Last weekend we got a pile of mail sent to former residents of our apartment. I was looking through the list of names, including several we didn’t recognize, and was just getting ready to start writing “Not at this address” on all of them, when I noticed the postmarks. They were all from between 1997 and 2000!

I guess the Post Office must have found a box or two of lost mail, and just decided to deliver it. There were things that looked like they were from banks or collection agencies, and one that looked like a greeting card with “Happy Birthday Late” written on the back of the envelope.

Later than you thought…

I got in to work Friday and was accosted by the back-up receptionist, who was, in a word, poinging. “Guesswhatguesswhatguesswhat?”

“What?”

Says the actual receptionist, from behind her desk: “I’m pregnant.”

Maybe this explains her diagnosis of me.

Now that we’re mostly moved into the new server room, we’re running the air conditioner and keeping the door closed. Or at least trying to. The door frame is just slightly off, so that the door doesn’t close easily, and if it doesn’t latch, the air pressure difference pushes it open again.

It’s a bit disconcerting to walk into the room and close the door behind you, only to have it open again thirty seconds later… and no one’s there.