. We try hard to get back to everyone, we try hard to return every email and phone call, but we're people, not machines.

Not "a few prospective clients" but "many prospective clients."

They then go on to insinuate that their users are morons if they overlook a piece of info in the property listings but include it in the "what I'm looking for" section. I, for example, said that I would prefer a washer & dryer in the unit, but I put a couple of apartments on the list that didn't have them just because they were uh-mazing and had a laundry room in the building.

We'll see if that brands me as a moron.

It never ceases to amaze me how people who run a business seem to have no concept of whether or not their "auto-response" or their work emails are going to hurt their image. I tend to take the approach that, no matter how annoyed I might get or how frustrated I am, it's always best to be nice to someone, to try not to sound arch or holier-than-thou, because that person might be impressed with my service and decide that they want to work with me again.

On the off-chance that I receive a response from these guys, we'll see if they merit a repeat performance.

Unemployment and Being Airborn

My landlady is renovating the apartment complex in which I live. On Wednesday before last, everyone in my building received nice little notifications that contractors would begin Monday, March 6, on renovations.

The walkways that link all of the apartments on the 2nd and 3rd floors would be redone, the note said, and added that all those residents on the 2nd and 3rd floors would be required to vacate our apartments for 24 hours at the end of renovations. Residents would be given a $100 rent credit to make up for the cost of finding someplace else to stay.

Okay. No problemo.

And then, Monday, I awoke with a migraine. I've been having them more often, of late, because of the stress of unemployment, so the migraine was no surprise. The fact that there was no weather change accompanying the migraine was a surprise.

What caused the migraine?

Jackhammers. Loud ones. Starting at 9 a.m.

They ran all day, and so I spent the majority of the day in bed with a pillow clamped firmly over my ears.

The jackhammering finally stopped on Tuesday. Wednesday, I noticed that the walkways outside some of the apartments on the 2nd floor were completely missing. Haha! I thought. That would suck if someone needed to leave or come home!

Karma, baby. Karma.

Friday, I had physical therapy at 9:30, and left to return to my little home at 11:00 a.m.

If I could fly, I could have gotten up to my apartment without a problem. But I can't fly. And there was no walkway outside my apartment.

Hmmmmm...

A very nice construction worker saw my look of consternation and asked if I needed to get into my apartment. When I said that, yes, in fact, I did need to get into my apartment, he cheerfully brought a piece of 4'x8' plywood for me to walk across (the structure that supports the walkway was in place, just not the actual walkway itself).

Great!

Except... um... that piece of plywood stopped about 1'6" away from my door.

Have I ever mentioned that I'm afraid of heights? Because, I am. Terrified. Of heights.

The construction worker stood on one end to weigh it down, and another construction worker stood at the other, and I turned deathly pale and walked to the edge of the plywood to reach across to my door.

I have no doubt they thought I was an enormous wuss. It's okay. I am a wuss.

I'm not ashamed (lie).

As I was closing the door to my apartment and saying a little silent prayer that my apartment wouldn't catch on fire and leave me trapped with no method of egress, the construction worker asked me when I was going to need to get out.

"I'll be here all day," I replied.

Oof. No way was I going through that whole tightrope/plywood walking act again.

*********************************

In other news, someone sent me a message on the Texas Workforce Commission's website. They want me to come work for them in Houston.

For $12,000 less than I made before the recession.

But on the upside, I'd be a bureaucrat (working for their building code enforcement department), and it would be fun to be able to say, "What do I do for a living? I manufacture red tape. Hmmm? Yes, I'm a bureaucrat."

Oops, I Did It Again... Sort Of

I would like to apologize for the Britney Spears reference. I actually don't remember how the song goes, except for that line, just that she sang it.

Anyhoo.

What did you do again, Ms. Strainedconsciousness? you ask, probably dreading the answer.

I knocked my washing machine's tub out of balance.

