The mail came early today. In the mail were two, count 'em, two packets from USC. One had to do with the USCard, which evidently I can use everywhere on campus as an ID card and a debit card. (It doesn't say anything about using it as a floor wax, however.) The other packet had to do with registration for the fall semester and which classes I'm already signed up for.
Gulp.
Now I know my weekly schedule. I can even plan out my final exam schedule, not that most film classes probably have final exams -- "Your film meant to be deep and show man's inhumanity to man in what turned out to be a badly-lit, poorly-acted scene shot out-of-focus: True or False?" -- and I can figure out what my commute patterns are going to be like. (Answer: pretty good, except for Thursday mornings. Yuck.)
However, after poring over several pages about the registration process I'm still not sure whether I'm already signed up for the classes or I can register by phone from home or whether I have to register for classes I'm already in at USC later this month. This is what we in the tech writing biz called "badly written." This annoys me because it might affect that number you saw on the front page to The Paperwork -- when exactly I move down South.
The sooner the better, probably. Nothing like trying to find the supermarket, the gas station, and a Mace outlet all on the same day in a strange land.
(By the way, that number is set to 9am on Friday, the 16th. Obviously, if I'm driving down, I'm not really going to be in LA at 9am, unless I really speed.)
I also made some of those phone calls and visits I've been putting off lately.
I went by We Fix Macs and discovered that they'd moved even farther South, into San Jose. I was already at their old location on San Tomas Expressway (pronounced, "ex-pwee", so I drove the couple miles extra to see where they were now. Much bigger, much fancier digs. I asked the guy behind the counter for "Ramsey."
"Tall? Dark, handsome? That's me."
Oops, hadn't remembered him at all. Oh well. I showed him the Powerbook and asked if they had the spring for the hinge. "I remember that problem," he said, and then he checked for the part but came up empty. He said they'd order it and have it in next week.
Reportedly this hinge should take care of the monitor flutter, which would make me happy.
After that I drove over to Gold's Gym. Darin's been asking me to either use the membership or give it up -- it's not that he minds paying the monthly fee, he just minds paying for something I'm not going to use. (For this reason, I'm not allowed to buy diet drinks or How To Crochet manuals either.) I faced facts: I'm not going to use the Gold's Gym membership; I haven't used it for the past couple of months; it's time to say goodbye. I'm sure USC must have one or two athletic facilities on campus if I find I really miss it, because they have a couple of students interested in sports, probably intravarsity stuff.
The guy behind the counter handed me a form, to be filled out in triplicate, and an envelope with which to mail the form in to some central office. Oy. I'll mail those in with all the forms for the USCard.
I went home and dropped off a check for the cleaning people (who still hadn't shown up by 2pm -- strange) and called my GP to find out if the results from my blood test were back. They were. "They're normal," said the nurse.
Normal? I know I'm a histrionic hypochondriac and all, but there's something still wrong wth me, and the mouse in my throat has been roaring of late. To the point where I just don't want to eat because it feels so awful.
I mentioned the throat lump symptoms.
"Can you come in at 4:45 today?"
Fine, whatever. The doctor's just going to ask if I'm stressed, and I'm going to say yes, I'm stressed; I also seem to be having some thyroid problems. I'm beginning to suspect my doctor of incompetence. That, or she's trying to hide the bitter truth from me: I am, in fact, dying of a complicated and rare blood disease that kills me at a young age but at least leaves me looking fantastic up until the end, just like Greta Garbo in Camille.
(I've been in total Camille mode recently with all of my health problems. The other night, after a bout of retching and coughing, I lay back on the couch, draped my arm over my forehead, and gazed at Darin. "Promise me that after I die you'll marry again, and if you have a daughter, you'll name her Diane."
(For some reason, he refused to dignify that with a response.)
Actually, if this unnamed disease is going to kill me at a young age, it had better hurry up -- my birthday is next week. The birthday where the digits flip over and you can't make pretenses towards being young any longer. (Shudder.)
Rob and Laura -- that sound you hear is Rob bursting out with, "She's mentioned me again! Hurrah!" -- have recommended that I visit their endocrinologist (doc-who-studies-thyroids). I have two weeks in which to do it. Whatever the doc says today will help me decide.
Went out to dinner last night with Darin, Rob, Laura, CJ, Greg, Michael, and Sho. (I was actually having a terrible bout of the dry heaves, but I managed to keep from spoiling everyone's evening.) Laura, CJ, and I -- yup, all the chicks -- split a pitcher of Top Shelf margaritas and towards the end of the evening I don't think any one of us was making any sense. At least, Rob and Greg, who were sitting near us, were highly amused.
Michael mentioned that I was doing a great job of keeping fresh content on the Web...without being paid for it. I should have responded with a great quote I've heard a couple of times (I can't remember who said it, though): Writing is like sex -- first you do it for yourself, then you do it for friends, then you do it for money.
(Darin asks himself, Who are these friends she's talking about?)
I'm working towards getting towards the money part -- what's supposed to happen is that somoeone reading through the Web finds my page and is so impressed by my writing that I immediately get a phone call offering me hundreds of thousands of dollars to keep doing what I'm doing anyhow.
Failing that, writing every day will get my writing muscles back into shape. Also, I want to make sure I stay in contact with my friends up here whilst I'm Down There. Is it okay to mention that while I'm excited, I'm also scared? I feel like such a cry-baby for being nervous or apprehensive at all.