I am not well acquainted with crushing defeat. I set my goals, make my plans and get to work, and at the end of the day, I usually get what I want out of life. Maybe this is because I only set my sights on things I know I can achieve and I don't dream too far out of the box. Maybe I only reach for the clouds and not the stars because when I was younger and my all-consuming dream was to be an actress and director (this is the girl who organized her cousins into mini-productions at the grandparents' house, that I wrote, complete with costumes, sets, and occasionally singing), and I was told I'm just not pretty enough to be an actress, and I should aim for something more reasonable. But that's a blog for another day.
When I was in elementary, I wanted to do Post-Secondary Enrollment in high school and take college classes then. I did, and I was the only student in my Junior class who made it into the program. Then I wanted to go to Bemidji State for graphic design. I did that too, and got a couple more emphasis on top of it. I wanted to drive a 2000 Honda Civic, with a stick shift - and I do drive it, when it's not in the shop. I wanted to live in Minneapolis, and work at a particular design firm there, and both of those things happened. I got the internship at least five of my classmates were competing for.
And here's where the crushing disappointment comes in. My boss told me Monday that my internship would not be extended into permanent employment. Through no fault of my own; I've been a fabulous employees and an asset to the company these last few months. But, Corporate is holding out on the fundage. I believe I babbled semi-coherently about this on Monday.
I am sad to be leaving. I like it here, I like the people. I like the neighborhood. I'm frustrated because I feel like I've been working my ass off all summer, and for what? I'm scared because I hate job hunting, and what happens if I can't find a job right away? I can't afford to be unemployed.
And a small part of me is excited and optimistic; this is a chance to start fresh, to go somewhere new. To have a mini-adventure. All those other emotions are drowning out the happy part right now.
I'm also happy because for some bizzare-ass reason, despite all the turmoil in my life, I'm sleeping full nights again. And I'm unhappy because my stomach is acting up and I lost my roll of Tums.
In unrelated news; this man is my hero (link here)
Cheers,
Alette
"Act as if it were impossible to fail." - Dorothea Brande
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Monday, August 4, 2008
*Insert Adequately Witty Title Here*
What a weekend! I was going to post about my trip to Podunk, North Minnesota to visit friends in my old college town. I was going to tell the story about the seediest damn place I've seen in a long time, and how it hurts my heart to see people take beautiful historic buildings, gut them, and turn them into a meat market thinly disguised as a bar.
I could have told the story about how I finally found and purchased a vest (I've been looking for one for months. Harder to find than you'd think), after which I crossed the mall hallway to the Borders where I met Super J and Roomie (who had just gotten her eyebrows waxed and her forehead was an angry shade of red), and before my verbal filter could be activated, I shouted out, "OH MY GOD! WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR FACE!!" Yes, people stopped and stared. And yes, I was the Asshole of the Day.
Or I could tell you about how I got so completely drunk Saturday night, I'm still recovering (no joke!) and that I couldn't tell you when I got that intoxicated last. For some reason, when I'm drunk I feel the need to call my buddy Mr. California. I'm being escorted down the sidewalk by Super J and the Modern Hippy (they've decided it's time to call it a night), screaming into my Blackberry:
"OHMYGOD!!!"
"IMISSYOU!"
"YOUSHOULDCOMEVISITME!"
"IMREALLYDRUNK!"
"IMINBEMIDJI!"
"YOUSHOULDCALLME!!!"
And later, while on the phone with another friend,
"OHMYGODJYOURDRIVINGTOOFAST!"
Super J is in reality slowly turning the corner by the apartment, but when I'm drunk the whole world turns into a funhouse. The floor moves at unexpected times, and no chair can be trusted. Oh course, I'm not wearing a seatbelt, and the centrifugal force is enough to make me fall out of the car seat. How does one fall out of the seat in a Honda Accord? How is there room to fall out of that seat? I have no idea.
But my fun story telling mood has been sullied by todays events.
My car is broken. Like, uber-broken. Again. F&$@&% car. I thought the wheel bearing was shot, since I've already replaced two of those (one in this car and one in another) and I'm well aquainted with the dull roar it makes. So my grandpa's mechanic is taking a look at it, and in the mean time I'm driving my roommates boat of a sedan.
