31 October 2007

What did you call me?

Last night at the gym, as I was about to board the hip adductor machine, a guy walked up and asked me, "Are you the Packer lady?"

Um, what?

Apparently, there is a woman who works out at my gym who talks about the Packers all the time and this guy thought I might be her. Dude, I rarely talk to anyone at the gym. If I do talk to people at the gym, the subject of the Green Bay Packers never comes up. That's not to say I don't talk about the Packers elsewhere. Oh, I do. But I talk mad shit about them in those cases.

There is a woman in my Wednesday yoga class who I have heard talking about the Packers. Perhaps it was her? She and I look nothing alike, though (I don't wear the green-and-gold Zubaz, after all).

Since my break-up with the Vikings, I've been offered a spot on the Packer bandwagon several times. As well as spots on the Bears, Lions, Patriots, Bills and Washington Racist Mascots bandwagons. It's nice to know that other fans are so welcoming. I'll never be a Packer fan. Ever. Even though I broke up with the Vikings, that's a step I can't take (guess I'm not all that spiteful and vindictive?).

As it turns out, I seem to feel that having someone assume I am a Packer fan is almost as insulting as someone assuming I was in a sorority. No offense to Packer fans (I count many Packer fans among my friends) or sorority girls out there. Unless you're the asshole version of either. Then I absolutely intended offense. 'Cause you're an asshole.

If I had a dollar for every time someone asked about my participation in Greek life in college -- both in college and out of college -- I might have as much as $10 or $15. Not that much money, but enough to buy a few bottles of Three Buck Chuck. Without fail, that question freaks me out. I can't understand why someone would think I might have been in a sorority. I was skeeved out when Whatshisfuckingface showed up at my place one day wearing a Sigma Chi shirt. "Oh my God, I'm dating a guy who was in a fraternity!" It made no difference that it was like, 15 years earlier.

I sometimes get asked if I play or played basketball. Sometimes I figure it's because I'm tall. But if you ask if I'm on the basketball team because I'm wearing my UNCW Basketball t-shirt, you should probably take a second to think before you ask that. It's a weeknight in September, so school is in session pretty much everywhere. The "UNC" part of the UNCW should probably lead you to realize the school might not be in the Minneapolis-St. Paul metro area. And really, do I look like I'm still in college? Thanks, but no. I just spent a year going to school there and now I wear this 15-year-old t-shirt to the gym.

No one ever comes up and asks if I'm a yoga-practicing, foul-mouthed, hipster lush. But I suppose that's pretty obvious.

30 October 2007

Ugly, ugly, ugly.

If I wasn't so damn lazy, I'd go back and search Ye Olde Blog Archives to see if there is some sort of hormonal/pill-related timeline to my having ugly days. Alas, I am so damn lazy and I will be doing no such thing.

My hair has been driving me nuts for what seems like forever. It's not that big of a deal during the week. I mean, why not put it up at work? I'll be going to the gym later and it has to go up then. What's the point of wearing it down at all? Because OMG, IT'S TOUCHING MY NECK and I apparently can't stand that. Plus, it's hot as balls in my office.

Since I had my annual exam nearly a month ago and pumped my doctor for a ton of new prescriptions, my skin has been looking about 90 percent better than it had been. Yay! Until today, of course. Fuck. Guess I should have started those new birth control pills right away instead of waiting to use up my old prescription. I mean, I have a $0 copay on my generic prescriptions (but I pay out the ass for my name-brand asthma meds. Assholes). Why the fuck would I care? I suppose I don't care, I'm just an idiot. Still, this minor breakout is nothing compared to what I had been dealing with. Guess I should quit my bitchin'.

Over the weekend I felt like I'd gained back each of the 20-some pounds I've lost over the last few months, and then some. Fortunately, after a decent workout last night I no longer feel that way. In fact, I'm pissed that yet another shirt I haven't worn for a couple of months is now too big (and I didn't really realize it until well after I'd arrived at work). Honestly, I will clean out my closet one of these weekends. Just not this weekend. Or next weekend. Maybe over Thanksgiving? Definitely before Christmas. I hope.