If you remember, I flooded my apartment a while back, and the apartment complex gave me a brand new washer/dryer unit because of it. The reason my apartment flooded was because 1) the screw/leg was stripped and so it wouldn't sit straight; 2) I put a couple of pairs of jeans in that shouldn't have been added to that load.

This time, I did not flood my apartment, or anyone else's apartment. Also, I did not overload the washer, per se. I put in a towel and a bathmat.

I think it's the bathmat that killed the deal, because it's heavier than a towel. But still...

I have read my washing machine's user manual, and it states that I should - in theory - be able to wash 9 bath towels at once, or 6 bath towels, 3 hand towels, & 6 washcloths.

NINE BATH TOWELS.

My washer has a 1.5 cu.ft. capacity. How the heck can you fit 9 bath towels in 1.5 cu. ft?

No, seriously: I want to know. If you can, then that's some crazy quantum theory 1.5 cu. ft. and I want it nowhere near my apartment.

On the other hand, now I know why my socks disappear: They're there, but they're somewhere else, too! Or something.

I probably need to brush up on quantum theory.

So now, I have to call my apartment and say, "Hey, you know that brand new washer/dryer combo you bought for $1100 for my apartment? Yeah, it needs a $95 part, and about 1.5 hours of maintenance, so could you get on that, please?"

I kind of wonder if it isn't the floor beneath the washer that's causing the problems. Upper story floors tend to flex, and in this case, the problem might be solved by a simple 3/4" plywood board under the washer/dryer.

Whatever is causing the problem - bathmat or floor - I don't look forward to letting my apartment manager know that, hey, I'm having issues again, and I need this to be fixed.

What the Heck

I just checked my bank statement to see if my unemployment benefits were paid out. Yes, they were, but not as much as I thought they would be.

Instead of being paid for two weeks of unemployment, I was paid for one week. The Workforce Commission has changed things up since the last time I played this game, and now you don't get that first week of benefits until you have been unemployed for four weeks.

So let's get this straight: I have been unemployed for two weeks, and was not given severance pay, and I didn't actually get paid for any of the weeks in January, but they're only giving me $415. To pay for all the bills I've accrued during the past two weeks, and whatever expenses come up during the next two weeks, I have $415.

This makes no sense to me. But then again, I'm not a bureaucrat, so...

So although I thought I'd have plenty of money to get me through the next two weeks (when I can reapply for my next payment), now I'm not so sure.

Gargh.

And I also have to figure out why my rent payment was credited back to my account. I paid it well before the first of the month, but now... It's all right back where it was, with a note that says "Payment Reversal" that must have been done by the property management company. Alas, no one is in the office, today, so I have no idea why there's an extra $775 in my account.

For once, I kind of agree with the "mo' money, mo' problems" thing: hopefully my "mo' money" won't get me evicted (haha).

To the Bar!

I did a good deed.

I am rewarding myself with a Happy Hour appearance in approximately 30 minutes.

What did I do that merits a bit o' beer in my tummy? (Apart from losing weight and freaking out my physical therapist who prescribed cookies to cure the rapid weight loss?)

I found an iPad. It was on the sidewalk in my apartment complex last night at 9:00 when I went to check my mail. I picked it up and decided I'd turn it into the complex office today.

En route to the complex office, I saw a sign that pointed to approximately where the iPad had fallen, and it listed a phone number to call if anyone found the touchscreen contraption. I called. No one answered. So I left a message and went to physical therapy.

The owner called back, and after I went grocery shopping, I returned the iPad to the incredibly grateful owner, a stunning young Russian woman who hugged the iPad to her chest as if it was a lost child. There are three of them - the young woman, her little sister, and their mother - living in a sparsely furnished two-bedroom apartment.

Still basking in the do-gooder glow, I am taking myself off to Happy Hour at City Tavern.

In the words of Maxminimus: Onwards, to the bar.