I got the call from my grandpa with an update this morning. Not only is the wheel bearing shot, but so are the timing belts, and the water pump, and other "incidental things". It's quite possibly $1,000 broken. I am not happy.
And then......
My boss took me back into his formal office to tell me that he couldn't offer me a job when the internship is over. Not for any fault of mine, but Corporate just doesn't have any plans to hire in this office any time soon. A poor disicion on Corporates part, if you ask me. But no one is. I did not go drown myself in the toilet like I threatened. I decided to take a long lunch instead. I didn't originally intend it to be a long lunch, but I got lost trying to find the Burger King. My life is so sad.
I'm trying to be optimistic about it all. Now I have the opportunity to update my resume and a reason to redesign my webpage. I'm thinking moving away from the flowery/lavender/birdie/girly theme toward something a little more mature/bold/lavender and wine red/steampunkish..... it could turn out way cool if I do it right. It'll be a more accurate rendering of my personal flavor of design, a blending of the modern and the antique.
Farewell, I'm off to the liquor store
-Alette
"We find no real satisfaction or happiness in life without obstacles to conquer and goals to achieve." -Maxwell Maltz
I could have told the story about how I finally found and purchased a vest (I've been looking for one for months. Harder to find than you'd think), after which I crossed the mall hallway to the Borders where I met Super J and Roomie (who had just gotten her eyebrows waxed and her forehead was an angry shade of red), and before my verbal filter could be activated, I shouted out, "OH MY GOD! WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR FACE!!" Yes, people stopped and stared. And yes, I was the Asshole of the Day.
Or I could tell you about how I got so completely drunk Saturday night, I'm still recovering (no joke!) and that I couldn't tell you when I got that intoxicated last. For some reason, when I'm drunk I feel the need to call my buddy Mr. California. I'm being escorted down the sidewalk by Super J and the Modern Hippy (they've decided it's time to call it a night), screaming into my Blackberry:
"OHMYGOD!!!"
"IMISSYOU!"
"YOUSHOULDCOMEVISITME!"
"IMREALLYDRUNK!"
"IMINBEMIDJI!"
"YOUSHOULDCALLME!!!"
And later, while on the phone with another friend,
"OHMYGODJYOURDRIVINGTOOFAST!"
Super J is in reality slowly turning the corner by the apartment, but when I'm drunk the whole world turns into a funhouse. The floor moves at unexpected times, and no chair can be trusted. Oh course, I'm not wearing a seatbelt, and the centrifugal force is enough to make me fall out of the car seat. How does one fall out of the seat in a Honda Accord? How is there room to fall out of that seat? I have no idea.
But my fun story telling mood has been sullied by todays events.
My car is broken. Like, uber-broken. Again. F&$@&% car. I thought the wheel bearing was shot, since I've already replaced two of those (one in this car and one in another) and I'm well aquainted with the dull roar it makes. So my grandpa's mechanic is taking a look at it, and in the mean time I'm driving my roommates boat of a sedan.
I got the call from my grandpa with an update this morning. Not only is the wheel bearing shot, but so are the timing belts, and the water pump, and other "incidental things". It's quite possibly $1,000 broken. I am not happy.
And then......
My boss took me back into his formal office to tell me that he couldn't offer me a job when the internship is over. Not for any fault of mine, but Corporate just doesn't have any plans to hire in this office any time soon. A poor disicion on Corporates part, if you ask me. But no one is. I did not go drown myself in the toilet like I threatened. I decided to take a long lunch instead. I didn't originally intend it to be a long lunch, but I got lost trying to find the Burger King. My life is so sad.
I'm trying to be optimistic about it all. Now I have the opportunity to update my resume and a reason to redesign my webpage. I'm thinking moving away from the flowery/lavender/birdie/girly theme toward something a little more mature/bold/lavender and wine red/steampunkish..... it could turn out way cool if I do it right. It'll be a more accurate rendering of my personal flavor of design, a blending of the modern and the antique.
Farewell, I'm off to the liquor store
-Alette
"We find no real satisfaction or happiness in life without obstacles to conquer and goals to achieve." -Maxwell Maltz
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
The Anti-Disney
So there was a post here previously detailing my raging substance abuse. And then I realized that it made me sound like a raging substance abuser. So I deleted it. No one needs to know how many nights a week I mix alcohol and sleeping pills before bed.
