Work was fairly quiet this week, the high or low point, depending, being the careful page-by-page comparison of two sets of 490 documents, to make sure that they were properly copied, before sending them off to a judge to inspect in camera and decide whether they should be disclosed or not. And hey, I found an error, so it was worth it.
Otherwise it was a heavily house-oriented week. The dryer broke and was fixed. The central AC was turned on for the first time and works beautifully. The deadbolt on the front door refused to turn (meaning we couldn't lock the door at all) and was fixed. The slate roof was fixed (just the usual spring repairs), and a vent was replaced because it was installed badly. And the chairs for our patio furniture set finally came in, meaning we no longer have a nice dark wrought aluminum table surrounded by white plastic chairs.
I also got back to the project of refinishing the built-in bookcases on either side of our fireplace. This had been my project while we were working on the house in January, before we moved in, and had rather fallen by the wayside since. For some reason I just didn't really feel like working on them. I said I would this weekend, though, and managed to get them finally in good enough shape to actually start staining. Next weekend, hopefully.
Part of the problem with the bookcases is that it involves putting tarps over everything in the living room and kicking up a lot of dust (power sanders are wonderful inventions, by the way), so I hate to do it when someone else is home. Chad's away this weekend, though, so it was the perfect opportunity. I had big plans for a weekend by myself: replace the pair of shoes that I'd ruined at Williams by stepping in the mud, unpack the rest of my paperbacks and see how many more freestanding bookshelves we needed, put our stacks of papers in our new filing cabinet, cook something that Chad wouldn't eat, do all the laundry, get the book log up-to-date . . . I know, I know, I'm such a wild thing.
I didn't get to all the laundry, the filing, or the book log. I blame this on the fact that cell phones are pieces of junk. Both mine and Chad's died within the last couple of weeks; Chad's displayed a cryptic error message and refused to even acknowledge it was a phone when the tech people looked at it. They replaced it. This week mine refused to charge, and it took approximately four epochs for the tech people to decide that it also had to be replaced. (I'm not saying they were bad, because they weren't, just that it was a long process.) I think someone's planned obsolescence calculations were a bit off the mark: the phones had year warranties, and they both died at six months. Granted, this probably means they're going to die again in another six months, but still.
The food that Chad won't eat, quiche Lorraine, came out well. Fortunately, a beer bottle and plastic wrap will substitute passably for a rolling pin—I really thought we owned one.
Chad won't be home for another hour, at least, and I was planning to go to bed, but I'm going to stay up. There was a, well, I'll just say a highly unpleasant bug that crossed my path not so long ago, and I'm really extremely wide awake as a result. (By the way, Dustbusters are excellent insect removers, though I'm making Chad empty this one out. Go ahead, laugh; he will too. But he'll do it. Readings of character.)