A day in the life

Sometimes I love my life.

For example, today.

It quickly became apparent that my cubicle-mate was eating lunch because 1) the overpowering smell of something spicy and very oriental swelled over the dividers, and then 2) the loud and incredibly aggravating probably-culturally-acceptable-in-some-other-part-of-the-world sound of him eating his soup kept time with the clock.

I took a break to use the bathroom, passed the bike in the walkway that hasn't moved in months but instead is defiantly challenging the passive-agressive "Bikes are not allowed in cubicle areas" sign just feet away, turned left at what used to be the US army's "I want you..." poster with "...to stay quiet" below but now reads "Help Create a Culture of Acoustic Courtesy" (I only wish that phrase were enclosed in quotation marks or asterisks), and finally got to the bathroom.  I took care of my business next to a lot of ruckus in a stall, then washed my hand as the now-finished ruckus-maker slurped water from the sink (how he found this more sanitary than partaking from the drinking fountains just outside is beyond me).

And then I got back to my computer where I should be working in Lisp on Recursion and Induction homework but instead am trying to figure out at what sampling rate I need to save an mp3 file so an incorrectly-sampled video can have the audio synced with the speaker's lips (if I reduce the rate to 45960Hz, by the way, it looks nearly perfect).


Swell.  All we need is some of the cribbage players to start up their rousing game in the corner with the cot and one of my other cubicle-mates to start talking on the phone in a language that sounds like it's using the N-word all too frequently.


If that doesn't make you envious, I don't know what will.

Revenge of the R^2, Part II: Retribution

Note:  This is part II in a 3-part series entitled "Revenge of the R^2."  For part one, please see this post.

They tried to asphyxiate us.

Really.

After bothering management several days in a row (including camping in their office – "Sorry, the smell is too overpowering to work in my apartment.  Is it okay if I work in here again today?"), they finally sent someone over.  The first go-round was pretty exciting.  The maintenance guy couldn't speak a lick English, and my Spanish is limited to "tu imagen esta grabada en mi alma," which probably wasn't very appropriate at the time, so I had a 3rd party translate over the phone.  I think quite a bit was lost in translation, but finally, after many confusing looks, my phone-a-friend told me to gesture wildly at the location I thought the mice were and say, "aquí."  I don't know how well I was understood, but when I came back later that evening, it seemed like they must have figured it out.  The following is an actual shot from our apartment.

Of course (how could I expect anything any different?) they were unable to find any mice nests in their inspection of the vents, so they left it open overnight to close the next day.  It wasn't all just bad news, because 1) the workers were having a hard time standing the smell (now they knew I wasn't just whining), so 2) they left a bottle of fairly powerful air freshener.

Unfortunately (this is sounding like a book I read as a young child), while the smell from the freshener is definitely overpowering, it is neither "freshening" nor "stress-reducing."  Now I have identified two smells that are migraine-inducing (another "fortunately"?).

When they came back the next day to replace the sheetrock, they had a english speaker with them, so I was able to ask a few questions.  Had they found anything in the vents?  No.  Were they going to look for them in more places?  No again.  Were they going to do anything else?  Not really.  Can't they tell this smell renders our apartment uninhabitable?  Uhh...  I mean, this is almost worse than living without water! (I kid, of course, but only slightly)  Yeah, sorry.  Well, there's a possibility that the air vents are what's causing the problem.  Could they at least just change the air filter?  The rodent/"freshener" combination is doing weird things to my mind.  We'll see what we can do.

And then, miracle of miracles, they found it.  A rather large mouse's skeleton in our closet AC vent.  From the looks of it, this thing was probably the size of a small elephant at its peak, and could have taken on several traps single-handedly.  (If you want to see the picture, I've included it offline here.  You might need to rotate it, and it's definitely not for the faint of heart.  Consider yourself warned.)


With the mouse gone, though, our problems still weren't solved.  The roaches hadn't left (management informed us our neighbors were the problem--which was a mixed relief/disappointment), and everything now reeked of dead mice and anti-fresh deodorizer.  We decided then and there we were getting out – and not just out of the apartment, out of the complex (ask anyone who lived there:  this wasn't just a "grass is always greener" scenario!)

Next time:  Part III:  Reinstated

I got sunshine in a bag

I have a computer science department mailbox I don't usually check, partially because it's not very convenient, but mostly because it usually just has junk from "Friends of CS" (tech companies pay money to the department for recruiting purposes).  Today I had a couple pieces of mail that were surely, from the looks of it, sent by Friends of CS.  One in particular caught my eye since it had what appeared to be a printing error on the address.  I figured it was just a form-letter that did a really good job of imitating handwriting (I'm always impressed with mass mailings that do a good job of this).

I opened the envelope and saw the following:

My first thought was that someone wanted my money.  No thank you.  On the way to the trash, I flipped it up to read the inside.

This was probably the best way to start an otherwise rough-starting week.  I don't know how long ago this letter was sent (I was the TA for this student last fall), and I'm super glad the department hadn't thrown it away (although they could have tossed the announcement about the pizza party last month).  But mostly, I'm glad this student (I removed his name so it would be anonymous) took the time to express his appreciation.  It was a small thing, but it made a big difference.

Thanks, [name removed for the sake of privacy]!

Gary

Gary and I met the other day at lunch:  he needed to send an email and I was working on my laptop.  Turns out he was en route to give up Christianity, thinking about becoming a hard-core bum in Florida (he's just soft-core right now), and also considering a job in Wisconsin.  Before Wisconsin could become a reality, he needed to get enough money for one month's rent.  Since none of the Christian churches he talked to would give him a dime, his decision path came full circle.  Gary seemed like a nice enough guy (his only "addiction" was the Diet Coke in his hand), but I've never felt good about giving cash to people I don't know, so I told him I couldn't help.

As we parted that day, I was immediately reminded of King Mosiah's sermon to those who have.  As a Christian and decent human being, it is pretty much required of us to given when we can–let God deal with the receiver's choices after that.  Right?  So I made up my mind I was going to help him, found his email address in my web browser's cache, and finally connected with him while he was in Champaign (a stop along the way to Wisconsin).

Wisconsin makes me think of cheese, and cheese makes me think of Gouda, which we all know comes from Netherlands, and while this isn't my picture, it looks exactly like the cheese festival I went to in Alkmaar.

To make a long story short, Gary wasn't serious about the job, nor was he very serious about the apartment, nor was he very mentally stable (that's a problem when you're homeless, I've been told), but the whole situation gave me a lot to think about.  If I can get someone back on their feet for only $250, I should do it, right?  Especially when it's individuals we're helping, not a "cause" in general.

With that resolution in mind, I gave the rest of my taco to a bum who asked for a bite.