Anyway.....
This website is the coolest thing for anyone interested in fair tales: http://www.brown.edu/Courses/FR0133/Fairytale_Generator/gen.html
(We all know my fascination for original, pre-Disney taint, fairy tales is rivaled only by my fascination with serial killers.)
Selecting my functions, I generated quite eloquent, but strange, sample of fairy tale-ishness.
"Sugar and spice," the old woman beckoned as she held out palms filled with cinnamon falling between her fingers like sand. As she sprinkled it across the floor my head swum up in a dizzy spell of hunger. I could no longer control my feet moving towards the cheap gimmicks of an old woman.
Under my feet I felt the rhythm of aches and sighs breathe with each step I took. I felt like I was walking on quicksand. And indeed, when I tried to move my feet I could not feel my toes but only the inability to move them on the surface of palpable danger. When I turned to ask for his help he only laughed. Then I began to think it was he who was making my feet turn to stone.
The little man handed what looked like a small wooden piccolo. The small, thin object looked old but not dusty like the man’s worn garments. "A single note from this musical stick will bring rain from the heavens to satisfy this thirsty land," the little man said to me. "But heed my words, should you be tempted to produce sweet melodies to entertain yourself and those around you, mother nature will heighten the aching of the earth around you: the sky will heave torrents of rain producing a monsoon that will be echoed by the quaking of the earth as it splits, spewing forth fiery magma that will consume you and your vanity.
My feet, wearing their newfound bottomed shoes, pressed gently across the soils as not to wake the men clamoring upwards. But I still felt a shadow trail at my footsteps that did not feel like my own. As I walked faster the shadow moved behind me as well, sometimes touching my bare skin with sodden ground.
My family pressed their hands on various swells of my body as they embraced me with joy.
A familiar gold and silken robe of dragon scales was placed in my hands on account of me killing the creature. For an odd reason I could not help but feel regret. The girl with the white hair and her foxlike sibling did not mean any real harm but only wanted to protect the mountain as the men of soil bade them do.
I reccomend anyone with time to kill give this a try. I've also added it to my blogroll to the right of the page.
Cheers,
Alette
"The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears, or the sea."
Anyway.....
This website is the coolest thing for anyone interested in fair tales: http://www.brown.edu/Courses/FR0133/Fairytale_Generator/gen.html
(We all know my fascination for original, pre-Disney taint, fairy tales is rivaled only by my fascination with serial killers.)
Selecting my functions, I generated quite eloquent, but strange, sample of fairy tale-ishness.
"Sugar and spice," the old woman beckoned as she held out palms filled with cinnamon falling between her fingers like sand. As she sprinkled it across the floor my head swum up in a dizzy spell of hunger. I could no longer control my feet moving towards the cheap gimmicks of an old woman.
Under my feet I felt the rhythm of aches and sighs breathe with each step I took. I felt like I was walking on quicksand. And indeed, when I tried to move my feet I could not feel my toes but only the inability to move them on the surface of palpable danger. When I turned to ask for his help he only laughed. Then I began to think it was he who was making my feet turn to stone.
The little man handed what looked like a small wooden piccolo. The small, thin object looked old but not dusty like the man’s worn garments. "A single note from this musical stick will bring rain from the heavens to satisfy this thirsty land," the little man said to me. "But heed my words, should you be tempted to produce sweet melodies to entertain yourself and those around you, mother nature will heighten the aching of the earth around you: the sky will heave torrents of rain producing a monsoon that will be echoed by the quaking of the earth as it splits, spewing forth fiery magma that will consume you and your vanity.
My feet, wearing their newfound bottomed shoes, pressed gently across the soils as not to wake the men clamoring upwards. But I still felt a shadow trail at my footsteps that did not feel like my own. As I walked faster the shadow moved behind me as well, sometimes touching my bare skin with sodden ground.
My family pressed their hands on various swells of my body as they embraced me with joy.
A familiar gold and silken robe of dragon scales was placed in my hands on account of me killing the creature. For an odd reason I could not help but feel regret. The girl with the white hair and her foxlike sibling did not mean any real harm but only wanted to protect the mountain as the men of soil bade them do.
I reccomend anyone with time to kill give this a try. I've also added it to my blogroll to the right of the page.
Cheers,
Alette
"The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears, or the sea."
