That's a Lot of Cat

I adore my cat.  I really do.

Lately, she's started sleeping on my bed with me.  This is very sweet, and I quite like it.  Usually, she curls up in a little ball on the edge of my bed.  She's very polite about it, too.  She won't jump up on the bed until I tap on the covers, giving her permission to jump up.  (Although, if I don't do that, she'll just sit there on the floor, meowing until I tap on the covers, so maybe it isn't all that polite.)

But last night, ten pounds of cat managed to stretch herself across a queen sized bed in such a way that there nearly wasn't room for me in there.  Sometimes it amazes me how she can curl up into a little ball about 10 inches in diameter -- but can still stretch out wide enough (paws to tail) to damn near evict me from my own bed.

International Book Club

Well, I did it.  I finished reading the 7th Harry Potter book and (rather more impressively) managed to do it before some random idiot online spoiled it for me.

It was also just kinda fun reading what everyone else was reading.  I mean, sometimes L.A. does this citywide "One City, One Book" thing -- but it never rises to level of pop culture phenomenon like this did.  Get this:  Saturday, around 1:00 (conveniently less than 5 minutes after I'd finished a review I had to write), my mail carrier buzzed me down to the gate to say, in heavily-accented English, "I have a package for you.  Harry Potter."  Like she ever calls for any other package.  But, this, well, she just knows that the recipient is, y'know, waiting for it.

Read straight on until 1:00 in the morning, and then finished it off today (before heading off to theatre for a matinee).  That, too, was cutting it close -- I told myself I'd stop reading at 1:00 (the show was at 3:00) and I ended up hitting the Epilogue at, like, 1:07.  I was all set to give up and hop in the shower, but when I realized that there were quite a few blank pages at the end (so the Epilogue was only, like, 4 pages long), I figured I'd just get the job done.

At the end of the matinee, when the actors came out for their bows, two of them were holding copies of the book, pretending they were reading it.  It was good for a laugh, but there was also truth to it.  I mean, they hadn't just got those books as a joke -- I imagine they were reading 'em backstage.

Had another show at night today -- met a friend at the theatre.  He'd read the damn thing yesterday, too.  ("Breathed it," he said.)  As I was driving away from the theatre, I realized I had a question about the book's ending.  My friend was just walking down the sidewalk to his car, so I pulled over and asked him.

And while I did, it was the absolute certainty that many other people were having the same conversation at the same time.

Success!

OK.  Remember how Alaska Airlines totally jerked me around on the whole flight-to-Ketchikan thing?

When I got home, I sent their Customer Service Department a very lengthy and peeved letter requesting reimbursement for the Juneau hotel.  (Heck, I may have even demanded reimbursement.  That's how peeved I was.)

Earlier this week, I received a letter of apology.  Today, I received a reimbursement check.

Hooray!

They still treated me rotten at the airport, but their make-things-better team is definitely on the ball.

Acceptance

The book will not get finished.

The one I'm trying to read before I get the Harry Potter book on Saturday.

This book, in fact.

Finished, it won't be.  At least, not before Saturday.

After clocking myself at around 45 pages to the hour, I had to face facts.  I've still got more than 5 hours of reading left, and (unless I happen to take off work tomorrow) no chance on earth that I'll have 5 hours to read.  Not when I have a show to see tomorrow night, and the review to write on Friday.  (Not to mention, y'know, a new Doctor Who episode Friday night.  And the mail is piling up.  And I didn't even wash the dishes in the sink.  And maybe I could keep the floor vacuumed if I'd take a half hour and clean the Roomba.  And it's a woot-off.)  So, yeah, book not finished.

I hope I'll at least stop at a good stopping poing, and remember who the hell everyone is when I pick it up again.

Ironically, I will have a very similar problem when the Harry Potter book shows up -- as, with the rather obvious exception of a couple of very key plot points that happened at the end of the most recent book, I hardly remember where I last left everyone in that universe.  Had even been hoping to catch the current movie before the book came out so I'd at least be reminded of Book Five.  Ah well.  I hope I'm not supposed to remember who the heck everyone at the Ministry of Magic is -- could never keep them straight anyway.  (You know what I remember about reading Book Six?  I remember reading some character's name right there in Chapter One, and thinking, "Man, I know I've read that name somewhere before, but hell if I know who it is.")

I'm basically a one-book-at-a-time type of gal.  I do my job the same way.  I usually work on three or four cases each month -- and by the time the month is over, I'll go back and read the stuff I wrote on the first case, and won't remember it.  ("I wrote that?  How very brilliant of me.")

So, the gang from Joe Abercrombie's The Blade Itself is going to have to go some for me to remember them.  I'm down with that, though.  I understand that this is the first book of a series and I won't get the second for some time, so I'll be playing this game again (the first book is only available in the US in hardcover -- I'd picked up the paperback in London 'cause I like taking a chance on new authors).  Wonder if they'll change the book much for the US release.  They'll probably revise all the references to one's "arse."

Funny -- the little voice in my head that does the narration (and, thank you, kindergarten, for teaching me to read aloud in my head) reads in American English rather than English English, and it always trips over the "arse"s.  The rest of it reads fine in American.  (Harry Potter used to read fine in American, too.  But now that the characters are so intertwined with the actors who play them, the little voice in my head actually goes with those actors' voices.  I mean, sometimes, you can just hear Alan Rickman being all Snapey.)

