Summer Hours Or Lies I Tell Myself

A little before three the boss stopped by my cube to say that the word has finally come down: we’re on summer hours.
This pretty much only means that we get to leave at three on Fridays. Considering that I normally leave at four, this doesn’t mean all that much to me, but I’ll take what I can get.
(I may also start going in later on Fridays in order to enjoy the full advantage that the rest of my co-workers gain.)
Of course, there are trade-offs for everything; my commute home found me in the midst of much more traffic than I would be in had I left at four, as every other employer has, apparently, also initiated summer hours.
What did I do with what little extra time I ultimately gained, you ask?
Well, as I was down to about an eighth of a tank, I stopped to get gas, though that was after stopping at an ATM to get some cash, as my wallet was also coasting on fumes.
Then I stopped at the comic shop to pick up this week’s books. I’d headed out that way on Wednesday to pick them up, before deciding that I wanted to get something to eat and turning in the opposite direction of the comic shop and picking up Scott to have blunch at IHOP with Scott. On the way to the comic shop after that I remembered that new books wouldn’t be out until Thursday due to the holiday. Thursday I couldn’t stop there, as I needed to get home to have my fancy blinds installed. Thus today became the appointed day.
Upon arriving home I used the extra time to sit around and do not much of anything, before eating a bunch of mini-Snickers and watching last night’s episodes of The Daily Show and The Colbert Report and eventually finishing off the quarter of a watermelon that I’d bought the other day.
The stress of traveling had an impact on my already weaker than usual immune system, so the effects of being surrounded by people – and more specifically children – and being jammed into an enclosed space with them for an extended period of time, led me to develop a cold, so, with TV watching out of the way, I opted to take a nap.
I got up from that, feeling worse than I had, watched The Simpsons, and then tried to convince myself that no, my life is not, in fact, sad and pathetic just because of how I spend my Friday evenings. “You have nobly chosen,” I told myself, “to live a quiet life of asceticism and contemplation, rejecting the hurly-burly of the modern world and choosing to keep your thoughts as your company.”
Failing to convince myself of that, I cooked a frozen pizza and sat down to watch last night’s episode of Reno 911! on my DVR.
And now, I’m writing this entry.
I had intended to finally get around to writing about my time in Michigan – complete with the handful of pictures I took; only a handful because I am, as I’ve often mentioned, a lousy tourist – but I also want to take some time to watch some of the movies that have been eating up the ever-dwindling space on my DVR for some time now, so I guess you’ll just have to wait.

This Entry Contains Filler

I spent most of the afternoon working on a rather lengthy entry – a review and analysis of the Jack T. Chick film The Light of the World – that I’m not entirely pleased with and which I think needs to be retooled significantly before being posted.
So I’m not sure when/if you’ll get to read it, but I hardly think that constitutes a major loss.
I never got a call from the shop so I guess my car wasn’t finished by the end of the day.
I called my realtor to let him know what happened at my meeting this morning. Turns out he already knew, as he’d talked to the finance guy, and he said that there’s probably a lot we can do in terms of getting the price lowered on the property I’m interested in, which is good news, I think. I’m having to guess, as most of what he said …ounded…ike…is…utting…nd…out…efore dropping off completely.
When I tried calling him back I got his voicemail, so I have no idea what exactly he had to say on the subject.
When I was leaving the mortgage office this morning, the guy I’d been talking to noticed the ankh on the back of my neck and asked where I’d gotten my tattoo done.
Not wanting to say, “I got it in rehab” while standing in the lobby of an office building, I said, “Let’s just call it homemade.”
The office building is actually located in the little town center by that nice theater that Scott and I sometime go to. Since I was there, I had thought about taking in a movie afterwards, but the only movie I would have wanted to see – Knocked Up – wasn’t showing until after noon, and I didn’t feel like hanging around that long.
While I was waiting for Scott and Jamie to arrive at Uno’s for lunch, some guy came up to me and asked for directions on how to get to 28 South. I told him what I thought was the best route, while some lady whom he’d asked earlier sat listening and nodding her head. After he was on his way the lady said that she had a hard time trying to visualize the best route, which is why he’d had to turn to me after talking to her.
We chatted for a little bit until the person that she was meeting showed up. I told her about the time I’d lived in Red Wing and had been out walking one afternoon shortly after moving to where I was living at the time. A couple pulled up alongside me and asked me how to get to a certain street. I was forced to admit that I’d only just moved there and didn’t know any street names. They thanked me anyway and turned around and drove off in the opposite direction. Shortly after that I got to the end of the block and found myself at an intersection with the street they’d been looking for.
After her friend arrived and they went inside I thought to myself that this was just another example of how I never get to have chance encounters with attractive young woman, as this lady, while pleasant enough, was probably close to my mother’s age.
My own preferences aside, I don’t think even my mother is desperate enough for me to meet someone that she’d want me hooking up with someone in her age bracket.
Still, why couldn’t it have been an attractive woman my age? What is the universal law that prevents me from ever being in a circumstance in which I can just have this random chance encounter with someone other than guys and women in their 60s? Single women in their 30s don’t eat lunch?
Granted, even if I did have a chance encounter with someone other than a guy or a member of AARP the odds are that nothing would come of it, but it would be nice to find that out for certain.
Oh well.
In any case, this was mostly just a filler entry to make up for the entry I didn’t post, and seeing as how I’m not really under any obligation to post at al, I suppose I can bring this to a close.