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Mailbox! Open Mailbox!
The funniest goddamned thing I've seen on the interwebs in quite some time. Which just says that I haven't been spending much time on the internet. I spend all day sitting in front of a computer, and I can't even check my email on a regular basis. But that's another story for another day....
Monday, July 14, 2008
Suing God
I like to read the news. Usually when I'm supposed to be working. I like reading the random news off of sites like Fark.com and Digg.com. Which is where I come across gems like these:
The headline reads: "Man sues church, claiming the spirit forced him to fall."
Aparently this dude went to church and prayed for God to give him a real spiritual experience. God says "sure", reaches down, and pushes him over like the thirteen year old cousin you wish would play in traffic. Dude is now suing the church for $2.5 million because he got what he asked for.
Link to article: http://www.tennessean.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20080710/NEWS06/80710021
But wait! There's more....
Headline: "Can you sue the Almighty's publishers?"
A man in Michigan is suing the company that publishes the Bible because the Big B calls homosexuality a sin. Thanks to the Bible he has suffered from discrimination, general unhappiness, and a rift with his family. Apparently you can't blame the Bible for being a douche-bag.
Excuse me for a minute while I laugh hysterically. And then get sued by a pretentious gay man with too much time and money on his hands.
So this got me thinking. If the trend these days is outrageous lawsuits, I'm going to blow them all out of the water. I'm going to sue Satan for all the pain and suffering that's been dealt womankind. Here's how it's going to work:
If the Serpent hadn't tempted Eve, she wouldn't have bitten the damn Fruit. If she hadn't eaten the fruit, she wouldn't have offered it to Adam. And God wouldn't have gotten mad and kicking them both out of Eden. And since it's apparently all Eve's fault, she was punished with that Original Sin clause, and pain of childbirth, PMS, sexual discrimination, arranged marriage, nylons and stretch marks. All of which has been passed on to the female sex. And none of this would have happened if the Devil hadn't meddled.
Don't go trying to poke holes in my argument.... she didn't have to give in, God didn't have to put the tree in the garden and create the tempting situation to begin with, it's all a silly religious myth anyway.... whatever. Since when did facts have anything to do with litigation?
Maybe it'll be class action. Maybe I'll make the front page of Digg.com!
Hiring a good laywer,
Alette
"There is nothing worse than a sharp image of a fuzzy concept." -Ansel Adams
The headline reads: "Man sues church, claiming the spirit forced him to fall."
Aparently this dude went to church and prayed for God to give him a real spiritual experience. God says "sure", reaches down, and pushes him over like the thirteen year old cousin you wish would play in traffic. Dude is now suing the church for $2.5 million because he got what he asked for.
Link to article: http://www.tennessean.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20080710/NEWS06/80710021
But wait! There's more....
Headline: "Can you sue the Almighty's publishers?"
A man in Michigan is suing the company that publishes the Bible because the Big B calls homosexuality a sin. Thanks to the Bible he has suffered from discrimination, general unhappiness, and a rift with his family. Apparently you can't blame the Bible for being a douche-bag.
Excuse me for a minute while I laugh hysterically. And then get sued by a pretentious gay man with too much time and money on his hands.
So this got me thinking. If the trend these days is outrageous lawsuits, I'm going to blow them all out of the water. I'm going to sue Satan for all the pain and suffering that's been dealt womankind. Here's how it's going to work:
If the Serpent hadn't tempted Eve, she wouldn't have bitten the damn Fruit. If she hadn't eaten the fruit, she wouldn't have offered it to Adam. And God wouldn't have gotten mad and kicking them both out of Eden. And since it's apparently all Eve's fault, she was punished with that Original Sin clause, and pain of childbirth, PMS, sexual discrimination, arranged marriage, nylons and stretch marks. All of which has been passed on to the female sex. And none of this would have happened if the Devil hadn't meddled.
Don't go trying to poke holes in my argument.... she didn't have to give in, God didn't have to put the tree in the garden and create the tempting situation to begin with, it's all a silly religious myth anyway.... whatever. Since when did facts have anything to do with litigation?
Maybe it'll be class action. Maybe I'll make the front page of Digg.com!
Hiring a good laywer,
Alette
"There is nothing worse than a sharp image of a fuzzy concept." -Ansel Adams
Monday, July 7, 2008
Existential Crisis
Some days I feel the need to wax philosophically. Today is one of those days.
