I kinda forgot: the light switch was replaced without any serious issue, although I still get twitchy if anything smells even remotely like burning.

For example: I came home last night to the faintest smell of ‘smells like wood burning’, and I had to check absolutely everywhere. It was probably a smell that drifted in from one of the neighbours having a little fire outside.

Yesterday, though….

I knew yesterday wasn’t going to be fun before Thursday happened, but Thursday just added to it.

See, I had an appointment — a girl-parts type appointment, because I have those, and it’s some sort of big Girl Law that you have to have them checked out once a year.

I wasn’t going to duck out this time, though, because, well, I was promised a lack of The Horrible Test, and even the slightest peek would maybe catch something weird, like a fetal infestation in my fallopian tubes.

Yes, this is something I’ve actually been worried about, since it’s a risk associated with having an IUD. A tiny one, but guess what’s also tiny? That’s right: a fetus.

And I really do not want them having a party in my fallopian tubes. Those parties get rowdy, and they can trash the place so badly your tubes get condemned, and they send someone in to tear them down. And you can’t rebuild in fetal-party-land.

While all that was going on, I was waiting for a call that I was sure would come while I was awkwardly tensed against the little foot-things, sure that physics would be like, ‘Watch this, it’ll be funny’ and send my be-speculumed self sliding crotch-first into the doctor.

It didn’t, though. My phone remained silent, and physics did its fucking job, and I got out of there with the last ten percent of my dignity intact.

Just in time to nervously cross a very busy street, and refuse to cross an even more dangerous entrance and exit to a highway to meet up with someone. We met up at Toys R Us instead, and headed off to the mall — because I felt I’d earned a Cinnabon.

First, though, I was impatient. I wanted to get that title shit fixed. I made the call myself.

I got transferred to the main office.

The main office transferred me to ‘someone in Titles’ — which is confusing, because they’re nothing but a Title company, right? So why do they have a department within themselves to handle Titles?

Answering machine. Joy. I fucking hate those. Fine, this is me, this is my number, call me back.

And they did. But they asked for ‘Cathleen’.

Jesus fucking christ you guys, seriously? Are you the Title Company that only employs people who have a unique form of brain damage — either congenital or caused by traumatic injury, of course — that causes people to be unable to keep names straight?

So I head back outside, explain that ‘Cathleen’ is not my name, and never has been, but it’s funny you should make that mistake, because, hey, you guys got my name wrong!

We have a little chat. And yes, this certainly is a problem, isn’t it? Oh, this is funny, I see here that you crossed out, initialed, and then corrected your name on the original documents, and I guess someone entered it wrong here. Perhaps you could get your lawyer to draw up a Quit Claim Deed?

Lawyer? No, the county tax people said that this was something you could fix electronically. Very easy.

The person on the phone said that they’d have to call the underwriters to see if they were able to fix it. And that they’d call me back.

Two stores later, they did. To tell me that I’d have to call the underwriter.

Uh huh. Fine. Okay, I’ll do that.

And I did. And the underwriter guy said that the title company had me call him because the title company didn’t want to deal with me.

I’d been pretty nice up to this point. Polite with a side of pleading, actually. All I wanted was to get this shit straightened out. But no, apparently I’m ‘difficult to deal with’ because I want them to do something they were supposed to do in 2004.

Something I, by the way, signed a limited power of attorney over. Seriously. It’s in my closing documents. Which I still have all of.

Curiously absent? The insurance policy for the title that I had to pay for.

Fine, though. I’ll call back the number at the title compa–fucking answering machine. Again. What, are you screening your calls now?

I told them this:

Okay, the guy at the underwriter told me that you just sent me on a wild goose chase. I don’t like this game, and I don’t want to play. The reference number is useless to them. They need a copy of the policy, which you’re supposed to have.

I’ll probably have to call them again on Monday.

After I’ve spent the weekend researching things and arming myself, because transferring me because you think that polite-and-pleading me is too hard to deal with is a declaration of fucking war.

Oh. After all that, I did get a Cinnabon, and then I finally saw the new Star Trek. I was slightly amused by the way it made a mockery of Wrath of Khan. I was annoyed when I thought that Scotty would be out of the film. I enjoyed seeing Cummerbund Bandersnatch not being that much different from Sherlock — I think he spoke a little more slowly, and a slightly different flavour of not-really-good.

It really felt like they were setting up for a TV series with this cast. And, y’know what? I’d probably watch it.

Until the lens flares gave me my first ever seizure. Then I’d wait for someone to release an unofficial de-flarified version, or something.