DOOOOOOOOOM.

Not really. But sort of.

I had orientation this week. During the first day, one of the faculty (NOT a student) asked what was the requisite grade average to move on to second year (it's above a C average, by the way).  The assistant dean then spent the next ten minutes explaining to us that we shouldn't worry about it. But it's a big deal, so we should worry. But really, it'll be fine. But then again...

DOOOOOOM. But not really.

We also got our schedules for the first eight weeks of rotations; I'm on equine medicine and surgery first. What I know about horses would fit into a teaspoon, and I've heard that the vet in charge is kind of a hardass.

DOOOOOOM. But only for one week.

The first years have been spending a lot of time with the second years, and one of them suggested that we have potlucks like they did during their first year; it was a great way to bond and meet people not on your rotations. There was some discussion on facebook, and I volunteered to host the first one. I was kind of excited; my duplex looks awesome after all of my pictures were on the walls, house plants in place, etc. Then today someone asked me (I think she meant it to be joking) if I was ready to have a hundred vet students descend upon my residence tomorrow. Oh yeah, our class is 130, isn't it?

In 900 square feet (not including the deck and yard). DOOOOOOOOOM.

Icing on the cake: when I was driving to the store earlier (I STILL FORGOT MY COFFEE FILTERS; SHIT) a light came on on my dashboard. I wasn't quite sure what it was, so I pulled out the owners manual. I can't remember exactly what it meant, but it was something like this:

This light means that there is something seriously wrong with your engine. Head to a dealer immediately lest your car die in a catastrophic fireball that will probably take out a busload of orphans. Or kittens. Playing with yarn. If you do not get this remedied immediately, it will result in the internal fusion reaction of the sun speeding up, thus prematurely bringing about its red giant phase. Mass chaos and pandemonium will ensue. There will be rioting and looting in the streets all over the world. Plants, unable to sustain themselves on the altered electromagnetic radiation, will die out, thus sealing the fate of the planet.

DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM.

Or your gas cap could be loose.

DONE.

I know that I promised you a picture tour of my new residence yesterday; you were probably expecting it a little earlier in the day. I certainly expected it. I got a little distracted because I was cleaning the inside of my dishwasher. I know what you're thinking: Katy, cleaning the inside of something that is, by definition, a washer is kind of crazy and really type A, even for you.

Ladies and gentlemen of the blogosphere, I present the evidence (the theme music from yesterday would be appropriate here):

The inside of my dishwasher was nasty. Like everything else in the kitchen, it had grime and grease on every surface and caked into every corner. I have tried, over the course of the day, to clean this without actually scrubbing it. Running it normally, baking soda, and a cup of vinegar were all unsuccessful methods.

So I brought out my old friends.

You'll have a rest soon, comrades. Hopefully.

I sprayed the inside down with 409 degreasing spray (I think magical rainbows should issue from the nozzle along with the cleaning solution; yeah, it works that well) and let it fester for a bit. After a few swipes with the brush, I determined that it was, A) not working very well, and B) speckling me with greasy 409 spittle. I switched to the sponge, which did an okay job. It actually didn't take me as long as I thought, and I was cleaning rather quickly so that I could finish and change the radio station. I had somehow turned it to a country station (augh, my eardrums; my IQ!).

So, without further ado, I give you the photo tour! Please forgive the quality; it was dark when I got around to taking these.

The entryway:

The living room:

This corner is really offensive to my eyeballs; something must be done.

The kitchen:

 That tea box is not in a good place, but I'm not sure where to put it. *sigh*

And at some point when I put nails into the walls, THIS will be going up.

 The laundry/cleaning/dog supply area:

Hall closet:

 The office:

 I moved the bookcase forward about a foot so that I had somewhere to put my globe, so there's a whole bunch of empty space behind it. Foolish? Probably. But I like my globe.

 The bathroom. Probably the least exciting room out of the bunch.

 I'm really hoping that they replace this sink soon. The top is quite yellow and cracking, and the bottom of the cabinets is almost powdery it's so rotten.

 The bedroom, complete with dog giving me a baleful stare because I furned on the light:

 It took me three configurations before I was satisfied with the closet.

I have a big kid bed!

How happy am I to be done with cleaning? THIS happy:

If inhaling 409 causes lung cancer, I'm screwed.

Right now I'm trying to work out some kind of deal because my place was such a complete sty when I moved in. I spoke to Larry about it, and it turns out that the realty company is just MANAGING the property I'm renting. All decisions still need to go through the old landlord. What the hell, people.

