I don't hate Bob Geldoff either.

So my title has nothing to do with my actual post other than the fact that I don't, in fact, hate Bob Geldoff.  *It's an inside joke, deal with it.*  What I do hate, however, is this god-forsaken Mac that I'm working on.  It's a travesty of cosmic proportions.  Really.

Now that that's out of the way.  Um.  Hi.  My name is Angela, and I am an internet addict.  I discovered this recently, after being deprived for over two weeks.  I did get my DSL line hooked up to the box at the house, but no one bothered to inform me as to whether or not I needed a modem or anything of the sort.  So I assumed it would all be taken care of.  Apparently I was wrong.  The guy shows up this morning, and I greet him in my night clothes (which luckily did include shorts this time).  He runs the phone and DSL line to the box on the outside of the house.  He informs me that he's done, and that apparently someone else is going to have to run the wire to the jacks on the inside.  No mention of a modem.  Clearly, he has no idea.  So I call Mark.  Which reminds me, I need to search for a number for him.  Hold on a sec.  Ok that's done.  So hopefully, Mark will call them and find out everything he's supposed to know.

Well.  That was annoying.  It is also annoying to have to trap your own cat at midnight on a Monday.  So here's the details on that mess.  My semi-feral kitten, Irina, who lives in the hosue exclusively, decided that it would be fun to climb out the window.  I, like the genius I am, left the windows open and left one afternoon, not bothering to secure the unsecured screens.  Irina pushed one out and out she went.  Upon getting outside, she discovered that she didn't really like being outside after all and flipped.  She hid under the house in a corner by the chimney until last night, when she ventured out to see her Roman and then ran angrily back to her spot after she discovered that Roman's appearance was all a scam by us to get her out.  I tried food.  I tried tuna.  I tried those Greenies cat treats.  Nothing.  So I finally set the live trap with some tuna in it and left it.  About midnight, Mark heard the trap set, and went to see if she'd managed to get in.  She had.  So I now have a semi-feral, scared to death British Blue in a trap, sitting in her tuna, mewing so loudly that I'm sure every one of our neighbors thought we were sacrificing her to the Great Pumpkin a month and a half early.  My carpet still smells like tuna, and so does, apparently, her ass.  I coaxed her out and held her close to me so she would calm down while Mark fixed a pink SafeCat collar with a perdy little silver heart name tag on it around her neck, so that if this ever happens again she has some ID.  She has been eyeing me angrily ever since.  Moral of the story.  Don't trap your own cat.