About to Whine About Things Not Worth Whining About

It's getting a bit slow in the office. We were given the go-ahead today on a project (hooray!), but there's nothing for me to do on it, yet, and it's a little project, and I don't know how much we'll have to do in the way of construction drawings and millwork details, which happen to be my specialty.

I finished my assignment for Radio. He had no more tasks for me.

Pacman? Nada.

Scooter? "Uhhhhh... Yeah, but I need about thirty minutes to mark up the drawings. Do you have something to do for thirty minutes?"

Chortle. "Surf the interwebs."

"Sounds good. Go to town."

Hmmm...

I already spend about 30 minutes each day brushing up on design blogs, making sure I know what's going on in the world of millwork details, interior finishes, and the newest soft-furnishings offerings from companies I cannot afford (are you listening, Century, Henredon, and Hickory Chair? Okay, I know Hickory Chair is listening, but Century and Henredon?)

My daily blog perusal is why the guys were astonished when they said wistfully that they wished we could do interiors and I squealed and cried, "Oooh! Pick me! Pick me! Mrs. Robinson and I can do it!"

So I went back to my desk, with Scooter's blessing, and proceeded to venture into digital worlds hitherto unexplored.

I tell you, most design blogs - that is, blogs devoted exclusively to interior design - are depressing. They're cutesy and try to be hipsterish, riding the wave of zombie mania currently sweeping the pop culture beaches... or something

or they look like Z Galerie threw up all over them

or they have terrible grammar and sentence structure.

I know that my proofreading skills occasionally fall short of the mark or that I end a sentence with a preposition. I know I am definitely guilty of the rampant and irresponsible overuse of parentheses. But I also know that my sentences do not sound like a fifteen year old wrote them, and that I don't egregiously capitalize words in questions submitted to my inexplicably wide readership, the answers to which I will never respond or even read.

And I know that, although my dream house looks like the result of an Andy-Warhol/Billy-Baldwin/Dorothy-Draper orgy fueled by Dr. Pepper and lightly salted roasted almonds, I would never feature an apartment on my blog, billing it as something that is wonderful when in fact it is straight-out-of-the-Ikea-box boring. Unless it is as an example of an apartment that is boring, like so:

The above apartment was featured recently on one of the most widely read design blogs in a post entitled "Why does Barcelona have the best apartments?"

The only thing I see that this apartment has that apartments in Dallas don't have is a radiator.

That's it.

There's the cheapo flat-screen. The Panton chairs. The boring Ikea-ish white chairs. Boring rug. Minimal wall art on a boring beige wall. Light-tone wood floors (boring? Check). Why is this one of "the best apartments?" Why was it even in the running?

I save pictures I find striking to folders on my desktop at work, then email them to myself at home (compressed into zip files) where I print them off and paste them into my little OCDesign collection.

It seems like lately, there are fewer images for me to save, to collect.

Am I just becoming more discriminating (my word) or picky (in the words of an ex-boyfriend)? Or am I jaded after wading through all the cutesy, un-chic garbage (see Little Augury for a lovely tirade against overuse of that particular term)

Post-Flood Contrition

I've felt guilty about my rudeness to my downstairs neighbor ever since my blunt, "I know" comment when she embarked on her final lecture about the evils of washing your clothes when you're not home.

I had contemplated the idea of sending her flowers to apologize, and I decided, this evening, that I would do so.

Sorry, First Born, but FTD Florists gets you.

I think I've only sent flowers once or twice before. Definitely once. And I didn't pay for them. They were sent on behalf of my former employer. I just picked them out.

My rudeness just cost me $70, including "handling fees" and sales tax. So much for the $49.99 price tag, right?

And, unfortunately, I don't actually know my downstairs neighbor's name, and the reverse address lookup websites all come up with a billion names. I thought that, since my neighbor is an elderly Hispanic woman (pile on the guilt), it would narrow things down. Nope. The first three possible names listed are for Hispanic women in their early to late 70s. So in the "name" blanks (required), I entered First Name: My; Last Name: Neighbor.