I'm feeling most displeased with my life today. Maybe it's the shitty conference call this morning, maybe it's Monday, a side-effect of the sleeping pills, the disappointinly short life-span of my BlackBerry battery. Maybe it's my unintentionally orange hair. I don't know. But I find myself sitting here at 2:41 pm questioning my life goals.
All of my life I have wanted to build things. I'm not even going to pretend I'm good enough at math to be an architect. I didn't feel I was pretentious to be an interior designer (thank you, silly world views of youth) So I picked door number 3. Exhibit Design: the bastard love child of architecture, marketing and interior design. I love it. It loved me. I thought I'd be happy doing this the rest of my days.
Today I'm not so sure. I blame my school for punching out as many graduates as possible, without properly preparing us for the real world. I mean, really preparing us. My education has to base in reality. There are no rules, regulations. Shit, even gravity doesn't seem to apply. When I stood up in front of the class to present my designs, no one questioned: how does it stand? How are you going to get electricity to those strangely placed light fixtures? For this I blame my teacher, that tie-died hippy in the corner who never taught us anything at all. We were given access to a 3D progam and told "have fun!" Never did we have to work within a budget, or in a group. It was all fantasy. It was all sunshine blown up our butts from the faculty telling us how amazing we were and that the world will love us.
So now I'm sitting at a shitty intern desk wondering if this is really what I want to do with the rest of my life. There is no sunshine. There is no fantasy. There is a 10x20 foot booth and a $15,000 budget, which really doesn't buy you more than a square of carpet and a tin of sardines.
If I stay here I'll barter in my soul and creative vision in trade for a project and a few extra buck. I'll become a marketing whore.
Wow. That was really emo of me. Excuse me while I go cut on myself for a minute.
Like I said, this is just a shitty day. And it's probably this project, which I haven't been feeling from day one. Tomorrow I'll probably love my life again. But I'll still be disappointed with my BB battery and my hair.
Cheers,
Alette
The Artist is nothing without the Gift. but the Gift is nothing without the Work.
I'm feeling most displeased with my life today. Maybe it's the shitty conference call this morning, maybe it's Monday, a side-effect of the sleeping pills, the disappointinly short life-span of my BlackBerry battery. Maybe it's my unintentionally orange hair. I don't know. But I find myself sitting here at 2:41 pm questioning my life goals.
All of my life I have wanted to build things. I'm not even going to pretend I'm good enough at math to be an architect. I didn't feel I was pretentious to be an interior designer (thank you, silly world views of youth) So I picked door number 3. Exhibit Design: the bastard love child of architecture, marketing and interior design. I love it. It loved me. I thought I'd be happy doing this the rest of my days.
Today I'm not so sure. I blame my school for punching out as many graduates as possible, without properly preparing us for the real world. I mean, really preparing us. My education has to base in reality. There are no rules, regulations. Shit, even gravity doesn't seem to apply. When I stood up in front of the class to present my designs, no one questioned: how does it stand? How are you going to get electricity to those strangely placed light fixtures? For this I blame my teacher, that tie-died hippy in the corner who never taught us anything at all. We were given access to a 3D progam and told "have fun!" Never did we have to work within a budget, or in a group. It was all fantasy. It was all sunshine blown up our butts from the faculty telling us how amazing we were and that the world will love us.
So now I'm sitting at a shitty intern desk wondering if this is really what I want to do with the rest of my life. There is no sunshine. There is no fantasy. There is a 10x20 foot booth and a $15,000 budget, which really doesn't buy you more than a square of carpet and a tin of sardines.
If I stay here I'll barter in my soul and creative vision in trade for a project and a few extra buck. I'll become a marketing whore.
Wow. That was really emo of me. Excuse me while I go cut on myself for a minute.
Like I said, this is just a shitty day. And it's probably this project, which I haven't been feeling from day one. Tomorrow I'll probably love my life again. But I'll still be disappointed with my BB battery and my hair.
