1) Well, this is turning out to be a shitty week. Not uncoincidentally, this is the week I’ve begun apartment-hunting in earnest: sifting through Web listings, making calls, checking online maps to make sure the places are in OK neighborhoods, scheduling appointments to see places. Last night I saw my first two apartments: a 3-bedroom in the Agassiz area, behind the Harvard Law School and a 2-bedroom closer to Harvard Square.
The 2-bedroom was exquisite, if pricey. Still, I was all set to put in an application when the realtor called to tell me that the landlord wasn’t budging on allowing cats.
I’ve seen three other places since then, mostly crappo. I had high hopes for a big place close to my current apartment in a house that looked really nice, which I was supposed to view Saturday. But the owner called today to say someone had put down a deposit on it. It’s so disheartening.
I’ve got four different realtors working with me now, though, so even though I would have to pay a finder’s fee, the peace of mind of having someone else to go through listings is almost worth it. Almost.
2) On Wednesday, Katie, my only direct report whom I’ve been training in the wiles and ways of being an editor, gave three weeks’ notice. I am so fucked, it’s ridiculous. It’s not even funny. This is the second junior editor in 5 months who’s just gotten to the stage where I don’t have to check her work on a regular basis — then up and left.
3) The woman who sits across from me at work is one of those “let’s celebrate everyone’s special birfdays-slash-decorate our desks for the holidays-slash-rum cake-baking type of cow orkers. She also brings in candy from Costco. Right now, there are bowls of Clark bars, Smarties, and Hershey’s Hugs, plus wholesale-sized tubs of Atomic Fireballs and gumballs. She also has a giant fake fern, pictures of baby bunnies, a yellow-duckie keychain, and a little music box shaped like a gift wrapped in pink ribbon to keep her workspace looking snazzed.
4) I’m so digging the shuffle all songs feature of my iPod. I’d always thought I was an album snob, but the pick-a-song-at-random feature is perfect for work: there’s enough variety to keep my brain occupied, but I don’t have to stop and figure out what to play next.
5) Yesterday, I was waiting for T. to meet me at the realtor’s office, minding my own business on a bench at the edge of Powderhouse Square, sipping a sugar-free Red Bull and reading, when a guy wearing red shorts and a grey sweatshirt who sounded like the Elephant Man turned up to 11 came down the sidewalk. He seemed to be haranguing people, attaching himself like a burr to their side, gesturing and bellowing cryptically. He sat down on the bench a few feet away from where I was reading and noisily ate a bag of chips. A young woman stopped and asked him how he was, and his replies were of a softer bellowy nature, so I guess he must be some insane but beloved local fixture. I was glad he didn’t seem to notice me, until he did. He stood right in front of me and bellowed, but I concentrated on maintaining my ignorey face and not looking up. Eventually, he walked away. I heard him bellow at some studenty-looking guy — I could make out the word “fucking” in there somewhere — then hollered at some crony who was sitting in the park.
6) OK, I just realized why today’s blather is more of a dud than usual: no coffee, nary a bean. I did have a Diet Pepsi with my lunch, but any mild stimulus that gave me has long since evaporated.
It’s that magical time of the week when escape is only 38 minutes away. (Less if my soon-to-be-ex-boss leaves early.) If I were a good do-bee, which I most certainly am not, I’d be double-checking my to-do lists to make sure everything got done and crafting a plan for next week. I’d be cleaning up my desk, which is covered with piles of apartment listings printed from Web sites, pens, wadded-up napkins from lunch or, quite possibly, from mopping my damp brow when I got into the office, Post-It pads, two pairs of headphones, yerba matte teabags, and more papers. I’d be tappity-tap-tapping, rushing to finish writing some content for my company’s site. I’d be ordering my mother fresh-cut flowers and birthday gifts for my friend W. and for D. I’d be clicking on the Hunger Site or some such do-gooder thing. But I suck expired salamis, so there.
Girls rock your boys,
editrix