The good thing about ugly days is that they're usually just that -- ugly days. This too, shall pass and whatnot. If the weather would decide what it wants to do (70 today, 50 tomorrow!), I think that might cure a lot of what ails me. In the meantime, I'll just sit here and be ugly and thank the Baby Jebus that I don't have to see anyone until the weekend.

29 October 2007

I smell like food.

Ew. Now I remember why I rarely cook meat. Lord have mercy, does the smell linger. Why can't the scent of the chocolate cake I baked on Saturday linger? The smell from the good stuff I make doesn't seem to hang around very long.

The World's Worst Wing Woman came over last night for dinner since The Boy I Currently Like was sick and had to cancel on me. She figured she'd be able to get in on a clean apartment and/or food and drinks if she swooped in to keep me company at the last minute. And bless her heart, she was right. I froze the lasagna I'd planned to make and instead made us a couple of sirloin steaks and oven-roasted potatoes with Herbes de Provence.

Sadly, I burned the oven-roasted Brussels sprouts. We got talking and I forgot to check on them. Oh well, she didn't want them anyway. I'd thought about making the steaks for me and The Boy, but I didn't want to spend a shitload of time in the kitchen when he was there. Having now done the steaks and burned the Brussels sprouts, I know I made the right decision. Plus, there's the whole stinky apartment thing I wanted to avoid.

My hoodie smells of broiled meat. I thought I smelled it in my hair, but I think I was imagining that. I woke up in the middle of the night to the smell of cooking. YUCK. Maybe it's just my extra-sensitive nose, but the smell hanging around in my apartment just drives me fucking nuts. Open windows, fans, candles do nothing.

I suppose I can take solace in the fact that it smells like cooking and not say, rotten ass, in my apartment. But still ... Boo, stinky apartment. Boo!

27 October 2007

My First Mammogram.

That's right, ladies and gentlemen. I had my very first mammogram today at the ripe old age of 33. Thanks, family history of breast cancer! My mom, one of her sisters, one of my dad's sisters and my dad's mom all have had breast cancer. They're all fine at the moment, save for my grandma. But she died in a car accident a few years after the B.C. I also apparently have "dense and bumpy" breast tissue. Thanks, doc, for helping out with the self-esteem there.

I've been hearing since I was probably 28 or so that I'd need my first mammogram much earlier than most women. Maybe 30? No, 31. I didn't hear anything about 32 and my doctor said at the beginning of my exam a few weeks ago that I'd probably do it at 35. Apparently, my bumpy tits made her change her mind mid-exam.

So, here we are today. Yes, on a Saturday. People are apparently surprised about that. Whatever. I figured if I did it this morning, I could just head to the gym and do some cardio before yoga and then I'd feel so much better. Unless of course yoga was canceled because there was going to be construction. Nice. (Side note: there was some fucking martial arts shit going on in the studio. Construction, my ass. Fuck you, Bally.)

I was the youngest woman there by at least 10 years. Most of the women were grandma-aged. The changing room was actually fairly nice. There was coffee and tea, a bowl of pink-wrapped candies, and we got these robes that looked almost like something you'd change into for a spa day. Fancy!

What was supposed to be 15 minutes in-and-out turned into about a half hour of waiting. How the fuck do you get behind first thing on a Saturday morning? The technician who was going to do my mammogram was really nice. She explained everything to me and apologized for the freezing room (it was seriously nipply in there).

Contrary to all the horror stories I've heard, it wasn't that bad. It certainly wasn't pleasant and I'm glad it'll be at least a couple of years before I have to do it again, but it was more uncomfortable than painful. It didn't hurt the girls to be smashed between the metal bottom piece and the clear plastic top piece. Though, my neck hurt a couple of times. "Dude, I thought this was supposed to be a breast x-ray. Why are you pulling the skin all the way from the back of my neck?"

There's an awful lot of positioning to do. I heard the words "nipple profile" more than a couple times. I didn't even laugh when she said it! I'm totally mature.

And that was it. She had to do a fourth view of Lefty (that's what you get for being bigger, I suppose), but just three of Righty. My tits need better names than Lefty and Righty. Must get on that. Now I wait 10-12 days to hear what they found. I'm not nervous, even having gone through a cancer diagnosis 13 years ago. This was basically a "let's do it so we have a baseline when we start for real in a few years" kind of thing.