I briefly toyed with calling the apartment office in the morning to ask her name, but feared they'd ask me why I needed it. "So I could send her flowers to apologize for being a royal b***h the day my apartment flooded. The usual." The prospect of calling started sapping my will to apologize, even if I'm not brave enough to do it to her face.

I'm hoping the florist doesn't call me for name clarification, thinking I'm a nutjob. Particularly since my card reads, "I wanted to apologize for 1) accidentally flooding your apartment (I no longer wash clothes when I'm not home); 2) my unpardonable rudeness. I am truly sorry. Megan (third floor)."

I also hope I don't end up with a defiant elderly Hispanic woman on my doorstep, throwing the flowers in my face and cursing me in Spanish. Particularly since I'd probably understand the cursing (I don't know much Spanish, but I understand enough to know when to be offended).

On another, more cheerful note, my apartment management is replacing my whole washing machine. I informed them that I'd washed small loads of clothes, and the thing was jumping all over the place, and could they please come look at it again, as I was afraid the jumping would throw it out of balance again, potentially flooding the apartment again. Ahem.

Jaime the beleaguered maintenance man left me a cheerful note saying that he ran the machine, there's something wrong with it, and he thinks the jumping could be what's wrecking the balancers. As opposed to their previous assertion that the wrecked balancers caused by my overloading were causing the jumping. Ahem.

So I get a new washing machine.

I can't wait. I bet my downstairs neighbor will be happy, too, once The Jumping Washing Machine of Dallas County is no more.

All Operators are Busy

At least, I'm busy.

I woke up at 8:00 a.m., startling Major Tom, who stared at me groggily and grumbled at me for waking him up (he's a grumpy old man). I dressed, and drove to Dallas, swinging by Starbucks for a cup of coffee and an apple fritter en route. And I filled up my car with gas. And got it washed.

All before 9:30 a.m., baby. That's right: I'm productive!

I got to my apartment and began straightening up, putting things away. I ironed some pants (I loathe this chore, above all others), reupholstered an ottoman, the usual.

Yup, I now have an ottoman - okay, it's a repurposed vanity stool - that was once upholstered in goldenrod cotton damask, and is now covered in lovely saffron silk. It is currently in my living room, where it holds a metal tray, upon which I can rest a drink when I'm lying on the sofa, watching a movie.

I picked up my lampshades - the ones my mother bought me for my birthday - and squealed with delight when I removed their cellophane wrappers.

The carpet cleaning guys returned my rug, unrolled it, and put my furniture back where it belongs. I then put my lamps on their beautiful chinoiserie tables, with their pretty new lampshades, and oohed and aahed at the results. And decided I need to rehang some pictures, but that can wait until my mother returns from her vacation.

I washed clothes. I washed miniscule loads of clothes. As in, two pairs of jeans, or the equivalent of two pairs of jeans in underwear and T-shirts.

Guess what? There's something wrong with my washing machine. It is still jumping and rotating like a teeny-bopper at a sock-hop, so I emailed my apartment complex about it. And asked them to please tack my carpet back down in my bedroom and replace the porch lightbulb, while they're at it.

I updated my apartment inventory (the spreadsheet of everything I own) and documented the contents of my humble abode with a camera, then printed out the pictures and put them in my firesafe.

And then, I went shopping.

It's been a rough couple of weeks for Ms. Strainedconsciousness, and my oh-so-generous mother left me a little cash gift tucked inside a Halloween card before she hightailed it to Santa Fe for her birthday. The card read "Do something fun!"

There hasn't been enough fun for me, lately.

So I went to Northpark and bought a couple of shirts - within the defined color spectrum - and some new jewelry. The shirts set me back $20 each, and the jewelry was $45 for both a necklace and a cocktail ring.

The cocktail ring has an enormous cognac-colored gemstone, and it will look ravishing with my steel-toed boots.