I can better report on The Blade Itself once I've finished reading it.  I can give you that it's well-written and has the advantage of (at least) three protagonists (and we get into the heads of each of them).  I'm still not entirely clear on what it's about, though.  Took the first half of the book to establish each character, where they are in the path of life, and what they'd like to get out of it -- and, right about halfway into the book, we're finally getting their paths to cross, so maybe something a little more traditionally plot-like is going to appear.  And it's funny -- not "ha ha" funny like Pratchett, but more of a dark funny.  Out of the three main characters, the one who is the least likeable isn't the barbarian or the guy who tortures people for a living.  Twisted.  I dig it.

Background Stress

I'm under a lot of background stress now.

That's the stress that's different from "how am I going to get all my work done this month?" stress, or "geez, now I'm going to have to appeal my health plan's denial of my claim for one lousy pill" stress (I'm sure they denied it just figuring that I wouldn't go to the trouble of the appeal for $30 -- they may be right), or even getting this book read before Friday ... or any one of a number of other immediate causes of stress.

It's largely the (apparently) neverending stress caused by my condo not being on the market.  I pulled the listing back in, what? March? and I was sure I'd have the repairs done and have the place back on the market by June.  It's July and I'm afraid to report there is no actual end in sight.  OK, sure, they cleaned the mold (back in May) and plugged some of the leaks.  And I just had the balcony resurfaced.  And the balcony just passed its final water test, as did the balcony above me.  (So they're going to put my walls back together and I can re-list in a week, right?  Wrong.)  The exterior stucco walls have again failed the water test.  While we can patch those areas, our management company representative thinks the walls are just going to keep failing water tests and we might as well just, um, restucco/paint the whole building.  That's a major expense (for which we don't have the money) and will probably take months just to set up.  So, right now, my living room is still half covered in plastic; there are two major holes in my ceiling (which will get really ugly if it happens to rain); the Homeowners Association is doing the math on how much to Specially Assess us for the repairs; and now there's a possible major repainting between me and having my living room back.

I'll be taking bets on whether my housewarming party (for when I eventually move) will happen before my 40th birthday party (next June). 

Of course, it isn't just the building that's causing background stress.  I am outrageously behind on my theatre reviews -- to the point where it is background stress rather than short-term stress, in that I should be seeing two or three shows every week from now until the end of the year.

Both of my computers are showing signs of demise in the foreseeable future.  I haven't done anything about this -- mostly because I'm trying to save cash for the house, but also because I just won't know the set-up that I'll want once I'm in a new house, and I'd like to wait until I have a house, if at all possible.  Still, it means putting up with temperamental computers and/or the constant fear that one or both of them will just drop dead on me unexpectedly.

I've been fairly accepting of the high level of background stress -- although, as probably could be expected -- it has manifested itself in disproportionate reactions to the occasional additional stressor (the "last straw" as it were).  But I've noticed my fuse is getting a little shorter on other things.  Like, I haven't been able to really balance my checkbook in months because I haven't actually had use of my desk since they opened up my ceiling.  I sort of put together a temporary method for dealing with bills (important incoming mail on my coffee table, checkbook hiding in a living room cabinet), but, as time stretches on, I'm becoming less and less able to deal.

I'm hugging the cat a lot more, but I'm afraid I'm putting too much pressure on her, as well.

Read, read, read, read, read

I may have made a tactical error.

What with four separate flights to Baltimore and back, I took a book with me.

A fairly "chunky" read.  It's about 550 pages and the font is reasonably small.  Which is to say, it isn't the sort of page-turner you could get through in a single sitting.  Or, as it turns out, four sittings.  But that's probably because both travel days started really early in the morning, so I kept napping on the plane, whenever I could.

Point is, I'm about 150 pages in as of right now.  It's good.  I'm enjoying it. 

The new Harry Potter book will be conveniently delivered to my door on Saturday (as it will be delivered to the doors of everyone else who pre-ordered on Amazon). 

I don't want to have to put this book down in order to pick up that one, but with that one being An Event Of (Popular) Cultural Significance, I'm going to want to start it ASAP.

Which means that somewhere between now and then, I've gotta find upwards of 7 hours to finish this thing.

(And still keep up with work, and reviewing, and email, and cleaning the condo, and playing with the cat, and all that other stuff that I generally spend my waking hours engaged in.)

Hmmm.  A challenge.

The thing is...

First things first -- Wil comments on my valet story below, suggesting that maybe the dude just ignored me because he thought I was going to take my bag out of the trunk and thereby deprive him of a tip.  Nope.  He had deserted me long before I took the bag out.  And, in fact, when I had not yet taken it out, the other valet guys were standing a few feet away chatting, and not one of them made a move toward me to help with the bag -- until the one of them asked if I needed help, and he seemed sorta put out by even having to ask.  Like I was taking him away from his morning coffee by, y'know, needing a valet.

Now, on to more recent events.

I'm 39.

Did I mention I'm 39?

OK.  I don't want to make a big deal out of this (and I'm sure my mom will read this and think this is all revealing and stuff, when it really isn't) -- but here's the thing.  I know the wedding is all about the bride, and seeing as I'm the groom's cousin she doesn't even know who the hell I am or have any reason to have the slightest thought about my feelings.  That said -- it is awkward enough being the only unmarried person sitting at the "cousins table," -- is it really necessary for the wedding bandleader to threaten to individually call me up by name to stand with the other six single women in the room (all of whom were bridesmaids, and the bride's friends, and probably half my age) for the bouquet toss? 

I mean seriously.  At this point in my life, either I'm single by choice, so respect it; or I'm single not by choice, in which case I don't really need my singlehood to be pointed out in the middle of someone else's wedding.  (As it happens, it's a little bit of both.  But still.)  It's all well and good to do that with a bunch of giggling 20-somethings who are friends of the bride.  It's even ok to just generally call the single females up and leave it to us whether we want to participate in this particular ritual.  But to actually try to humiliate the 39-year-old into participating?

Bite me.