Wrangler Dani

Today is a Day of Jubilee. Because today, our downstairs neighbors moved out.  Remember them? The ones who pounded on our door when we moved furniture and yelled at my husband for walking too heavily on the floor and followed me up the stairs to insist that we were maliciously doing violent aerobics in the dead of night for the sole purpose of keeping them awake?  Oh, right. You don’t remember. And how could you, as I never documented their atrocities in this public venue, as I was too polite scared spitless to do so.  Anyways, they are gone!  I am free to do laundry without fear of passive/aggressive notes (Yes, they left angry notes on our hamper about moving stuff out in a timely manner. Don’t EVEN get me started.) and can pull pots and pans from cupboards at will and bang them about as much as I please.  I spent a half-hour rocking back and forth on the Particularly Squeaky Floorboard in-between the bathroom and office, just out of sheer joy.

Today I went to the DMV. Well, let me back up. A week ago, I filled out an online form that I thought would get me my new Driver License.  Unfortunately, it was not a form, it was just a non-form craftily disguised, which finally told me that I had to call an 800 number to get the form I really needed. OK. I can make phone calls.  However, our street name is Spanish. And we have an apartment number. And computers are dumb. So Automated Voice Lady continually could not understand me, and put me on hold which is really the kiss of death in almost every situation. NEVER GO ON HOLD. It’s the Chateau D’If of telephones. After 45 minutes, I started to really believe the recorded warning that the wait time “could be more than 10 minutes”. At the 50 minute mark, the smooth jazz began to crackle and I was abruptly disconnected, and event which spiraled me into a deep despair, the kind which only chocolate chip cookies can restore.  So I decided to take matters into my own hands. I drove to what I thought was the nearest DMV, only to be greeted by a line OUT THE DOOR.  A sour-faced woman wearing a purple hat confided to me that the wait time was nearly four hours long, and seek as I may, there was nary a name-change form to be had.

Bleh.

I went to Target instead.

Today, however, worked out much better.  I found a closer, smaller DMV from the directions of my husband, (note to self, always listen to Adam rather than Google,) and was greeted by a sweet lady with 80’s hair, who seemed genuinely pleased for me and my marraige-y name change. I got a new picture and everything, and am now officially a Nichols in the eyes of the state. Yahoo!

I love getting my homemakey on.  For instance, I have a bunch of over-ripe bananas, I think that they’ll be delicious muffin material, and honestly nothing gets me more excited. (Well, maybe round-trip tickets to Rome would, but come now. In a girl’s day-to-day, baking muffins is about as good as it gets.)  I’m addicted to recording cooking shows and thumbing through my small collection of cookbooks, testing recipes and Adam’s tolerance for experimental cooking.

Married 37 days. Wowza.