Cheers,
Alette
The Artist is nothing without the Gift. but the Gift is nothing without the Work.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Aesthetically Unappealing
The unforgiving sun beats down on blistering pavement, slow roasting the road-kill squirrel from last week. I awake at night, flesh stuck to sweaty sheets. The lights flicker occasionally as the power grid is taxed to the limit. My second floor apartment is a brick oven. The only air coming in the ridiculously small windows is super heated from the roof of the building next door. If I can't find the cats, it's because they're in the dark bathroom, sleeping behind the toilet. It is both the most disgusting and coolest place in the apartment.
It's that time of year again.
I buy a small air conditioner at the Home Depot store. As far as a/c units go, it's a complete pussy. But it should keep my bedroom a few degrees south of roasting.
So here I sit, perched on the Stairs to Nowhere, contemplating the situation at hand. I have one window large enough to fit a small a/c through. Unfortunately it is one of those windows that opens on the side, cranked by hand. You know what I'm talking about. The kind not built for mechanical appendages. I love a challenge.
Step one: crank that damn thing open as far as it goes. Step two: remove the crank mechanism and store it safely away. Step two fails; the crank won't come off. So I heft up the a/c and jam it into the window, balancing it precariously on top of the crank box. I wedge small chunks of scrap wood in place to help balance it. It doesn't fall out of the window when I let go, which means I'm heading in the right direction.
I have purchased a chunk of plywood to seal up the top half of the window. It is square.... the space it has to fit into is trapezoidal. I slam the sucker into place, and screw it directly into the window frame, my maniacal laughter drowning out the buzz of the drill.
Let's step back and take stock of the situation. Bottom, a crooked air conditioner. Top, and equally crooked piece of wood. I'm doing good.
I proceed by stuffing bits of the foam insulation that came with the unit into the cracks and gaps. When I run out I resort to using the dish towels I don't really like all that much. Then I seal it all in.
The purple duct tape is a nice touch. There is a thick band of bubble gum purple around the edge of the window and along the seal between the a/c and the ply wood. It looks like shit. But the point is that it's pretty much air-tight.
Now for the moment of truth. I drag the bright orange extension cord across the bedroom to the nearest outlet. A set up that is sure to trip and kill me in the night as I stumble to the bathroom. But the humming from the window and the blast of cool air is a sweet, sweet symphony.
Flash forward a year. I'm in a new apartment, with marvelously large proper windows. And yet, I find myself sealing in the air conditioner with bits of foam, dish towels and duct tape. Silver this year, it matches the decor better.
My father would be proud.
It's that time of year again.
I buy a small air conditioner at the Home Depot store. As far as a/c units go, it's a complete pussy. But it should keep my bedroom a few degrees south of roasting.
So here I sit, perched on the Stairs to Nowhere, contemplating the situation at hand. I have one window large enough to fit a small a/c through. Unfortunately it is one of those windows that opens on the side, cranked by hand. You know what I'm talking about. The kind not built for mechanical appendages. I love a challenge.
Step one: crank that damn thing open as far as it goes. Step two: remove the crank mechanism and store it safely away. Step two fails; the crank won't come off. So I heft up the a/c and jam it into the window, balancing it precariously on top of the crank box. I wedge small chunks of scrap wood in place to help balance it. It doesn't fall out of the window when I let go, which means I'm heading in the right direction.
I have purchased a chunk of plywood to seal up the top half of the window. It is square.... the space it has to fit into is trapezoidal. I slam the sucker into place, and screw it directly into the window frame, my maniacal laughter drowning out the buzz of the drill.
Let's step back and take stock of the situation. Bottom, a crooked air conditioner. Top, and equally crooked piece of wood. I'm doing good.
I proceed by stuffing bits of the foam insulation that came with the unit into the cracks and gaps. When I run out I resort to using the dish towels I don't really like all that much. Then I seal it all in.
The purple duct tape is a nice touch. There is a thick band of bubble gum purple around the edge of the window and along the seal between the a/c and the ply wood. It looks like shit. But the point is that it's pretty much air-tight.
Now for the moment of truth. I drag the bright orange extension cord across the bedroom to the nearest outlet. A set up that is sure to trip and kill me in the night as I stumble to the bathroom. But the humming from the window and the blast of cool air is a sweet, sweet symphony.
Flash forward a year. I'm in a new apartment, with marvelously large proper windows. And yet, I find myself sealing in the air conditioner with bits of foam, dish towels and duct tape. Silver this year, it matches the decor better.
My father would be proud.
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