Thoughts on driving down the I-5...watching two big rigs pass each other is frustrating. The process is inexorably certain, but painfully slow. Sort of like the mating dance of tortoises.

Let's see. I'm not homeless anymore. I have my very own apartment only five miles from where I'll be working, a swinging bachelorette pad complete with fugly carpeting and sans air conditioning. Actually, it's rather nice...very spacious, very cheap, has a little patio area where I can grow herbs and barbeque and such, bedroom, living room, kitchenette, etc. No roommates to leave hair in the sink or have noisy late night trysts with five drunken frat boys. I'll probably die of loneliness, of course, but hey, that's the life of TEH WORKING GURL for you.

My landlady is awesome. A perfect caricature of landlady-ness; a leathery crone, with shockingly bright red lipstick, dark beetling brows, and a voice which sounds like she's been chain smoking since the age of 12. She's very nice, and I'm sure we'll get along fabulously, just as long as I don't smuggle in any pets, manufacture drugs on the premises, or buy an electric space heater (strictly verboten).

I'm not going to have the interweb for a while, or at least not until I can convince someone to hook it up (why is it so hard to get broadband providers to take your money? why?). Call me on the telephone if you simply must know my latest thoughts on whether to buy a futon or an air mattress, whether I need a spice rack, and so forth.