Like sand in my bathing suit...
Jul. 7th, 2003 09:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fredericksSo many many minor irritants getting under my skin, and I've only been up for 3 hours. Jebus H. Cristo, I can see this is going to be a long day...which sucks donkey cojones, because it's so disgustingly gorgeous outside.
I woke up this morning and was startled by the bright sunshine (minor irritant #1). Started thinking it was around noonish, seeing as I'd been exhausted last night, but then I look at the clock and read 6:04AM. It was impossible at that point just to roll back over because of all the damn sunlight streaming in through the blinds, so I pulled out HP and started reading. Decided to get up and wash up a little while later, expecting the house to be quiet and empty so that I could enjoy sitting in the much cooler dining room without disturbance when, as I stagger up from the floor and open the door I see (minor irritant #2) Ruth's door open with its occupants awake. I say nothing, having given up socializing with those within at this point, put some water on to boil, and go wash up. When I emerge I say the obligatory hello and Ruth introduces me to her sister, (having noticed the slight annoyed look upon her face at my appearance I silently mutter "you and me both" - minor irritant #3).
I dress, make tea, and continue reading at my desk, waiting for God knows what sign to begin my day. Needing a break from Hogwarts' adventures I decide to go outside and pick up a newspaper. On opening the door I notice (minor irritant #4) the f'in mailbox is AWOL. I'm pissed now because I'm waiting for my friggin' plane tickets to show up, along with my bills and any other damn mail I need to get. F'in Thayer Street punks. Really, why the hell would you have a movable mailbox if your apartment is on Thayer Street? It's just an invitation for petty theft. There should be a friggin' mail slot, so no curious soul can go through your (MY!) stuff. Goddamned incompetent landlords. I wonder momentarily if Ruth might have taken the mailbox off the door for whatever reason and try to decide whether or not I should ask her. But I decide I'm already pissed off as it is and any sort of interaction with her might make me homicidal (which, come to think of it, might have made me feel a bit better) so I decide to pick up the newspaper and then call maintenance.
When I call them I end up having to pretend I'm Ruth because her name is on the lease. I felt guilty about that (minor irritant #5), then felt upset about feeling guilty (minor irritant #6), because I'm sure Ruth could give two shits about me not being able to receive my mail. The woman on the other line says she'll tell maintenance about the missing mailbox (startling me instead of irritating me - isn't *she* maintenance? WTF?), and when I ask her whether or not that means they'll replace the mailbox or not I don't manage to get a straight answer out of her (minor irritant #7). I sigh, hang up the phone, then swear as I head out the door to the PO, hoping they can at least hold my mail for me there until the matter is resolved.
On entering the PO I hear the most annoying music playing; it sounds like it would work on the soundtrack of a movie from the 30's and it's blasting on high. It's too damned cheery and syrupy for my nerves at the moment, dubbing it minor irritant #8. I attempt to talk to the clerk and explain my situation, but there's a speaker directly next to us (minor irritant #9). My voice (goddamn it, because I'm on a roll, life-long irritant #1) soft and warbly on the best of occasions, stands no chance and I feel like f'in' screaming at him to turn that crap off. He gets the hint after one try on my part, lows it down, and nods understandingly. He then picks up the phone, dials a number, and tells me to "ask to speak to the carrier on Route 12". That's it. He doesn't tell me what I should say, who I'm supposed to be speaking to, anything (minor irritant #10). I swallow a nasty retort about the stupidity of comb-overs (dude had a horrible one), attempt to lower my eyebrow (which is now in danger of disappearing into my scalp region), and listen for someone to pick up.
