We now have an official date for moving into the house/moving out of the apartment! We have to be out of the apartment by July 20th, so by extension we must be completely moved into the house by then. We’re making serious headway, but everything just takes so long…

I’m working on a positively mind-numbing, soul-warping project at work, typing up all of the legal documents related to the club property covenants and restrictions. The file is at least 4 inches thick, and I’ve been typing for ages. Most of the stuff is from the 60s, and I’m not quite sure why this has to be done now, but ah well. I realized I was going a bit loopy when I was typing something about how the buildings must be approved “according to the Declarant’s restrictive covenants” and instead I typed “according to prophecy!” It sounded much more interesting that way…

I’m getting a little miffed about my hair. Not my hair specifically, I like my hair very much, but about people telling me what to do with it. In two days I’ve had four people lecture me on how I need to either A. cut it and donate it or B. cut it and sell it, all of which after telling me it was very beautiful (so I should get rid of it, apparently). One woman was extremely adamant about it, implying I was selfish to keep it when “so many women have lost all their hair. Like my friend, she had six wigs. Six! You could get three from yours at least! You need to cut it.” I’m not exaggerating. I just smiled and said “Maybe I’ll do that,” which isn’t a lie…I may do anything. I may start a restaurant in Texas that specializes solely in honey-derived foods. It’s highly improbably, but it may happen. I just find it odd, though, that people feel entitled to order me to do various things to my hair. It’s attached to my head: it’s a part of my body, not yours! Leave it alone! I don’t mind opinions or input, but I *do* mind feeling pressured.

What books have I read this week, you ask? I’m glad you enquired! I browsed through a collection of essays edited by Frye on Myth and Symbol, another edited by Campbell on Myths, Dreams, and Religions, read/browsed Frey’s The Great Code: The Bible and Literature, and perused a volume of essays collected by Bloom on The Lord of the Rings. Incidentally, Bloom lost huge amounts of cool points; in his introduction he blasts Tolkien and LotR and was apparently so bored he could barely get through The Return of the King. Oh, Harold. I held you in such high esteem. The other scholarly books were interesting but not astoundingly so. I may have just gone through them too quickly, though…I need a little break from all the academic reading on top of the legal mumbo-jumbo, methinks.

Right now I’m reading The Heaven Tree trilogy by Edith Pargeter. It’s a lovely 900 page omnibus edition, and I do so love enormous books. Anne Elizabeth spoke VERY highly of it, although I must say so far it’s only so-so. Granted I’m only 200 pages in, it has time to improve.

I must tell you a hilarious-now-but-not-at-the-time story (a large percentage of my life consists of these moments, which makes for hilarity in looking back but a good deal of woe in the present). Our van died, as you know, and we were in the process of buying a new car (which was successfully concluded eventually, just to let you know there’s a happy ending). After work on Monday, we picked up dinner, picked up Dad, went to the dealer, and picked out a car. We couldn’t finish things up then, but we were going to come back immediately after work the next day. This was fine, except that the van that died had better tires than the van in the land of the living, so we wanted to switch them before trading in our dearly departed Voyager. So Dad and I went to his work parking lot (where the van was) to do this, straight from the dealer. It was not quite 8:00pm when we got there, so we didn’t have a lot of daylight. Keep in mind I’m still in my work clothes, which means dress pants and heels. Dad and I started changing tires, taking all of the tires off both cars, switching them, and putting them back on, the equivalent of changing 8 tires. Finally we finished, with no light left, chewed by mosquitoes, and me with very sore feet from crouching in the heels in gravel for so long. We scrubbed up on the factory floor (perks of having an engineer for a Dad!), and climbed exhausted into the still-working van to pick up Ed from work and Mom from the house. Alas, said still-working van was no longer working. Dad and I look at each other. He realizes that the wheels must be just slightly different enough that they’re pushing on the brakes, thus preventing us from rolling, even though we’ve done this tire-switching business before on other cars with no ill effects. We sigh. Climb out of the car, take off all 8 tires again, switch them back, put them all back on. Two and a half hours after we got there, we finally finished, cleaned up once more on the factory floor (the workers were laughing at us, I’m pretty sure…we were covered in grease), and finally left that miserable patch of gravel with one working car. The funny part is, I had just been thinking that while I had a vague working knowledge of how to change a tire, I’d never actually had to do it, and it would probably be a good experience. Be careful what you wish for, children, for ye may well get it in the form of 16 tires to be changed.