(no subject)

Is it just me, or is it kind of rude for a FedEx delivery guy to bring you the day's mail and immediately start to read the newspaper on your desk?

These guys show up and before they've even handed me the little electric doodad to sign they're bent over the paper, shoving the doodad blindly at me, and then they hang out at my desk reading until they're satisfied. It's not that I begrudge them the whole 25 cents we pay for the daily paper, if it were up to me they could take it, but it's creepy to have some guy standing over my desk for five minutes and it's unprofessional to have deliverymen loitering in the lobby.

Plus, come on, the least you can do as we have our 30-second interaction for the day is look me in the face.

RAWR NINJA OFFICE BOY IS DISPLEASED.

On the other hand:

BossBoss: Good morning! How are you?
Sam: Fine, except I can't get my computer to log in. (NB: Obviously, problem solved eventually.)
BossBoss: Sunspots? Temporal disturbance? Keep an eye out for a big blue box.
Sam: I have to tell you, if the box shows up, I am off like a shot.
BossBoss: Just leave a note, I'll hold your job for you.

I knew this job came with paid vacation and health benefits. I didn't know I got time-travel leave. Awesome.

BossBoss = enormous dork, hides it badly. Bless. *fond paternal look*

Sam's Three Things About Things

1. adina_atl has writ a sequel to her Torchwood fic Administrative Details, called Flotsam and Jetsam, about how Jack is messed up and also likes apples, plus having sex with Ianto. You should read it!

2. There just wasn't enough Canadian porn in the world. (Simon, I sense job opportunities galore, man.)

3. We have double-doors in our entryway that open inwards from outside the office. I've often talked about how funny it is to see people go full tilt at them from inside, smack into them, and then pretend like they knew the doors needed to be pulled instead of pushed. I just saw two people, in perfect sync, grasp a doorhandle each and PUUUUUSH in unison as if they were going to make some kind of GRAND ENTRANCE into the elevator vestibule, flinging their arms wide to a blare of heraldic trumpets on arrival. Nothing has ever been as funny as what went on in my head at that moment and I wasn't allowed to smile.

There's just something about doors.

3a. Meanwhile, I have achieved the cashiers checks required for payment of August's rent and the $200 "administrative fee" that I chose over the $1000 security deposit. The two hundred is nonrefundable but, you know, I basically treat security deposits as nonrefundable as well, because real estate is full of ripoff men. And frankly it's a bad deal because there's no way I could do a thousand dollars worth of damage to this place unless I set the entire building on fire.

(no subject)

So, I get home, it's been kind of a long day -- Mondays always are, plus I had to go to Damen to sign for my flat, and tomorrow I have to set up a time to get let into the building because the building is locked but my keys...are in it. And I'm looking forward to a quiet night, maybe make some stroganoff.

I walk in the door.

A small child looks up at me from the couch.

Sam: Hello.
Small Child: Hello!
SECOND Small Child: Hello! Who are you?
Sam: I'm Sam. I LIVE HERE. Who are you?
Both Small Children, in unison: SAM IS HOME. SAM IS HOME.

They take off screaming down the hall to the back porch. "SAM IS HOME! SAM IS HOME HEY SAM IS HOME."

One of the Bluesmen, the one whose girlfriend has twelve children, I neglected to mention has two of his own. Twins. About...nine years old, by my guess. And they are watching cartoons and eating the oreos -- which, okay, is why the oreos exist, but every time they go back for another they dump their old plates in the sink and get new ones...and also they want to play elevator with our bar stools, which are adjustable heights. And Bluesman and R are on the back porch smoking.

Which is how I came to be here, in my room with the door shut.

NOT THE BABYSITTER.

If R is trying to make me feel better about moving out, at the moment he is SUCCEEDING.

(no subject)

Wow. R got fired today. Now I feel like an asshole for complaining.

On the other hand, not too much of one, because he broke out the dessert wine someone gave him for his birthday, and then the Kahlua. So actually I don't feel like much of an asshole at all. Especially since I made stroganoff. STROGANOFF FEAST.

Farewell, o chairs! We barely knew ye.

(Seriously we gotta find him a girl, though. He's a filthy drunk.)