The first one is always the hardest

I just sent off my first article for this year’s Daily, appearing in the enormous first-day edition on Wednesday. Be sure to get a copy! Don’t be afraid to throw a few elbows if necessary; you know how pushy those psychology students can be.

That’s the good news. The bad news is that it took me nearly three hours to write the damn thing. I’m definitely a bit out of practice after the long, idle summer and longer, idler (sort of) spring abroad. It turned out well enough, though – although you’ll have to pick up a paper to see for yourself, the CS servers being down for upgrades today. I can’t upload so much as a sigh to my web space.

There was more contributing to the long writing time than just performance anxiety, though. My landlady apparently has finally had enough of the condition of my back yard, and has called in outside help to correct my and Nathan’s years of neglect. Since before I woke up, there’s been a guy stomping around my patio area, clipping plants and generally tidying up. Heidi (the landlady) was on the scene for quite a while as well, looking over his shoulder and giving tips about how to best trim the bushes. There’s not a single clause in my lease about upkeep of the patio area, but the workman’s presence still has me feeling inexplicably guilty. I’ve spent the whole day in my room, hiding behind my closed blinds. I can still hear him snipping and clambering around out there, and it’s definitely detracting from my concentration.

To be fair, the backyard area was so overgrown that a Styrofoam cooler we hucked back there months and months ago was completely covered with ivy, just a nondescript lump in the verdure. I poked my head out the door a while ago, and saw that, in addition to cutting away all the ivy from the rock wall, the guy clipped the alder tree by the couch to a mere stump of its former glory. The area is neater, certainly, but you’d be hard pressed to convince me that it’s an improvement.

The worst part of all this is that I really, really want to go play Prince of Persia, but I just can’t bring myself to do it while this guy’s here. Lounging on the living room couch, playing video games, while he takes care of my yard for me just outside the big picture window… it just seems wrong. If I was a homemaker in the 50′s, I’d make a nice, tall pitcher of ice-cold pink lemonade and bring him a glass. But then, I’m not a homemaker in the 50′s, and this guy doesn’t look like the sort who’d appreciate that kind of gesture. Maybe I should go buy him a pack of cigarettes.