I'm moving on Thursday, so posting will be nonexistent until I get moved in and the bathroom finished.
Ah, yes. The bathroom.
It is not going well.
In fact, it's a hole. There are joists and studs and bare pipes and nothing else. You can fall into the crawlspace quite easily, something I almost did the other day. I was saved by a complicated and entirely instinctive movement reminiscent of something out of the Matrix series, if the Matrix series had been populated by flailing, screeching people holding prybars.
The good news is that everything else is pretty much done. I have to paint the woodwork in what will be my bedroom, but that's pretty minor. I scrubbed the kitchen down today, yuck, and am already moving things in.
Brother Bruce's Bargain Brain Barn is its usual exciting and gratifying self. Word from the carpeted areas is that charges for insurance will go up somewhere in the neighborhood of twelve percent starting in September. This is a no-big-deal thing for those of us without spouses or children, but a very big deal for those with, as their insurance actually costs them money. Us bitter, barren, lonely extras at the dinner table have everything covered. That's one benefit to being bitter and barren, I guess.
The dude with the huge glioma in his left temporal lobe? Turned out not to have a huge glioma, which is good. He instead has some wacky viral infection there, which is bad, but not as bad as a glioma. After a couple of weeks on some IV antiviral I'd never heard of and can't remember the name of now, he bounced right back and is fine and dandy.
Also, the young kid with the exploding AVM is talking, walking, and generally getting on people's nerves. That's a plus, since she was doing the staring, drooling thing last time I saw her, which was three weeks ago.
Speaking of getting on people's nerves, or maybe of staring and drooling, I may have to have A Chat with one of our resident brain cowboys.
He stares. At the nurses. Not in a smouldering, McDreamy way (as if; have you ever seen a bunch of real-life neurosurgeons?), nor in an intimidating, you-oughta-be-in-a-hajib-mindset way, but in a vaguely clinical, oddly disturbing way, as if he's wondering the best way to get to our hypothalami. He stares mostly at me, which is beginning to bug me. And will likely get him an entirely new digestive system if, after I point it out to him, he continues to do it.
He is, like all neurosurgery residents, totally socially inept. And he stares.
If you'd like something new to stare at, check out this week's Change of Shift. It's over at Nurse Ratched's. It's a Western theme, which is pretty darn cute.
I'll see you guys in ten days or so.