(no subject)
It suddenly got cold this week, so right now I'm sitting so close to the heater I may as well be on top of it, and I'm wearing pajama pants, socks, a long-sleeved T-shirt and a fleece robe and I'm wrapped in a blanket. Why?
Because I can't figure out how to turn the heat on.
I tried adjusting the thermostat and got nothing, and I plugged in the thing that may or may not be a radiator in my bedroom and I pulled some knobs, but so far, nothing has sprung to life to warm my chilly little apartment, so until I can get some more information on this situation, it looks like I'll be bundling up. I was so cold Tuesday night I got up at 4:30 a.m. to take a steaming hot bath, then went back to bed. I'm a delicate Southern flower.
I won a free hair cut at a fancy salon that just opened downtown. A satisfactory hair cut would make me feel like a million bucks. I've been feeling a little worn around the edges lately. Tonight is the first night I've been home in days, thanks to social hoo-has and church and tennis practice and an endless stream of work.
My neighbors are the dumbest, loudest, most irritating people alive, I'm convinced. The man swears a lot, loudly, and I on several occasions have heard him burp through the wall. Keep in mind I never heard a peep from my old neighbor, and I never hear a peep from the boys upstairs. Just from the freaks next door.
But the woman, she's the worst. I can't imagine what part of Hell her accent is from. She claims to be from San Francisco, but she definitely has one of those awful, whiney, nasal, Fran Drescher-type accents, and she forces every word out from somewhere deep within her bowels, so she sounds like the Nanny as portrayed by SNL's Pat.
The other day my dad and I were putting weather stripping around my doors, and she came out on the porch and asked if we were painting. I told her no, we were putting weather stripping on the door. She asked what that was. My dad muttered something about stupid Yankees under his breath as I explained the function of weather stripping, thinking to myself that surely she's from somewhere cold, how could she not know? But assuming she's actually from Hell, I guess they don't use it much down there.
Anyway, she proceeded to tell me she was going to move her cactus because the weather stripping couldn't be very healthy for it. It took me a few seconds to realize she was worried about fumes killing it - it's a screened-in porch, for God's sake - and I explained, slowly and using small words, that weather stripping is self-adhesive, much like Scotch tape or postage stamps. I refrained from mentioning that the cactus will be dead in a month anyway from too little light, out there on that shady porch.
Now, I'm no rocket surgeon (recall that I can't figure out how to turn the heat on and I slept on my hand last night and I still can't feel two of my fingers) but honestly. Where's natural selection when you need it?
Because I can't figure out how to turn the heat on.
I tried adjusting the thermostat and got nothing, and I plugged in the thing that may or may not be a radiator in my bedroom and I pulled some knobs, but so far, nothing has sprung to life to warm my chilly little apartment, so until I can get some more information on this situation, it looks like I'll be bundling up. I was so cold Tuesday night I got up at 4:30 a.m. to take a steaming hot bath, then went back to bed. I'm a delicate Southern flower.
I won a free hair cut at a fancy salon that just opened downtown. A satisfactory hair cut would make me feel like a million bucks. I've been feeling a little worn around the edges lately. Tonight is the first night I've been home in days, thanks to social hoo-has and church and tennis practice and an endless stream of work.
My neighbors are the dumbest, loudest, most irritating people alive, I'm convinced. The man swears a lot, loudly, and I on several occasions have heard him burp through the wall. Keep in mind I never heard a peep from my old neighbor, and I never hear a peep from the boys upstairs. Just from the freaks next door.
But the woman, she's the worst. I can't imagine what part of Hell her accent is from. She claims to be from San Francisco, but she definitely has one of those awful, whiney, nasal, Fran Drescher-type accents, and she forces every word out from somewhere deep within her bowels, so she sounds like the Nanny as portrayed by SNL's Pat.
The other day my dad and I were putting weather stripping around my doors, and she came out on the porch and asked if we were painting. I told her no, we were putting weather stripping on the door. She asked what that was. My dad muttered something about stupid Yankees under his breath as I explained the function of weather stripping, thinking to myself that surely she's from somewhere cold, how could she not know? But assuming she's actually from Hell, I guess they don't use it much down there.
Anyway, she proceeded to tell me she was going to move her cactus because the weather stripping couldn't be very healthy for it. It took me a few seconds to realize she was worried about fumes killing it - it's a screened-in porch, for God's sake - and I explained, slowly and using small words, that weather stripping is self-adhesive, much like Scotch tape or postage stamps. I refrained from mentioning that the cactus will be dead in a month anyway from too little light, out there on that shady porch.
Now, I'm no rocket surgeon (recall that I can't figure out how to turn the heat on and I slept on my hand last night and I still can't feel two of my fingers) but honestly. Where's natural selection when you need it?