What is there to report? The big news is that, seventy two hours from now, I'll either be a homeowner or I'll be really pissed off and vandalizing the mortgage company's offices. For as long as I've been thinking and talking about this, you'd think I'm some sort of real estate baron and not some weird dude in a junky duplex covered with pet hair (the duplex, not me).
So, assuming I am a homeowner in 72 hours, what's the first thing I'm going to do in the house? First, I'm going to put toilet paper in all of the bathrooms. Second, I'm going to set out some ghost traps. Third, I'm going to recheck the toilet paper. Fourth, and perhaps most important, I'm going to start moving.
AAaaaaaffghghhg, I hate moving. I would rather be strapped into the dentist's chair, watching the English Patient, and listening to Toby Keith for 12 hours straight than spend an afternoon moving. You know why? At least I'd die quickly then. Moving is a death by a million boxes; even after I move the big stuff, I can't celerbate because hey, where the hell is the box with the shampoo?
I had this idea the other day in which we could just do away with moving entirely. Instead, whenever you would buy a house or lease a new apartment, it'd be full of the previous owner's possessions. There, that's your new stuff and don't get too used it, because you're not taking any of it with you. This solves two problems in one fell swoop. First, people become less attached to material possessions; you're a lot less likely to brag about your fancy shoes if they came with your house. Second, my back is not going to explode trying to move some crappy particle-board desk up a flight of stairs ever again.
Imagine this scheme really did get implemented. I would've had so many more questions before I went to see a house. First and foremost: this house doesn't have a water bed, does it?
I don't know if I want to call my sister my clothier or my haberdasher. The point is, she works in the fashion industry and she gives me free stuff sometimes. This weekend, I got a whole lot of new clothes from her and I discovered something amazing; I discovered linen.
Sources tell me that linen is a pretty popular fabric, and enjoyed by millions. That may be so, but it wasn't enjoyed by me until Saturday. Laura and I had to take these engagement pictures, and it was decreed that I wear one of my new, linen shirts. (Please don't read into this that I have a problem with being told what to wear. It's actually the exact opposite. I'd wear shorts and my high school Latin Club shirt every day, if I could. Apparently, that's not valid attire for a wedding. Snob alert!)
Anyway, it was a warm day, it being Spring in Texas. It never bothered me though, because the whole day, Ifelt really well-ventilated. I tried to think up a better adjective, but well-ventilated is the best one. It was pretty much like walking around without a shirt on, which is pretty much like walking around with a threadbare, high school Latin Club shirt on.
I have more linen stuff from Haley, even some linen pants. Am I excited? You bet, Buster. I welcome myself into the world of comfort!
I cannot wait to lose all of these fancy duds in next week's move. I better wear the crap out of these things while I can.
I wish I had a good excuse for missing last week here, and I do: the feces hit the fan. By that, I mean that I had some work to do, I helped pack the house, and I got a little lazy. If I were to put percentages on those three activities, I'd put 25%, 5%, and 275%.
It's getting really close to moving day and I can say with the utmost confidence that all of this stuff is just going to move itself. Why wouldn't it? I bought it and taken near-decent care of it, and I only think it's equitable for this stuff to now pack itself and then move itself across the street.
Is this going to happen? I don't think so. If I really could command inanimate objects around Austin, I probably wouldn't just casually mention it here on Goulash; I'd be flinging (unoccupied) dump trucks at (unoccupied) hot air balloons on Telemundo.
Anyway, I'm feeling good about summer. It's almost warm enough for me to go aquatic. (In this case, that means swim, not purchase a submarine.) That always feels like the first part of summer to me, and I think I'm just a few days ago. That also means just a few days from horrible sun burn + water moccasin attack. There is no such thing as a free lunch, I say.
Hey dirty dogs, I make occasional reference to this side project/company/money burning hobby that Paddy and I work on, but I don't think I've ever actually pointed you guys to the site. Well, let's fix that. The site is called BasilNews.com, and we rank and categorize news items. Here's an example of our Barack Obama news category.
