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.

No Picture Today - Blogger Hates Me

In my excitement to write about running hither and thither, I overlooked a significant milestone: my 200th post.

Woohoo!

Okay, now that I've celebrated (by eating tuna salad, the dinner of champions and tired intern architects), on we go. To... a place. Where I will write about... stuff.

Like the fact that neither of my clients have called us to schedule meetings or to discuss their projects, so I'm currently writing commercial building specs, which are a heck of a lot longer than our little residential specifications.

Residential specifications are maybe 100 pages long. Maybe. Commercial specs, however, are much much longer. By the looks of it, they'll top out around 300 pages. I'm not really sure how long they'll be. All I know is that: 1) we don't have most of them on our server, already, so I'm having to type them all up from a set of commercial specs written about 6 years ago; and 2) they make my fingers hurt, so I won't be typing much longer, this evening.

I still have an email to answer, too. I can just feeeeeeeel my fingers seizing up.

And my first project of my very own came back, because one of my supervisor architects (Scooter shall remain nameless) neglected to mention a requirement of the Home Owners' Association that was kind of important.

Okay, actually, it was very damned important. I received an email from the vacationing Scooter, this morning, and he informed me that he was aware of the requirement, but just forgot. So he's out of town, and I'm doing damage control. And working for free, because we obviously can't charge the client for work we're doing to fix a previous mistake.

The client's been really nice about the whole thing - they're a really nice couple, and have much less money than most of our clients, although they're not exactly hurting for cash - and they're super grateful that we're doing the revisions without charging them. I liked Aaron and Mirabelle when we first met them, because they're such a nice couple. With three kids. And they love Texas. And Mirabelle's originally from Arkansas (seriously, who in Arkansas names their child something exotic like Mirabelle?), so she has this lovely Southern accent that you don't normally hear in Texas, because the people I know who live in Texas don't really have accents. At least, not in my opinion.

But that's finished, and all I have to do is print off the drawings for Aaron and Mirabelle, courier them over tomorrow, and send them a PDF of the drawings, too. And they'll love us forever. And if they ever decide to build a new house (because, you know, they've inherited beaucoups of money), then they'll call on us. Which would be pretty awesome, because they're such a nice couple.

What To Do? What To Do?

In an amazing show of generosity, Oldsmobile decided to grant everyone mid-year bonuses. In other words, this Friday, I get two paychecks.

Nice.

Part of that bonus will, of course, go towards the purchase of a new pair of comfortable work boots, cost be - um - dratted, I need more comfortable footwear for the job site. Yes, dratted.

The rest of that bonus will go towards... I don't know. I'll find out tomorrow.

Tomorrow, a.k.a. Thursday - which might be "today" for some readers, if anyone is reading this blog these days - I go find out if I'll need yet another exciting surgical procedure in yet another effort to stop pain.

Yay, pain! I'm not going to tell you what kind of pain, or where it is, or any of that exciting business, because I don't like to go into specifics, but we'll just say that the pain is painful, okay? And it might be expensive.

Sure, my employer pays all of our deductible for us (did I mention Oldsmobile is incredibly generous?), but it could still end up costing me a pretty penny out of pocket.

Until I find out if I'm going to have to have surgery, I'm not going to spend any of the bonus, aside from on a new pair of more comfortable boots.

But I will, however, be dreaming of the end tables and possibly the lamps that part of that bonus could purchase. Most of it will go into savings. Ms. StrainedConsciousness is trying to be pragmatic. And is speaking in the third person, which she hears helps with pragmatism.

Drumroll, Please!

Ka-chish!

I now have a sofa in my apartment! And it's orange! And it's GORGEOUS!

The upholsterer was 45 minutes late bringing the sofa, so he knocked $80 off the delivery charge. Hooray! Of course, he also didn't bring me the left-over fabric, so I have to call him tomorrow about that, because it's explicitly written on the work order, and I should have at least 2 yards left over. At least.

So I got my sofa, and I haven't even really had the time to sit on it. It was delivered, I scarfed down a couple of slices of pizza, and jetted back to the office. I'm about to take my laptop into the living room to sit down and revel in the joy and beauty that is my sofa.

Images for your viewing pleasure:

You know what this means, right? It means that now, I require an end table for the sofa. And new end tables for either side of the love seat (or just one, or maybe pull that round glass-topped one back out of the closet, since I retired it from the bedroom), and a couple of new lamps, because the turquoise one just isn't cutting it, anymore.

I have created my own monster. And oh, this monster is gonna be fun!

Bangarang! Peter Pan Would Love This Place!

My current project involves designing what we refer to as "The Treehouse" for a gentleman in his 60s who is tired of sharing a home office and a gym with his wife.

Their current home office alone is larger than my apartment, and contains its own secret "home office within an office" for him behind a secret door in a bookcase.

I'm not making this up.

The fact that his wife's numerous charitable activities require her to spread her papers out across their home office, however, along with the fact that she also uses the room for gift-wrapping lends it a less than calming air for his considerable investment needs, and so he wants his own little piece of space in which to play with his money.

I'm designing it.

It's not a true treehouse per se because it doesn't rely on (living) trees for its structural support, but it is situated so that the bulk of the structure will be in the canopy of the trees that grow along the creek that runs through the couples' backyard. They have what is arguably one of the most beautifully situated lots in Dallas. I got to wander around it for 30 minutes taking pictures a few weeks ago, and I really didn't want to leave, what with the water rushing over the rocks in the babbling brook, and the birds cooing in the trees overhead, as I strolled in the dappled sunlight. Then a sneezing fit overcame me, and hey-o, time to go!