Ha. Haha.

I've discovered that, in addition to not being able to carry heavy purses, wearing heavy necklaces gives me a headache. So I bought a lightweight necklace in matte gold (I don't look all that great in super shiny gold).

I filed some more paperwork. I paid my rent. I put stuff away.

I calculated the taxes I will either owe or be refunded, depending on how the IRS calculator works. I'll either owe $415, or get back $2,000. I'm hoping it's the latter. I can't tell if their calculator defines "federal income tax" as including the social security and medicare taxes, or if it's just the federal income tax. I guess I'll find out in January.

I was productive. It felt good to be productive.

Perusing the Interwebz

I just finished stalking Craigslist for a good 45 minutes.

I think physicists need to study Craigslist, just for the record, because it warps the space-time continuum. I could swear I was only on Craigslist for 10 minutes tops, but nope, it's been 45 minutes. Okay, an hour, but who's counting?

Not the physicists, who seriously need to get on this mystery pronto.

I'm in the habit of looking for treasures in the form of armchairs that might need to live in my apartment (now that it's dried out), and so I decided to kill some time browsing the offerings, when I should have been paying attention to Major Tom.

Major Tom is not a fan of Craigslist, in case you were wondering. He wants the physicists to study it so they can declare it a hazard to humanity's survival so I'll pay more attention to him, and less to the offerings on - er - offer.

What is there on Craigslist on a typical Friday evening?

Crap. Lots and lots of crap.

That "wingback chair" is no wingback, honey - it's a La-Z-Boy recliner. And that Queen Anne chair? Good grief! Don't you know an Eastlake style chair when you see one?

Jeez...

Beautiful typically means run screaming as fast as you can and gorgeous usually translates to don't bother opening this posting.

In fact, the postings I tend to look at aren't the ones that include designer in their headline - because La-Z-Boy is not "designer" - but are the ones that give a brief description and the brand and the color.

So Red Hickory Chair Wingbacks definitely gets a look, even though they're more than I can afford right now, and the wrong color, because this lady 1) buys nice furniture and 2) I'm a sucker for Hickory Chair. It's described perfectly. I really wish I could use them in my house, somehow (especially since the price has dropped from $1200 to $800 to now $500 for the pair... want the info? Leave me a comment).

I've learned that certain terms - Queen Anne, for example - are horribly abused. Antique is by far the most overused. Armchairs from 1974 are not antique. Armchairs from 1910 are. In case you didn't know, the strict definition of an antique is that it's at least 100 years old. Anything less than 100 years is just vintage.

None of the posters on Craigslist appear to know what Queen Anne style actually is (cabriole legs, shell motifs, figural-profile back splats on sidechairs, etc...), and they bandy the term about with abandon.

Bandy about with abandon. Say that one five times fast.

After I'd hit all the chair postings I cared to see, I decided to take a peek at art.

It is yet another term loosely applied by frequenters of Craigslist.

Call me strict, but I do not consider an original painting to be something you bought at Z Galerie. Because it wasn't actually painted. If there are multiple of them on a rack in a store, then it's not original.

Original means: Not derived from something else; fresh and unusual.

Original does not mean that you are buying the 80th one of something. It means that there is only one, that you are the first to do it or to make it or to find it or to say it or to write it.

And now, I'm thinking of Eddie Izzard's riff on original sin. I think I'll leave you with that for your listening pleasure.

(Warning: some offensive language... and a man in drag.)

Aftermath of the Great Flood of 2010

I returned to my apartment, Tuesday, for the first time since Sunday's flooding disaster.

Monday was spent having a minor medical procedure and recovering from said procedure.

I found a little pink piece of paper in my kitchen, from my apartment complex, informing me that they had fixed my washing machine. It malfunctioned because the balancers - little rubber strappy thingies - had broken, and that caused the hose to detach, spewing water everywhere.