I suppose I should get back to my kitchen shit. I'm baking a chocolate stout cake for The Original Slat's birthday. Then I have to decide if I'm going to assemble the lasagna I was going to make for The Boy I Currently Like and I to have for dinner tomorrow night. He thinks he might be getting sick, so we might not hang out tomorrow. Dammit all to hell. I'd been looking forward to it all week. And of course, I wouldn't want him to be sick. I'm not completely selfish and all that.

Just have to wait and see, I guess. If I don't see him, at least I got felt up a little today.

26 October 2007

Everyone at drink! sucks.

In my regular morning perusal of the Star Tribune today, I came across this gem on vita.mn: Alexis on the Sexes: Drink me.

The question Alexis answers is this: Why do girls at Drink suck so much?

Alexis thinks the girls at drink! do not suck. I'm going to have to disagree with her, and go one further -- everyone at drink! sucks. Why? Because drink! sucks.

Now, I will freely admit that drink! is not the bar for me. I've only been there a handful of times (really, like four times total). I'm not sure I've spent more than an hour in there any of those times, either. It even pains me to type the name the way it appears on the sign/website/free drink passes that are ubiquitous downtown.

I was just at drink! two weeks ago after the Interpol show because ... well, I don't really know why. And I don't know what about the bar is so freakin' bad that I can't stay there for any amount of time. I mean, it doesn't seem that different from the rest of the bars I generally avoid in the Warehouse District. Yet, I can usually tolerate most of them -- sometimes even without copious amounts of alcohol running through my body.

Not drink! though. I cannot get drunk enough to stand to be there. That place makes me want to slit my wrists. When we were there a couple of weekends ago I couldn't even finish my free drink before I was dragging everyone else out of there. And I was really drunk.

Thankfully, I've never needed the advice Alexis dispenses later on in the column about going to bars that suit your personal taste better. I am going to spend the rest of my days avoiding that place.

25 October 2007

Does this mean I'm officially a Gym Rat?

Last night after yoga, I invited my New Yoga Friend, Mollie, to the pub crawl. After all these years, I've finally crossed that line and made a friend at the gym and have invited her to do a non-gym activity.

How did this happen? Yeah, in high school and college I worked out with friends more often than not, but they were friends or roommates and we went to the gym together. And even though I'm all about working out by myself and have been for years, I sometimes run into friends (or as was the case when I lived in Mankato, my brother's friends and my former teachers -- creepy) who use the same gym I do. But I've never made a friend at the gym and brought them into my non-gym life.

I do take some consolation in knowing that I met Mollie in yoga class, not because we hang out and shoot the shit between sets on the lat pulldown machine. That seems more acceptable to me somehow. Plus, she loves Prince and Bill Clinton. What's not to like? Now KayGee and I will have someone else with whom we can do drunken yoga.

I suppose this was bound to happen, what with me mocking Macho Man when I hung out with him and all of his gym rat friends. And Lord knows I've been spending enough time at the gym lately. I'm drawing the line here, though. Well, until we go on the yoga retreat in May. It seems as if the people who went to the first one last month have done some bonding. But that's several months away and I'll have time to get used to the idea of being a gym rat.

24 October 2007

I almost forgot about the pub crawl.

My life has felt kind of whirlwindy lately (good in some ways, not-so-great in other ways), and so random things have been slipping my mind here and there. For example, I completely spaced on posting about the Light Rail Pub Crawl, as I said I'd do a couple of weeks ago.

I'm doing a shitty job of keeping track of RSVPs and I need to get our buttons ordered by the end of the week, because they have to be in my grubby little hands by next Friday. And we can't have a pub crawl without our theme buttons. No. That just wouldn't do at all.

Here's the itinerary for next Saturday (November 3):

    1. Gluek’s – 5:00 p.m.
    2. Rail Station Bar & Grill – about 6:15 p.m. (Food)
    3. Cardinal Tavern – 7:45 p.m.
    4. Whiskey Junction – 8:30 p.m.
    5. The Joint – 9:15 p.m.
    6. Kieran’s Irish Pub – 10:00 p.m. (Food stop #2)
    7. Lyon’s Pub – 11:00 p.m.
    8. Sneaky Pete’s – 12:00 a.m. to finish.