Though it's starting to look like someone who actually gives a damn lives here, I thought I'd post some pictures of things before they were cleaned/as they were being cleaned. Here's some theme music for you; open it in another tab and put on repeat while you read.

This is the inside of one of the cabinets near the sink; pretty sure it's supposed to be white in there.

Notice the grease blobs under the ledge. I still haven't cleaned those off, but the indeterminate orange goobers on the bathroom ceiling are gone thanks to Mom going to town with a bottle of Clorox bathroom spray.

I'm pretty sure that this door was home made and screened by the guy who lived here before. I am all for DIY and upcycling and all that jazz, but this door sucks. And the screen is ripped, presumably because the door opens toward the wall of the garage thereby blocking access to the door opener and light switch. It is obviously easier to cut a tear in the screen than to open the door, close it, and THEN hit the switch of your choice.

That floor is GROSS.

Pop quiz: what part of the floor is clean in the bottom picture?

What the hell is that? A mangled purse dog? Someone's sad attempt at a felted bag? The remains of Jimmy Hoffa?

This is probably my favorite out of the bunch. A friend of mine was awesome enough to help me clean for a couple hours, and this is what she pulled out of the lint trap. We simultaneously yelled "OH MY GOD," then cracked up because several years of accumulated dryer lint is outrageous. And a huge fire hazard. I can only imagine that the duder who lived here before had no clue that you needed to clean the lint trap between loads. It must have taken him four or five times to get one load of clothes dry! Crazy.

I have all of the main things done (the last thing I had to do was to scrub the kitchen floor with 409 Degreasing Spray, which is magical) and all of my things put away. I'll take some pictures of the finished product sometime tomorrow and slap them up here, but for right now, I'm beat. Time to stop stealing the wireless signal from my neighbors and go to bed.

Dear lord.

I moved in yesterday. Slightly more stressful than I was thinking.

I drove in from Chicago; traffic was pretty light considering the hour, which I took to be a good omen. As I approached Champaign, I started to get excited. This was to be MINE, and MINE ALONE, to decorate as I pleased, and to be persnickety over as I chose! I felt powerful, like I was going to be a real adult sort of!

I decided to drive directly to the realty office to pick up my keys. I told the receptionist that my lease started today and told her my address. After shuffling through a large stack of envelopes a few times, she told me to sit in the waiting area because she needed to call "Larry" out to help me. I figured (ever the optimist) that Larry just wanted to talk to me since the company had just acquired this property. A new tenant thing, maybe.

That would be a negative, Ghostrider. Larry came out and told me that they didn't have keys for my new place. They had been assured by the former landlord that the former tenants would be giving the keys to me in person. Which they didn't, so I was keyless. Fabulous.

I should probably give some background to this story. The landlord I signed the lease with earlier this summer decided to move, so turned the property over to a local realty company. I was assured that everything would be taken care of by the new realty company as soon as the change of ownership had taken place.

Caught up? Aaaand... back to the action!

Larry must have seen the panic in my eyes, because he quickly told me that a maintenance guy had been there right before the former tenant left. He could call him, and perhaps he had the keys? In the mean time, I called my dad who was waiting in the driveway of my tentative home. While there were no keys in the mailbox and the front door was locked, the back door was open, probably courtesy of the maintenance man. While I am grateful that we could get in and start moving furniture, I am not so happy that the duplex was left open the entire weekend.

Larry apologized profusely for the mix up, and I, not wanting to seem like an asshole, assured him that it wasn't his fault, he couldn't have known, yadda yadda, etc. I drove to my new address, still feeling okay. This was the worst the day would get, right?

I walked in and looked around a bit, then I had to work really hard not to cry.

The last guy who moved out (who shall henceforth be referred to as "Shithead Charlie") hadn't cleaned before he left. Had, in fact, probably not cleaned the entire four years he had lived there. I question Shithead Charlie's personal hygiene habits based on the state of my new home. The cabinets were sticky with grease, spiderwebs and egg sacs festooned the walls, and dirt was ingrained in the hardwood floors.

At this point, Larry, who had gotten the keys from Maintenance Man, stopped by. He was surprised that the property hadn't been cleaned; the former douchebaglandlord had told him that it would be clean, pristine even, and that he would personally check it over. KIND OF HARD TO DO WHEN YOU'VE BEEN IN NEW MEXICO FOR A MONTH, JERKFACE. I probably should have made the new realty company responsible; who owns a property for a month and doesn't send someone out to check it over?? But my first reaction is generally not to blame someone else. Instead, my parents and I spent the day scrubbing floors and walls, cleaning windows, vacuuming out vents, and just trying to make it habitable.

Thus begins day number two. Wish me luck.