The note mentioned that balancers breaking is a direct result of overloading the washing machine.

Okay, I can buy that. I had more in the washing machine than I typically put it in.

As a rule, I don't cram a ton of clothes in the washing machine, because I don't have a ton of clothes to cram into the washing machine, so they are washed more frequently, in smaller loads.

But why, pray tell, was I not informed of that when oh-so-helpful Jaime replaced the balancers on my washing machine twice before? Why was I not told that overloading the machine might be causing them to break? I definitely wouldn't have put as much stuff into the washing machine as I did on Sunday, when I was desperately trying to get washing finished, chores done, etc... so I could get to my parents' house pre-minor-medical-procedure to have dinner and rest up.

It's my fault, I know, but if the girl in the third floor apartment has to have her balancers replaced twice don't you think you should address the potential cause of said replacement with her, instead of just doing it and saying, "Okay, that's done. Have a nice day!"

He also wrote, helpfully, that I should only use the washing machine when I'm home.

Fat chance of that happening, since I have a job, and since the woman on the second floor requested I not run the washing machine or dryer after 10 pm.

The dryer makes a terrible noise when it finishes its cycle, and even I hate hearing it. The thing could wake the dead.

Maybe she's less fond of listening to me run to the kitchen to make the loud blaring foghorn sound stop, though, followed by my yelling, "Shut up, you stupid machine! I hate you!"

That could be it, too.

The Great Flood of 2010

Sunday was supposed to be a day of efficiency, when I would do 4 loads of laundry, organize medical receipts from income taxes, and in general get stuff done.

Sunday was not efficient.

Sunday was a disaster.

In a fitting metaphor, my life is a beach, and the waves of misfortune crash on me ceaselessly.

Thank you for indulging my soppily sentimental side. Pun intended.

I put a load of clothes in the washing machine - after filing some receipts - and walked out the door to go get lunch. I was washing things I would need for Monday, when I was slated to have a minor surgical procedure, because it is inadvisable to show up to places without pants as a general rule.

When I arrived back at the apartment, my neighbor on the first floor was hauling a soaked rug out of her apartment, which was flooded. I asked her if she needed help.

"There is water coming from my ceiling, from the floors, from everywhere. You live above me?" she asked.

Well, crap. Yes, I do. Directly above her on the third floor. I dashed up the stairs, opened the door, and confronted a 1/2" of water standing in my living room. In my kitchen, my washing machine was spewing water from its top and from behind it.

I turned off the machine and surveyed the wreckage. I called the property company. The emergency repair dispatch lady informed me that, yes, Jaime (his real name) was on his way to help out, because the lady in the apartment on the first floor had called about her apartment being flooded.

I hauled my dining table into my bedroom - which only had a little bit of the carpet wet, fortunately - and proceeded to heft a drenched sisal rug over my shoulder, carrying it out to the narrow strip of concrete landing outside my apartment door. I rolled up my pants legs, abandoned my shoes in the bedroom, and called my parents.

I cried. They said they'd leave immediately.

I went downstairs to tell my downstairs neighbor that my washing machine had malfunctioned while I was out, to take ownership of the difficulty. Mea culpa. She glared at me, her arms crossed.

"I never run my washer or dryer when I'm not home. Never. I cannot go in my house now, I will be electrocuted!" she said. I was about to launch into tears - nevermind telling her that she's not going to be electrocuted - and she seemed to sense this, because she said, "Is an accident. Is no one's fault. But I never leave anything turned on when I'm not home. Never. You should not leave it on when you're not there. Never. I never leave nothing on." Her mouth said, "It's not your fault," but her body language disagreed completely, as did the expression on her face. And her claims that she's the Mother Teresa of home appliances.

I could hear my phone ringing upstairs, and I had my own apartment to look after, so I excused myself hastily and ran up the three floors of stairs, answered my phone, and started thinking.