Which happens after what seems like 20 rings. It's "Keith", and as I ask him to speak to the enigma known as "the carrier on Route 12" he says "I'll transfer you" and then...nothing (minor irritant #11). Apparently he can't handle transferring phone calls. I stand there with the now-dead phone in my hand, leaning on the desk of the PO as the clerk deals with another customer. The voice coming from the speaker is asking some lady to "say you'll be always mine" in the vibrato-laden style that was so popular back in the day and I'm literally one stanza away from going postal. I end up having to try to get Mr. Comb-over's attention twice (minor irritant #12) before he looks my way and he redials the number for me. Yet again I reach "Keith" and, yet again, he transfers me. I'm hopeful as I hear ringing on the line this time around. It rings maybe 7 times, I hear a slight click, and it starts ringing again. Someone picks up and I start to feel somewhat relieved...until "Keith" introduces himself again (f' 'em, he's minor irritant #13, just on principle). I guess no one's at the local carrier's hut or wherever the hell "Keith" had transferred my call. Exasperated, I explain my situation to "Keith", and he tells me to just set a box outside the door with a note telling the mailman to put the mail in there. The idea is ludicrous, especially seeing as my apartment is directly on Thayer, and a box lying in a doorway is likely to be thrown out and/or picked up by some punk ass kids, but "Keith"'s voice is so condescending while he's imparting this "obviously simple" piece of information that for a moment I feel like at idiot (that obnoxious bastard and his uppity voice gets dubbed minor irritant #14, and that split second of stupidity I felt gets dubbed minor irritant #15).
I hang up, read to leave the PO and run down Thayer Street screaming. Mr. Comb-over, on hearing "Keith"'s words of wisdom to me, rolls his eyes and sympathizes with me (making me feel a little better and making me feel bad about giving him the nickname "Mr. Comb-over" - minor irritant #16, dammit). I ask him if I can leave a note telling the mysterious Carrier o' Route 12 to drop off the mail for the apartment in the PO and he agrees, if only temporarily. I thank him, go to the apartment, write the note, stick it on the door, gather my stuff, and head to the Sci-Li (don't forget your pulled calf muscle - minor irritant #17; that's what you get for trying to make up for two days of inactivity -ed.). I log onto a PC and try to get to my e-mail...but, of course, AOL.com is acting the f' up. Friggin hell (minor irritant #18 - and 19, damn it!). I end up having to wait forever and retry, reload, refresh ad nauseam to see what's wrong with it. Pissed to all hell I sign out and switch to another PC where, after 3 minutes I can finally get to my mail where NOTHING awaits me except a newsletter (minor irritant #20). Argh. Ugh. *sigh*
Okay, everything's been pretty much smooth sailing during the last 45 minutes. Hopefully the day will improve, no?
Argh.
I woke up this morning and was startled by the bright sunshine (minor irritant #1). Started thinking it was around noonish, seeing as I'd been exhausted last night, but then I look at the clock and read 6:04AM. It was impossible at that point just to roll back over because of all the damn sunlight streaming in through the blinds, so I pulled out HP and started reading. Decided to get up and wash up a little while later, expecting the house to be quiet and empty so that I could enjoy sitting in the much cooler dining room without disturbance when, as I stagger up from the floor and open the door I see (minor irritant #2) Ruth's door open with its occupants awake. I say nothing, having given up socializing with those within at this point, put some water on to boil, and go wash up. When I emerge I say the obligatory hello and Ruth introduces me to her sister, (having noticed the slight annoyed look upon her face at my appearance I silently mutter "you and me both" - minor irritant #3).
I dress, make tea, and continue reading at my desk, waiting for God knows what sign to begin my day. Needing a break from Hogwarts' adventures I decide to go outside and pick up a newspaper. On opening the door I notice (minor irritant #4) the f'in mailbox is AWOL. I'm pissed now because I'm waiting for my friggin' plane tickets to show up, along with my bills and any other damn mail I need to get. F'in Thayer Street punks. Really, why the hell would you have a movable mailbox if your apartment is on Thayer Street? It's just an invitation for petty theft. There should be a friggin' mail slot, so no curious soul can go through your (MY!) stuff. Goddamned incompetent landlords. I wonder momentarily if Ruth might have taken the mailbox off the door for whatever reason and try to decide whether or not I should ask her. But I decide I'm already pissed off as it is and any sort of interaction with her might make me homicidal (which, come to think of it, might have made me feel a bit better) so I decide to pick up the newspaper and then call maintenance.
