I am in a "Wet Hot American Summer" mood today. I keep thinking about Gene and giggling to myself.

Gene: (Over Coop's shoulder) "It isn't about the girl."
Coop: "It isn't?"
Gene: "It is...and it isn't."

Cue training sequence!

I moved into the condo; it went well and the place is funkariffically magical. That's a lot of magical. It really is nice and I am happy I did this. I still need to unpack some stuff and set my computer up but it's going well. It almost wasn't going well, though, when at 10:30 pm on Saturday, after a whole day of heavy lifting and moving that began at 6:30 am, I went to leave the condo and go retrieve Malcolm from the apartment, when I shut the screen door behind me and it locked. And it turned out the key I had on my keychain did not work in that particular lock-- the key I needed was still inside the condo, dangling from a green string in my kitchen. So I was effectively locked out. Making me sing a variation of the Chumbawumba song in my head. "I get locked out, I can't get in again/ I'm never gonna get back in!"

I called Trish, had her pull out the phone book and find me a 24 hour locksmith, and when I got to her place I called. I had a swig of apple martini, gathered up Malcolm and headed over to sit in front of my new home in the dark with my dog in my lap. It took about an hour and twenty minutes for the locksmith to show up at the condo. When the guy shows up, he is a young-ish guy in a long black leather trenchcoat, driving an old Datsun. He is wearing a pentacle on his neck, and carried a tiny little leather case with his lock-pickin' tools. While he worked, I could hear the leather of his jacket making that leather-creak sound. I asked him how one becomes a locksmith, and he said you do have to go to school for it and that the FBI and Interpol (yes, as a matter of fact it IS the band Interpol, fyi Kane) have to know all about you to make sure you aren't a terrorist or anything. It was interesting conversation to have with a Wiccan. Plus, I happen to have this little ceramic frog figurine-- a frog with a little gnome sitting on its back. It's sitting just outside my door. The locksmith looked at it and said, "Oh, I love gnomes!" and he meant it! How cool is that?! The leather-coated Wiccan locksmith who saved me from a night of sitting on my porch loves gnomes! Awesome.

I got in, OK, in case you are wondering, and the gnome-loving locksmith went home. I slept really well, and yesterday Trish and I went to Target and I got a TV. It's been a long-ass weekend and I need a nap. Oh, and remember we are only 7 days till President's Day, so start sending in your votes for Favorite President! I am still undecided, myself... I loved Reagan's hair, but I think that FDR was so much cooler. But Taft reminds me of Taffy, and that's OK by me.