In keeping with the now-famous Internet/Facebook meme: Go home, Friday. You're drunk.
You can see lots of examples of the meme applied here: http://www.boredpanda.org/best-go-home-youre-drunk-meme/ . The meme apparently started--well, never mind, you can read its history at the site I just linked.
Fridays are often considered joyous days of joy, for they mark the end of many peoples' laborious work weeks. When the whistle blows on Friday, either literally or figuratively, it's time for many a tired soul to head home, pop open a beverage of his or her choice, and relax, knowing that the weekend, with all of its relaxing chores and errands, has finally arrived.
Today, though, sucked. For me, anyway.
First paycheck at the new job: yay! Not so yay, though, is that first paychecks are always paper checks that have to be taken to the bank before they can be worth more than the ink they're written with. At that point, unfortunately, you're at the bank's mercy in terms of whether they decide to release the funds immediately, midnight that night, or even several days hence when they're finally convinced that an ADP payroll check cut off of frickin' US Bank isn't likely to bounce.
The reason I'm not with that regional Southern bank with the green logo any more is that they really did seem to base the length of time for release of funds for any deposited check on a roll of a die: "Yeah, that d20 came up critical, so, um, yeah, you'll gain use of these funds sometime before Christmas, I'm sure." Wells Fargo, my current bank, does a lot better, but even they don't release the funds till midnight. Can't cash the check either, because I don't have that same amount of funds already in the account--never mind the fact that if I already had the funds in my account, I wouldn't be looking to cash the dang check.
Grr. I hate banks. One of these days I want to own one just because. I'll hold Policy-Writer Whipping Days, with extra strokes of the lash for policies that make it harder for patrons to use their own dang money.
The power/gas/water company was supposed to be out sometime between eight and eleven to turn on everything (including the kitchen sink, in this case). Now, I've always liked the gas company agents because they're always a lot smarter about making sure I don't blow the place up than I am. Therefore, I took the morning off of work to keep the door open warmly for the gentleman-ruler of the furnace.
He finally showed up after noon.
...and--get this--he wasn't late.
When they say eight to eleven here, they mean eight "ay em" to eleven "pee em." That really peed me off, too, as I waited while thinking about all the work piling up at--well, at work, go figure--while sitting there with no lights or air or fans or anything.
But finally he came--yay! He got everything turned on except--well, except one of the more important things: the hot water heater. Yes, I know it's redundant to say hot water heater but I don't care. The point is that it's the only device in the household, other than the small-scale microwave and the stove, capable of heating water. It's the only device in the household at all capable of heating enough water to transform my shower from a screaming fest to a pleasant experience.
Took us a while to find the darn thing. I hadn't seen hide nor hair of a cylindrical tank that, interestingly enough, has neither hide nor hair on it. He looked up into the attic, which seemed a funny place to me since I'd always seen water heaters in garages and closets before, and didn't see it. That set off a frantic Stephen-search through the house; I feared he would leave at any minute without giving me my hot water. Finally I climbed back up into the attic, and climbed back down nearly immediately since there was no light up there. He went up with a flashlight and found that the dastardly device had uncloaked itself--thar she blows! Or not--bad choice of allusions, that was.
Wouldn't start, though. The sparkie thing wouldn't spark. The professional gas-passer dude said something more formal, as I recall, something about the igniter not functioning when initiated. See, the igniter is this sparky thing that is supposed to throw a spark into the gas stream when a button is depressed. When it doesn't work, there's no spark, which in turn makes for no pilot flame, which in turn makes for Stephen's Cold Showers.
Dejected, I called the property manager and asked that he get on the matter with some degree of haste, since nobody wants to be around me after a weekend of avoiding cold showers. He agreed. I asked if I needed to be there. He said he'd have the guy call me. I went to work.
I know it's committing an epic un-Friday-ness to celebrate work on that day, but there were things I had to get done or else I'd need to go in over the weekend. I only had a few hours, too, since the cable/Internet company was scheduled to be out between five and seven.
That's five and seven pee em, if you're wondering. I love my Internet as much as, and probably more than, most people, but no way in hell am I up for the other alternative.
I was almost to work when the cable/Internet dude called me to remind me that I was set for between one and three, and to let me know he was probably going to be there at about two thirty, ish. He'd be sure to call me again once he was on his way over.
I sure hope those people can run Internet services better'n they can schedule service calls.
First item of duty at work: an appeals hearing. See, nearly anything that happens to a student can be appealed by that student, and occasionally someone takes us up on the opportunity. We always grace that with all the formality we can grant it; after all, we want the student to know they got a fair shake no matter how many times the Dean makes the two-syllable reference to the feces of a male bovine while reading the appeal letter in private.
We'd just finished the hearing when my cell rang. Talk about bullshit--the timing, not the hearing. We deliberated quickly and came to a unanimous and well-considered decision, and then I raced back to the parking garage and drove to the new home-wet-home.
Yes, I said wet.
In the two hours it had taken me to drive to work, attend to the appeal, and drive back, the property manager had acted successfully. He'd gotten the carpet shampooed. I have no warm water yet, but at least there were clean, if slightly soggy, carpets for the cable/Internet installer dude to tread across and get dusty. And he didn't have a DVR with him--apparently everyone else has become as addicted as I to those damned recording boxes, so the warehouse was clean out of them, he explained. Instead, he was bringing an HD cable box for the non-HD TV that we use DVR on, with the promise that it would be replaced with an HD DVR as soon as one became available.
I resigned myself to playing Sudoku. That's a good Friday game.
Go home, Friday. I wanna get drunk....