I moved my dining chairs into my bedroom, tucked the skirt of my sofa - my beautiful brand new sofa - up under the cushions, and prayed that my loveseat was ruined beyond all hope.

I was looking for a silver lining, okay? And in this case, that silver lining would be money with which to buy two chairs.

I put a towel across the door to my bedroom to try to prevent any more water from seeping into the carpet, and dragged my load of clothes out of the washing machine, depositing them in the bathtub (they were heavy with water, and it took me three trips).

My parents called me and told me to call my insurance company, to find out what to do with The Rug.

When I had my "cancer wish" granted through The Make A Wish foundation, I wished for an oriental rug. Ladies and gentlemen, I got it: an 8'8 x 10'6 Karastan Kirman rug.

For future reference, Karastans make excellent sponges when you need to soak up 30 minutes worth of washing machine gusher.

The insurance dispatcher told me to go ahead and call a company to come get the rug, since it would ruin the parquet in my living room (yup: income restricted apartment with parquet flooring), and I called a company. They sent a guy out, who claimed over the phone to be able to lift an 8'x10' rug, but retracted that statement when confronted with the Multicolor Panel Kirman behemoth.

My parents arrived while I was talking to the claims rep at my insurance company, and my mom was harangued by the lady on the first floor, about how she never leaves her washer on when she's not home. Mom excused herself to come help me.

We toweled up as much water as we could, moved my end tables out of the room, along with the floor lamp, and thanked heavens that my apartment building sags in the center of my living room so the water pooled there instead of infiltrating my bedroom and ruining my sofa.

The other rug from my dining area - a relatively (compared to the Karastan) inexpensive jute rug - was a goner, so when the rug guy arrived to assess the damage and haul it away, I didn't bother to show it to him.

According to my claims handler, to whom I spoke on Monday, I have to keep it to show it to the rug people so they can write on the invoice that the 5x7 Pier One Imports special is not salvageable so the insurance company can pay me money to replace it. I have to let it dry, and then keep it until they return my Karastan and give me their verdict in writing.

I lost a full day of productivity, which I badly needed, and most likely made an enemy of the lady downstairs - particularly since, as I was leaving to go to my parents house in preparation for the medical procedure Monday, she started in with "Like I said earlier, I never -"

I kind of lost it, and said, a bit too forcefully, "I know," and walked off. She apologized faintly, according to my mom, but I didn't hear her because I was halfway to the courtyard exit by that point. Definitely not one of my better moments. I think I'm going to send her flowers and a note of apology.

Mea culpa.

On the upside, there is -kind of- a silver lining: the Karastan needed to be cleaned, anyway.

The Magic Lamp(s)

A few months back, before my niece was born, I visited my sister in Houston. I went expressly to help her find lamps for her bedroom, and a dresser to use in the nursery as a changing table. It's always best to have a friend along, for these momentous decisions.

I came home with two brass lamps of my own. They're big: 34" tall from base to the top of the solid brass finial. The lamps themselves are solid brass, and polished to a mirror-like sheen, except for one small tarnished spot on the back of one of them.

Because they're solid brass, they are also incredibly heavy. They double as weapons in case of zombie attacks.

The lamps forced me to buy end tables for my living room, as I had nowhere to sit them. So I bought the 1960s Baker Chinoiserie end tables I blogged about in May (see Eating Crow).

The lamps are also, at present, indecent. They are naked. Undressed, if you will. Devoid of lampshades.

When I bought the lamps at a charity retail shop in the Heights, they had enormously broad aubergine coolie shades on them, a bit dented and scratched, and altogether unattractive. I tossed them in the trash before bringing the lamps home with me.

For months, I looked at lampshades online, searching for the perfect ones. I received money for my birthday with which to buy lampshades for my beautiful lamps. I visited a lamp shop just down the street this past Thursday, and received a quote for the lampshades, about what I had expected to pay for them. I just wasn't entirely satisfied with the dimensions.

