Pictureless blogging continues! An update from yesterday's technology debacle: I took my computer to the doctor and she is in fact suffering from an internal problem. Farewell, my dreams of simple cord replacement! They are diagnosing her right now and I should have a report back soon. Deep breaths over here. A week without my shiny red friend isn't the end of the world. Right?
Despite being an average day of working from the home office, attending to deadlines and such, today's already featured some dramatic moments, all by 3 p.m.
First, I looked out my office window this morning to see a strange man in uniform standing over our car. What is he...? Surely he's not...? Writing us a ticket?! Given that my morning telecommute uniform consists of braless pajamas and the chances of me having unearthed a hoodie from the contractor-bagged "clothes room" at this point in the moving process are beyond nil, I was unable to burst out of the house to confront him immediately. Thirty seconds later, though, I'm in jeans and a t-shirt, run outside to politely ask WTF, and see him nowhere. The ticket on our car says "No Permit Displayed. No Zone 6 Permit." Guess where the ticket was placed underneath the windshield wipers? Right over our Residential Zone 6 Permit. Now guess who jumped in said vehicle and tore off in pursuit of the idiotic officer? This girl. With a bra on, I can do anything, apparently. I drove for a good ten minutes on every street around, but no luck. Please pause to imagine the creativity with which I worded my contested ticket form.
I rode my adrenaline high through a final edit and into a restorative errand-running work break with my new neighbor Nole (have I not yet mentioned that one of the best things about my new neighborhood is that this gal lives a ten-minute walk away?! We are loving it!). Shortly after submitting a huge document (me) and dealing with a server problem (her), we telecommuters did a little neighborhood grocery, plant, and paint-shopping to get some fresh air and sunshine. And there, in the neighborhood paint store where I've already spent a pretty penny since moving to the 'hood, stood something I'd never before seen behind that counter: a woman.
Words cannot describe the level of helpfullness this woman embodied. We discussed colors, we discussed projects, we spoke the same language. I relayed to her my dismay at being the owner of five pints of color that are now useless because the colors were rejects, and she looked at me and said, "I understand." Magic words, those words. She understands.
Then she apologized that the actual sample sizes of paint were no longer carried by the store, but said she'd be happy to sell me one if they still had the color I needed in stock. She whipped out a handy spreadsheet and discovered that how about that, Olive Branch is indeed a color sample that they still have on hand! So she sold it to me. For $3.
Keep in mind that after countless trips to this store asking for color samples, the Men at Work have never once told me about these samples or bothered to look at a spreadsheet. I've gone home with a pint of $7 paint each time. Five times. And been the subject of much eye-rolling.
But the Most Helpful Saleswoman Of All Time understands my dilemma. She gets me. She doesn't want me to continue wasting paint and money.
Men at Work at Ye Olde Neighborhood Paint Shoppe: be warned. I have received good service, and I just might not go back to the ways of the past.
Even better: the sample of Olive Branch is looking pretty good on the dining room walls right now. Alongside a lineup of several other colors that I now own against my will.
Neighborhood paint swap, anyone? Bueller?