Today is Friday, but this is not a Friday Five. I need to write one of those, but I cannot decide... would you rather have a "brain lint" sort of post listing various things I took note of but did not write about this week, or would you rather I gush a bit about the adorable and charming Josh Ritter, who I saw at The Cedar in Minneapolis the other night? You'll get one or the other; it just won't be until later today.
Meanwhile, I just had to tell someone (in this case, "someone" being "the Internet at large, or at least my tiny corner of it") what I just saw outside my window. Yes, I have a window (a patio door, actually... and to think, my friends sometimes neglect to recognize the few benefits a small company provides...), and I like to keep my coworkers apprised of various goings-on that I notice from this vantage point twenty feet above street level. I'm not unlike Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window, except, you know, not in a wheelchair and not witnessing any sort of murderous activity (yet). So really, I guess, not like Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window at all. Whatever.
Anyway, I work in a fairly modest sort of small-town neighborhood, a Stars Hollow-esque burb outside the city where ridiculous and pretentious vehicles are at a minimum. And although a famous movie star used to live a mere seven blocks from here (with her almost-as-famous long-term boyfriend and their children), there isn't a lot of hoopla or big-name hob-nobbing immediately adjacent. So I have no idea who the presumably important (or at least superfluously wealthy) man was who just pulled up in a shiny, fancy, black-windowed car in front of the condo building next door. I can probably count on one hand the number of times in real life when I've seen a backseat passenger wait while the hired driver got out, walked around the car, and opened the door to let him or her out. On the few times I have seen it, it has not been on a random street like this; the driver has not been sporting a messy ponytail and black windbreaker; and the passenger-of-honor has not been a surprisingly average-looking guy in last decade's jeans. Either that's the most down-to-earth millionaire in the Twin Cities, or that guy is making weird use of a "driver for a day" contest he presumably won. That or the driver is really just the guy's best friend, who probably has a decidedly un-girly name like Watts and who he talked into driving him around just to help impress a girl he wants to date. It'll never work out, of course; the girl won't be right for him, and the guy will just end up giving his life savings in the form of jewelry to Watts instead of her. Incidentally, I may have seen Some Kind of Wonderful a few too many times over the years. Moving on.
In entirely unrelated and equally not-so-noteworthy news, I balanced my checkbook last night for the first time in seven months. SEVEN MONTHS. I know that will not be shocking to some of you, as I am apparently one of only ten people in the entire world who still feels the need to balance that little book of lined pages rather than just trusting the number that displays in my account balance online, but I am still an old-school girl at heart, and I simply cannot understand a life in which I keep no personal record of the nebulous numbers floating in and out of my account. I let this task lapse through a couple bank statements, though, for no good reason other than my usual laziness, and when I finally gathered my unaccounted-for statements to balance at some point last summer, the total came out so drastically off, I didn't even know where to begin remedying it. So last night I tried again, checking my math on every page of my register since my last "Bal. OK" notation, and I damn-near did a dance of joy in my living room when I got the number to come out correct in under an hour. As an added bonus, I found $400 that I inexplicably just dropped from my balance sometime in August. (Math is hard, yo. Or I am just exceedingly careless.) So... whee! Perhaps I will do something smart with that unexpected extra cash, like put it in savings where it belongs. Or perhaps I will do something ridiculous, like hire a windbreakered ponytail girl to drive me around for a day. Must think on this, I guess.