Coolie lampshades are a strange and rare breed. They were popular in the 1950s and 1960s - which is why they have such an atrociously politically incorrect name - but their desirability has fallen off significantly as everyone rushes around, snatching up drum shades and square pyramid shades and the like. Coolie shades are much much smaller at the top than at the bottom. Most of them in the 22" diameter category - the category I need - have an 8" aperture at the top. Which was broader than I desired. I was afraid I'd have to have custom shades made.

And then, I discovered Enchanted Lighting, which gets rave reviews in D Magazine. It's the sort of place that does inexpensive lamp repairs, but sells $600 lamps. No, that does not include the shade. And that's a small ceramic bird lamp, mind you, not a big lamp. Not like one of their carved rock crystal pillar lamps, standing 48" tall and costing in the thousands.

That's what we call an "aspirational lamp."

They do have reasonably priced lampshades, however, and their customer service is wonderful. Unlike the customer service at a couple of other lamp stores I've visited, the clerk didn't try to push me to buy what they had in stock because it's such an imposition to order a lampshade.

It's the sort of store where they don't see a young person and immediately assume that I have no idea what I'm doing, even though I'm carrying an enormous brass lamp.

A brass lamp the likes of which you would be hard pressed to find new in Dallas.

Because it's amazing.

Cut and Paste

Pacman returned to the office, today, and immediately expressed his satisfaction at how I'd been running our current project. He then left me to continue running the project, while he and Scooter deal with some tricky questions and needy contractors who are bidding a church addition. Let's hear it for earning more Intern Development Program hours for Contract Administration! Woohoo!

I decided to celebrate by... treating myself to a shower caddy. And a little plastic organizer thingy for my medicine cabinet so my tubes of face cream and tweezers don't rain down on my head when I open it to pull out my toothbrush in the morning. I threw in a new cutting board as a prize, too.

Once my shower caddy was installed, and my tubes and tweezers and extractors were all safe and sound in their cubbies, I cleaned my makeup brushes, and decided I'd indulged in enough obsessive behavior for one evening.

Let me rephrase that: enough non-creative obsessive behavior.

Shall I explain?

I'm a scrapbooker. Now, before you decide Ms. Strainedconsciousness has turned into a suburban mother of twelve, I should clarify that it is a highly curated design scrapbook, encompassing multiple facets of design: interiors, architecture (the two are inextricably linked, in my not-so-humble-opinion), fashion, and product design.

My "scrapbooks" are Moleskine A3 sketchbooks and/or watercolor books. They can fit a full 9x12 magazine page, or a multitude of tiny pictures. Recently, I've been arranging - carefully, methodically - the latter.

The pages containing multiple images and are arranged similarly to the salon walls of 18th and 19th century manor houses, with one central painting/image surrounded by smaller ones that are more or less related. I tend to related things by color. For that reason, this lady:

(okay, dame) is surrounded by interior images, all of which have a decidedly orange or red tinge, like so:

And an image of Iris Apfel - who wears the world's most amazing jewelry and spectacles - is accompanied by images of a marine hue. As long as that marine area is not Galveston.

Are you catching what I'm throwing, here? It's a wonderful exercise in the study of interiors and architecture and how they relate to individuals' tastes. In addition to Great Personalities, I also collect images off The Sartorialist website (http://thesartorialist.blogspot.com/), firstly to help me in expanding my personal wardrobe horizons and in targeting my wardrobe goals, but also because the way people design themselves can have an impact on the way I design interiors and architectural spaces. The following images are all from the above website.

And I'm in good company, it seems. A collection of Cecil Beaton's scrapbooks is slated to be published in the near future - November, if memory serves. He created his scrapbooks from magazines, movie posters, and snapshots to help him in his studies of lighting photography shoots and how to pose people, and to study how they interacted with their surroundings.

Ms. Strainedconsciousness and Cecil Beaton. Whodathunkit?