The devil is in the details

A key problem

Today was probably the best day I've had this week. I was certainly the least grumpy today. I was also very busy and productive (at least from 8-3), which was nice. Also, it turns out that the little fits I've had over lab space issues the past few days paid off. Today the offending parties moved out of my space and back to their own. I feel kind of bad, as if I am being crazy and arguing about my Swingline stapler, but not too bad since I won. :) Nothing particularly GREAT happened today, but it was fantastic in comparison to the previous three days.

And then I got home.

I got home around 5:30-5:40. I was looking forward to chilling at home and the thought of a nap had even crossed my mind. I set down my bag (including my laptop, cell phone, wallet etc.) on the bed and went out to get the mail. Our mailbox is in the lobby outside the apartment, but we keep our mailbox key in the kitchen (don't ask.) I went outside, got the two pieces of junk mail from the mailbox, unlocked the lobby door and went inside, and then tried to unlock my apartment door. The key stuck, so I wiggled it around a little, at which point it snapped in half. I was able to pry the broken piece out of the lock, but then I was out of luck. My cell phone, useful to call either one of my roommates or my landlord, was of course in the apartment. I don't even pay attention to phone numbers anymore, I just store them in my cell phone. As I thought about it, I realized that I knew three numbers: my own cell phone (unhelpful), my parents' house in New York (unhelpful), and that of my former roommate K. who is currently on her honeymoon in Costa Rica (unhelpful). The next closest thing I had was that I remembered that my friend John's number was (area code)-something something something-JOHN. I was pretty sure he would also be unhelpful, and I also doubted that someone nice enough to lend me their cell phone would have the patience to let me try all possible "something, something, something" combinations.

So I sat in the stairwell. First a realtor came by with someone looking at one of the empty units in our building. Then the undergrads who live above us came through. The realtor and her client then left. Next, a nice man who lives upstairs came by. He actually talked to me instead of ignoring me, asking what had happened. We joked a little about how I was having some time for peaceful meditation and how I was the new apartment watchwoman and then he left. Then, the woman who lives next door came by. Finally, the man who lives in the top-most unit in the building came through the door, becoming the representative of the last unit in the building and the eighth person to walk by and not offer assistance. I was saved a minute or two later (at 6:30) when one of my roomates came home. It was not fun, but at least I am in the apartment now and we've figured out a key replacement.

Why couldn't we at least have had more interesting mail today? Can someone please talk to Vogue and have them coordinate their magazine schedule with the days that I have to sit in the stairwell? That would be a much better scenario then my reading the sale circular for Linens and Things.

posted by Immunegirl @ 7:54 PM