Doesn't look too bad, does it? I like the idea of heading out of downtown and then coming back. When I started thinking about this, I just assumed we'd start out toward the end of the line and work our way back in. But the Gopher Homecoming football game kind of put a crimp into that plan. And starting downtown and just heading out seemed kind of weird. I think this pub crawl lends itself better to people joining up at random spots along the way than the Northeast Pub Crawl did, which is a bonus.

So, dear readers, if you're interested in joining the fun (I'm looking at you, Muffy!), drop me an e-mail today or tomorrow and I'll add you to the list and get you the rest of the details.

As soon as this one is over, there will be little time to waste before planning the Uptown Reindeer Pub Crawl for the week between Christmas and New Year's. Wheeeeee!

23 October 2007

Of all the places to eat fried chicken ...

The bathroom is probably not the most appropriate venue. I just returned from my mid-morning hair scrunching session (my gel tends to leave my curls a bit crunchy, but I have to wait until my hair is completely dry to bust out the Aveda defining whip, lest I ruin my curl formation ... or something) and while I was in the bathroom, a girl came in chomping on a piece of fried chicken.

Ewwwwwww. Who eats in any bathroom, much less a nasty, public bathroom? I'll take a drink or coffee in the bathroom with me at home, but just while I'm doing my make up. Out the drink goes if the hair dryer comes on, or God forbid, the toilet is going to be flushed. I do make exceptions when I'm out drinking. If there is no one to watch my drink while I'm in the loo, I'm taking it with me and taking my chances. Besides, alcohol kills germs, right?

It's not like I'm a super germaphobe or anything. But there are just some lines you don't cross. At least she finished eating (and wiped her hands off!) before she went in the stall.

22 October 2007

Stat trackin'.

I added a SiteMeter stat tracker to this here blog a few months after I actually started writing it. It's all kinds of fun. I can figure out what the hell happened when visits suddenly skyrocket (Hi, MNspeakers!). Sometimes it's hilarious to see where someone has linked my blog. I can see what bizarre search terms lead people here (with the weather turning colder, it seems everyone wants to know about beard conditioners).

There's a less-fun side to the stat tracker, though. I got a bit obsessive last week about checking on obsessive visits to the blog. Is it really necessary to visit 10 or 15 times a day? I mean, I write fairly often, but not that often. I've been somewhat cautious about what I've written because I don't want to get any more freaky e-mails, which came in the midst of all the obsessive blog visits.

I really dislike feeling like I have to censor myself so as not to set off someone else's crazy. But I really don't want to deal with someone else's crazy. I guess that's the trade-off I have to make. Maybe I shouldn't even be writing this, but fuck it. I am.

21 October 2007

Good Sunday.

There's nothing quite like afternoon drinking and watching football with KayGee (formerly known as The Social Worker ... people, if you don't like your blog nickname, I'm more than happy to take suggestions and change it) and the Prison Librarian. Blondie and her dog showed up around halftime, and quite frankly, I'm shocked she made it here that quickly.

We had brats from the farm, potato salad, chips/salsa/half-assed guacamole and an apple galette. We had some chocolate. We obsessed over our fantasy scores. And we had some drinks.

Last Sunday was awfully good, too. If I keep having these good Sundays, I may have to rethink my position on how much they suck.

19 October 2007

Can you stand the rain?

I wonder whatever happened to my New Edition's Greatest Hits album. I had to have had it at some point in my life. If I had it right now, I would be listening to "Can You Stand The Rain" on a continuous loop.

Really, that's must-have CD for my collection. I better put it on my list.

And my answer to this question posed by ... who sang that song? In my head, it sounds like Johnny Gill. But now that I say that, it could totally be Ralph Tresvant. Turns out it is both, but Ralph Tresvant seems to be singing the lead on the chorus (I watched the video linked above). Anyway, my answer to this timeless question is: I don't think so, y'all. I need to see the sun or I'm going to start cutting.