When I call them I end up having to pretend I'm Ruth because her name is on the lease. I felt guilty about that (minor irritant #5), then felt upset about feeling guilty (minor irritant #6), because I'm sure Ruth could give two shits about me not being able to receive my mail. The woman on the other line says she'll tell maintenance about the missing mailbox (startling me instead of irritating me - isn't *she* maintenance? WTF?), and when I ask her whether or not that means they'll replace the mailbox or not I don't manage to get a straight answer out of her (minor irritant #7). I sigh, hang up the phone, then swear as I head out the door to the PO, hoping they can at least hold my mail for me there until the matter is resolved.
On entering the PO I hear the most annoying music playing; it sounds like it would work on the soundtrack of a movie from the 30's and it's blasting on high. It's too damned cheery and syrupy for my nerves at the moment, dubbing it minor irritant #8. I attempt to talk to the clerk and explain my situation, but there's a speaker directly next to us (minor irritant #9). My voice (goddamn it, because I'm on a roll, life-long irritant #1) soft and warbly on the best of occasions, stands no chance and I feel like f'in' screaming at him to turn that crap off. He gets the hint after one try on my part, lows it down, and nods understandingly. He then picks up the phone, dials a number, and tells me to "ask to speak to the carrier on Route 12". That's it. He doesn't tell me what I should say, who I'm supposed to be speaking to, anything (minor irritant #10). I swallow a nasty retort about the stupidity of comb-overs (dude had a horrible one), attempt to lower my eyebrow (which is now in danger of disappearing into my scalp region), and listen for someone to pick up.
Which happens after what seems like 20 rings. It's "Keith", and as I ask him to speak to the enigma known as "the carrier on Route 12" he says "I'll transfer you" and then...nothing (minor irritant #11). Apparently he can't handle transferring phone calls. I stand there with the now-dead phone in my hand, leaning on the desk of the PO as the clerk deals with another customer. The voice coming from the speaker is asking some lady to "say you'll be always mine" in the vibrato-laden style that was so popular back in the day and I'm literally one stanza away from going postal. I end up having to try to get Mr. Comb-over's attention twice (minor irritant #12) before he looks my way and he redials the number for me. Yet again I reach "Keith" and, yet again, he transfers me. I'm hopeful as I hear ringing on the line this time around. It rings maybe 7 times, I hear a slight click, and it starts ringing again. Someone picks up and I start to feel somewhat relieved...until "Keith" introduces himself again (f' 'em, he's minor irritant #13, just on principle). I guess no one's at the local carrier's hut or wherever the hell "Keith" had transferred my call. Exasperated, I explain my situation to "Keith", and he tells me to just set a box outside the door with a note telling the mailman to put the mail in there. The idea is ludicrous, especially seeing as my apartment is directly on Thayer, and a box lying in a doorway is likely to be thrown out and/or picked up by some punk ass kids, but "Keith"'s voice is so condescending while he's imparting this "obviously simple" piece of information that for a moment I feel like at idiot (that obnoxious bastard and his uppity voice gets dubbed minor irritant #14, and that split second of stupidity I felt gets dubbed minor irritant #15).
I hang up, read to leave the PO and run down Thayer Street screaming. Mr. Comb-over, on hearing "Keith"'s words of wisdom to me, rolls his eyes and sympathizes with me (making me feel a little better and making me feel bad about giving him the nickname "Mr. Comb-over" - minor irritant #16, dammit). I ask him if I can leave a note telling the mysterious Carrier o' Route 12 to drop off the mail for the apartment in the PO and he agrees, if only temporarily. I thank him, go to the apartment, write the note, stick it on the door, gather my stuff, and head to the Sci-Li (don't forget your pulled calf muscle - minor irritant #17; that's what you get for trying to make up for two days of inactivity -ed.). I log onto a PC and try to get to my e-mail...but, of course, AOL.com is acting the f' up. Friggin hell (minor irritant #18 - and 19, damn it!). I end up having to wait forever and retry, reload, refresh ad nauseam to see what's wrong with it. Pissed to all hell I sign out and switch to another PC where, after 3 minutes I can finally get to my mail where NOTHING awaits me except a newsletter (minor irritant #20). Argh. Ugh. *sigh*
Okay, everything's been pretty much smooth sailing during the last 45 minutes. Hopefully the day will improve, no?
Argh.