It's a really fun project to work on, and it isn't completely overwhelming, either. I've picked out the plumbing fixtures (that I want, anyway. The client hasn't seen them, yet), and lighting fixtures, and the structural guys are getting drawings together for a pricing set. I have a meeting with an HVAC consultant Tuesday, although I'll be the one doing the drawings for the HVAC system, because we don't have it in the budget for an outside consultant to do all the drawings. I'll also be doing all the electrical plans and lighting plans. I'm glad I got in some practice with my last project! Start off small and work your way up, right?

Now we just need to Shang-hai the clients into, you know, actually coming into the office for a meeting and we'll be good to go.

I really hope they like the faucet I've picked out. It's a stunner. I guess I should choose a couple of back-ups just in case, though.

I Am Going to Make You Jealous

But not yet. Wednesday is the first in a string of checkups I have to regularly attend. Hopefully, I'll be able to make some headway with these migraines (ba-dum-dum-ching! Thank you! I'll be here all evening).

Am I nervous? Yes. Most likely I'll end up seeing multiple doctors before anything is actually done. I'm hoping they'll just prescribe me some medicine and I won't have to see a neurologist. For the most part, I'm not afraid of doctors, although there is always a "What, now?" mentality before I go in to see them, because, inevitably, there is something else wrong.

Cancer sucks. Don't get it.

Now on to the stuff that will make you jealous:

I leave Saturday afternoon for a few days in San Antonio. What will I do there

I

will

see

METALLICA.

The last time I saw Metallica, I was in... 9th grade? 8th grade? Elder sister, do you remember what year it was? Because you were nice enough to accompany me to the concert :-) Regardless, I was probably too young to be at a Metallica concert.

I had never seen so much black leather in my life. Or so many women on the backs of motorcycles whose clothes didn't zip or snap, but laced, and just barely.

Oy.

I get to go to see MEEETTTTALLLLICCCCCAAAAAAAAAA because one of my friend's brothers managed to finagle a bunch of tickets, and he invited her, knowing what a metal head she is \m/ and she invited me, knowing that at one point I intended to ditch my life as a suburban high school student to become a roadie for Metallica, along with Jeffrey Lebowski (aka The Dude, Your Dudeness, or Duderino, if you're not into the whole brevity thing).

Okay, I wouldn't really have dropped out of high school to become a roadie, but I debated not getting that job at Calico Corners after graduation in favor of the roadie life.

Really. I did.

Honest.

Alas for Lars, James. Jason, and that other guy whose name I never can seem to remember, I couldn't resist the siren song of chenille upholstery fabric.

I wonder if the leather pants they'll undoubtedly be wearing Monday are the same ones they wore that day, back in the day?

I'm a Big Kid, Now!

I was informed this morning that I get to have my own project!

Sort of.

I will be designing the house for some Ranch Hands that must complement the newly designed main house on our clients' property. As Radio pointed out, "Yeah, the ranch manager and his wife will live there. Scary people. No teeth." I laughed. "I'm serious," he replied.

Neat.

So my first solo assignment is a dumbed down version of the big house, with a floor plan the client presented to Oldsmobile with the admonition that he not make it too fancy, because it's only the ranch hands' house. I guess it beats drawing interior elevations of the Master Closet for another project, although I was actually looking forward to detailing all the woodwork in the library.

I signed the application for my lease, today - did I mention I forgot to do that crucial step on the application I turned in Friday? - and tomorrow, I can either fax or drop off a copy in the mailbox of my pay-stub, which will corroborate the claims I made about my salary. The claims are all entirely true, as being accused of fraud and evicted from my apartment hold no attraction for me.

Last night, in typical OCD architect-designer fashion, I built a 3D model of my (hopefully) future apartment in SketchUp and experimented with furniture layouts. With some input from my mom, I think I came up with a floor plan to my liking. Now, I just have to hope that I get the apartment.

I am somewhat concerned, however, because it appears that the apartment I hoped to rent will not be the exact one I will get. It seems that the complex found someone to rent that one, and I will get a different one, currently lived in by another renter. This means I might not get the breathtaking view of Downtown that I coveted. I guess I'll live, but I don't even know which building I'll be in, now, or how close I'll be to the elevator. I think I'll call the leasing agent tomorrow to clarify the details.

Hopefully, I'm mistaken and misinterpreted what the not-my-normal-leasing-agent said, otherwise I might have to redo that 3D model. You know, because the fireplace might be in a different corner...

Drumroll, Please!

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-CHING!

I HAVE A JOB.

Yes, folks, that's right: the firm with which I interviewed a couple of weeks ago called today and informed me that they'd like to hire me.  I go in to the office Thursday to discuss salary and the day I'll begin and all that mumbo-jumbo.

I've been doing internal cartwheels since about 5:00 when the younger interviewer (who still isn't exactly young) called to apologize for not calling me sooner and asked me to come in.  So Thursday morning at 10:00, I will be at their offices to talk about the aforementioned details.

Of course, now I want desperately to move back to my old neighborhood.  I've been indulging in apartment looking via Internet since just after I returned from a victory dinner at Patrizio's (almond-crusted trout, mmmmm).  Part of me says, "You'll have a job, you can tough it out for the next 14 months until you go to grad school."  Still, another part of me is screaming, "Run!  Run for your life!  And this time get an apartment with a washer-dryer hookup!"  I'm conflicted, and so am keeping my apartment search low-key and not calling apartment complexes (yet).

In true Ms. StrainedConsciousness fashion, I have figured out what I will wear to the "detail discussion" (almost: not 100% on the shoes) and will drop off some new work-ready pants at the tailor's tomorrow to have the pocket openings permanently sewn shut and the excess pocket material removed.  You know, to prevent unsightly pocket-lines.

Everyone does that, right?