Actually, it's not that bad. I'm pretty damn happy at the moment. I spent half my time at the gym last night staring off in to space with what was most likely a goofy grin on my face. But I'm still sick of this never-ending rain. Come on, Mother Nature. I need some Vitamin D. Please?

17 October 2007

The Story of the Stripper Shirt.

On Friday, after the Interpol show, I was somehow coaxed to head from the State Theater over to the bars on First Avenue in Downtown Minneapolis. Sweet, buttery Christ, I somehow ended up at drink! The only thing I can say in my defense is that I can apparently be talked into damn near anything after shots of tequila and Jameson.

As we walked, we went past the Skyway Lounge, which just happens to be my very favorite strip club. It is the place where Diablo Cody got her start and the scene of one of my most favorite birthday memories.

I had to tell Macho Man the story of my Stripper Shirt from the Skyway. I'm pretty sure it was my 27th birthday, but the World's Worst Wing Woman swears it was a couple of years after that. That's mostly irrelevant. (Perhaps I should have looked at the shirt. It clearly says "Happy 28th Birthday." I am a moron.)

The day started with Blondie at the Timberwolves game. After that, she and I went to the original Buca to meet a bunch of other people for dinner. Since it was a Sunday, the crowd thinned considerably after dinner. The World's Worst Wing Woman, a few of my coworkers from Dayton's, a friend from high school and I trekked to The Local for more drinks. After The Local, we decided we needed to head to the bars on First Avenue.

Oh, but on the way! On the way we passed The Skyway Lounge. Someone decided we should go in. Once inside, Dean, one of my Dayton's coworkers, decided he would spring for the $25, three-lap dance special. This all happened while the World's Worst Wing Woman was in the loo (apparently puking). She didn't so much approve. When we were leaving, she said, "I leave you alone for five minutes, and I come back to find you on stage getting lap dances." Yeesh, Mom. At least I was getting lap dances and not giving them.

Side note: One of my other favorite stripper-related memories is this: Blondie and I were waiting for a porta-loo while tailgating before a Vikings game. A girl from Sheik's is handing out free passes. She gives one to Blondie, turns to me and as she is handing a pass to me says, "You know, we're hiring." I laughed my ass off. The poor girl asked, "Why has everyone I said that to today laughed at me?" Oh honey. I don't even know where to start with that one.

But back to the Skyway -- to this day, it is one of my best birthday gifts ever. But not necessarily because of the lap dances (though, they were nice). No, the best part of the night was the t-shirt I got after the lap dances. Each of the strippers (Jayda, Remy and Candy) signed the shirt. But Candy had a bit of trouble.

Now, the girls didn't use a Sharpie. No, they had one of those super-stinky, almost industrial markers -- they're metal and the body of the marker is kind of tan with white. And Candy, for whatever reason (maybe she started signing her real name?), had to scribble out what she wrote originally and then resign her name. That was all kinds of awesome.



After we left the Skyway, we went to another bar, where we saw (and I talked mad shit about) Jim Kleinsasser and Chris Hovan, who were both with the Vikings at the time. We managed to get a Sharpie from the bartender and proceeded to add more graffiti to the shirt. It probably takes a bit away from the original awesomeness on the shirt, but it's a really great reminder of an awesome birthday.

I kinda can't believe I still have the t-shirt. But why would I get rid of it?

16 October 2007

Gray area.

Ah, Fall. The season with wild temperature swings and interminable grayness. Also, the season where my allergies get weird and may or may not lead me to believe they are turning into a cold.

I'm in that gray area right now. My allergies had been weird (honestly, just freeze already!), but last night at the gym my chest was feeling funky. However, I had just finished an hour of cardio without using my inhaler. Hmmmm ... maybe that's why I felt like I couldn't breathe?

The ridiculous cold of my apartment isn't helping matters, either. You know how during football games when it's cold, the camera will pan the sidelines and you'll see all the big ol' defensive linemen sitting on the bench, with steam rising from their heads? That was me after my shower last night -- except the steam was rising from everywhere. Note to the management company: I think that means it is time to turn on the heat.

