Ordered my MINI on Saturday. Have to wait until November. Want it now. Pout.

So very distracted. I don't want to work on recreating a parking garage in CAD from 26-year-old drawings when I could be contemplating the wonders of my future new car.

This will be the first car of mine that I want to have pictures taken of me hugging it. ManThing said he figured I'd also take a picture with me in the trunk, popping out of the sunroof, and- if I could remove the engine-popping out of the hood. Like an Oompa Loompa. Pop! "Hellooo!"

I've been in love with the new MINI for nearly two years, but I've been stuck in a four year lease on the GeneriCar. The GeneriCar has been a perfectly reliable vehicle, but it's time for me to have a car where I don't have to turn off the AC in order to accelerate.

Is it November yet?

How about now?

Pout.

Where the hell is that vaccine?!?

Plagued as I am by recurring episodes of discontent with my profession, I came to the conclusion that architecture is the career choice equivalent of suffering from lupus.*

Here's what the Mayo Clinic has to say about architecture:**

Architecture is a chronic inflammatory disease that can affect many parts of the body, especially the mind, stomach, and wallet. Flare-ups of architecture tend to come and go throughout one’s career, and they may cause the sufferer to feel burned-out, anxious, and frustrated.

Architecture occurs in several types, including systemic undermining of cumulative knowledge (SUCK), and bullshit level overload (BLO). BLO is the most common type and causes the most difficulties. It can lead to problems such as frustration, ulcers, binge drinking and career failure.

For many people, architecture is only a mild annoyance. For others, it may cause serious mental illness and even quality-of-life-threatening problems. More than 16,000 people in America develop architecture each year. It is estimated that any where from 100,000 to over 200,000 Americans have been diagnosed with architecture.

The diagnosis and treatment of architecture has improved tremendously in the past few decades. If you take care of yourself and get proper medical treatment, you usually can still lead an active, healthy life.

* If you came here actually looking for information on lupus, try here or here.

**Note to Mayo Clinic: Don't sue me.

Karma's a bitch...but so am I

It just occurred to me that I very likely got this sinus thing as a result of stealing nips of someone's flavored coffee creamer from the office fridge.
They've probably licked the bottle.
Serves me right.

Why can't I install a cot in my cube?

During architecture school, insomnia was a bearable affliction to have. To a degree, it was even a desirable affliction- sometimes my designs would benefit from the trippy sense of detachment that several days’ worth of sleep deprivation inspired. My school schedule was such that I worked, for however many days necessary, until I finished the project. When the project was finished, I slept. In the interim, I could steal time and energy away from other pursuits to fuel my body’s need for sleep: dressing like a slouch, not fixing meals, not doing laundry. Falling asleep in class would do, in a pinch.

When working an 8-to-5 job, insomnia is not a bearable affliction. My schedule is the same all the time. I need sleep every day. There is no opportunity to catch up in 15-hour spurts like I used to- I’d have to take vacation or sick time for that now. “The project” is never finished once you begin working. I can’t wear pajama pants to work, I’m too old to subsist solely on turkey jerky and orange slurpees, and laundry must be done- for both myself and my husband. Falling asleep in a meeting is a definite way to get myself canned.

Before I became a cubicle drone, not being able to sleep didn’t bother me as much. I saw the insomnia as an opportunity. I could read, watch a movie, do any number of things in place of sleeping. Now, I know that I must sleep- or risk certain death from falling asleep on the Tollway during the morning commute. So I try. And try. I fail. I still try. I still fail. This is an all night endeavor; I usually get two hours of unconsciousness as a reward. Except for the nights that I don’t. Try as I might, my stupid body or brain or whatever is running The Freakshow That Is Me won’t let me sleep. I feel much like I did while in the depths of depression- unfocused, groggy, detached- except that, strangely, my mood is much better.

What I can’t figure out is what the hell triggered this? Was there some shift in the CAD Monkey Continuum? Did someone move my cubicle wall 3 inches? Has The Dog been playing subliminal messages in the middle of the night?

I guess I’m just screwed indefinitely.

Yawn.

CAD Monkey: I hate the stupid “youngest one at the table has to write the meeting minutes" rule!

Lori: Do what I do. Write short sweet notes and get the boss to review them and he will end up writing most of them.

For example:
Reviewed previous meeting minutes with client: Approved
Reviewed plans. Minor modifications made: See new plan

End of meeting......hehhehe

CAD Monkey: It's more like, "Attendees watched designer throw huge hissyfit because the project team changed his design, but he hasn't bothered to show up to the last three team meetings."

The cat is the Good One right now

Parents always seem to have at least one story about something gross involving their offspring and poo. Although it doesn't involve an actual child, I think today's mishap in the CAD Monkey household can safely join, if not surpass, the poo stories I've come across so far.

Background Item #1: A few months ago, after a full week in which ManThing and I came home to various and assorted "presents" The Dog had left on the bathroom floor, we decided to put her in doggie diapers. She no longer has accidents, as long as the diaper is on.

Background Item #2: We have a Roomba. This handy little vacuum roams around in circles, then stops itself when it thinks it has picked up enough dirt. Before I left the house this morning, I set it to clean the bathroom and hallway floor.

When I pulled into the garage this evening, ManThing met me outside the door with a look of severe trepidation upon his face. He said, "I tried to call you, and warn you to stay clear of the house for a little while."

"Why? What broke?"

"Nothing broke, it's just that I forgot to put the diaper on The Dog this morning. She must have gone into the bathroom right after we left."

Roombas, vigilant little creatures that they are, don't stop for puddles- or anything that isn't completely solid, for that matter. I'm sure you can imagine the carnage that ensued from this combination of events. However, if you can't imagine, I'll spell it out in gruesome detail: The Dog had crapped in the bathroom, and the Roomba then proceeded to spread the poo all over the bathroom floor and hallway. Although ManThing had managed to clean up the worst of it before I got there, there was still a nasty haze all over the affected floor.

ManThing was so angry with her that he had put her in the broom closet.

If I weren't on meds right now, The Dog would have become permanently accident-free due to my foot in her ass.

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Monkey

When I'm sitting in a conference room with the project team, envisioning myself leaping across the table, anime-style, complete with 8-second hang time, to "tell" the designer what I really think of his latest ideas, does that mean I am imaginative, or is it just The Crazy?

And was it wrong that I thought up that image while I was supposed to be taking meeting notes?