Yeah, the UI is a little... spartan, but I'm having a lot of fun with it and we're starting to see some pretty good results. So, to everyone who's wanted to see what we're doing, there you go. If it you notice anything obviously broken, it's probably Paddy's fault and I will just email all of the bugs to him.
First, an announcement! It has come to my attention that my email filter has been doing strange things with the comments here. Not only was I not getting email on the valid comments, but I wasn't getting email on the spammy comments. The later outnumbered the former infinity to 4. Rather than try to separate them out and keep the good comments, I just wiped them all out. Is that enough for you guys to hate me? My guess is hell no.
Things have been pretty busy around here lately because of the wedding, the house, and the new job. In order to keep everything under control, I've had to make certain shortcuts.
First, the house isn't going to have any furniture. I know it's kind of the conventional look, but... I just don't have the time to buy the stuff. Sit on the floor and pretend to be a caveman.
Second, I'm going to be asleep at the wedding. I'm sure it'll be a lot of fun, but in order for me to stay well-rested throughout this year, my sleep schedule must be rejiggered. The rejiggered schedule must take priority.
Third, all of my administrative tasks at work have been outsourced to Octopussy. Those timesheets are going to have a few spelling , and there may be a few mushed-up Iams bits in there too. She is a competent and capable secretary however, as long as no one turns on a vacuum cleaner.
Aside from business, the weather is looking good, I had one of the worst doctor appointments of my life today, and I suspect the Dallas Mavericks are trying to trick me into liking them again.
If you know me, you know I love garage sales. My day job may be writing software, but my afternoon, evening, night, and dawnish jobs are scouting garage sales for sweet deals on patio chairs, broken kites, and bird houses. Imagine my surprise earlier this week when, after bringing home a killer load of pre-owned goods from down the street, the following list fluttered out from the items.
The 12 Laws of Robotics
By Isaac Asimov
1. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
2. A robot must obey orders given to it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
3. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law. (Editor's note: these first three sound pretty familiar.)
4. A robot may not injure a human being's pet, unless it's one of those weird pets like a boa constrictor or a ferret that may just freak out and hurt a human for no good reason.
5. A robot may not mix mustard and mayonnaise when preparing a sandwich for a human being, even if the human being has tacitly endorsed this concoction.
6. A robot must work on a human being's car at regular intervals, since it can hook itself up and read the diagnostic codes for free in probably ten seconds, unlike those jackasses at Pep Boys.
7. A robot must, at all times, carry a corkscrew. Those things are seriously handy.
8. A robot must attempt an outlandish Swedish accent, when a human being demands it.
9. A robot must encourage a human being's attempts at poetry, even applauding the clumsy sexual metaphors.
10. A robot may not, under any circumstance, steal a human being's underwear. Even if it would save the life of another human being, our underwear remains sacred.
11. A robot must agree to play the role of Andre the Giant when a human being wishes to play Hulk Hogan and relive Wrestlemania IV, unless the human being got to be Hulk Hogan last time.
12. A robot may not enter a board-breaking exhibition at a karate tournament, as this would be unfair to the other board-breakers without metal hands.
Oops, I have completely forgotten to share the following piece of information. Hold on to your undies, folks: the future Mrs. Powell is going to be a principal! It's something Laura's thought about for a while now, since her teaching language arts is kind of like Muhammad Ali teaching how to lace up boxing gloves. Doing the administration thing requires another masters, so she's been in application limbo for a couple of months now. Last week, she heard back from her first choice, ye olde University of Texas and they told her to get her ass to class pronto.
As I understand it, that's one of the best programs in the country for this sort of thing, so we are both excited. She is excited to take off on this new career, while I am excited for that too, part of my enthusiasm is knowing she'll be able to support me in style when I'm blackballed from the central Texas job market.
In other news, the house stuff is going well, as far as I know. By that, I mean the house we're buying hasn't burnt down yet. Also, the wedding stuff is going well. By that, I mean that Laura hasn't yet canceled the wedding.
It's kind of weird to think that in 7 months, I'll be a married homeowner. And who knows, maybe some other stuff could happen too. I could learn to juggle and I could get diabetes, at which point I'd be a married, juggling, diabetic homeowner. Please, reality, take it easy on me with the big changes.