When I woke up this morning, I felt pretty rested and generally awesome. The longer I was awake, though, the less awesome and more tired I felt. Is my neck stiff from yoga on Saturday and being craned in some rather unnatural positions on Sunday? Or is it because I'm getting sick? Am I tired just because I didn't sleep well Saturday or Sunday and it's catching up with me? Or is it less of a tired feeling and more of that foggy feeling that goes with a cold? Or is it just this damn gray and rainy that won't go away? Why can't I tell?

Do I brave the rain and stay up late to see my beloved Neko Case and the rest of The New Pornographers at First Avenue tonight? Or do I stop at Chiang Mai on my way home, pick up some tom yam and go to bed early?

15 October 2007

Down goes The Bob Saget Fan Club.

It had to happen some time. I was under no illusions that my fantasy football team, The Bob Saget Fan Club, could get through the season undefeated. Starting out 5-0 with two consecutive high-point weeks isn't bad, right?

Besides, it turns out there are things way better than remaining undefeated in fantasy football. Things like, a bacon chocolate bar. Yes, you read that correctly. My taste test compatriot and I tried one last night. Results? Jess: Salt! Chocolate! *tiny food orgasm* Taste Test Compatriot: Creepy and wrong. Done after a single bite. Note: He is not creepy and wrong. He thought the candy bar was creepy and wrong. He is really quite delightful.

Oh, but it gets better than fancy chocolate. The taste test compatriot was really excellent company. It was nice to have someone around to console me after my first loss. Though, I wasn't completely embarrassed in my loss like he was. So perhaps I was doing more consoling than being consoled. Anyway, I totally forgot that football was even on.

12 October 2007

I love Happy Hour.

Have I ever told y'all how much I love Happy Hour? I do. I love it -- half-price drinks and appetizers? Two-for-ones and $5 appetizers? Free chicken wings? Sign me up! Sometimes it is just a few drinks after work and then home to sober up and get to bed at a decent hour. But there are the happy hours that start after work and continue on through the non-happy hour and you're having so much fun that you're still there when the late-night happy hour starts. Hooray! More cheap drinks.

The Social Worker and I partook in The Imperial Room's happy hour on Wednesday night before we traipsed over to First Ave to see Spoon.

When our bill arrived, I looked up and said, "God, I love happy hour." The Social Worker agreed. I love happy hour so much, I'm going back to the Imperial Room tonight to meet the World's Worst Wing Woman and Macho Man for drinks before we go to see Interpol at the State Theater.

And it's a good thing happy hour is less than seven hours away. I need a motherfucking drink like nobody's damn business.

11 October 2007

To write or not to write?

It's a tough question and one that's been on my mind for a while. Let's say you're a girl who likes a boy. Let's say this boy reads your blog and has mentioned in the past that, although he reads it, some of the things you write about make him totally uncomfortable. And this is often in the back of your mind, so even though you've been e-mailing with him for months (and let's face it, he's pretty freakin' awesome), you've said nary a peep about him in your blog.

Then, let's say that you finally break down and ask this boy to come over and, I don't know, watch football or play a stupid game. And at the end of his e-mail response to your question, he says, "Now, I am off to read your blog and see if I made it in there finally." So, he'd been wondering all this time when you'd finally say something about him in your blog? And all this time you'd been wondering whether you should say anything about him or not because not only does he read your blog and your ridiculous confessional style freaks him out, but at least one person he knows also read your blog and might figure out who it is you're writing about. You worry about these things.

So, now the day is fast approaching where you're going to finally get to meet and hang out with this guy and you're totally excited and alternately completely freaked out and you have all this shit going around it your head and it needs to go out somewhere and you know, your friends have lives and jobs and you don't want to bore them to tears. Plus, this is the kind of thing you'd normally write about in your blog. But then again, the object of this kind of a mental maelstrom wouldn't normally be reading about himself in your blog because he doesn't even know you have one.

Add to this the whole time you've been mentally debating whether or not to write about the boy, you've been wondering what the hell you will call him. He's got an interwebs-ready nickname, 'cause he's a blogger, too. You could use that, but then it would be really obvious. That kind of thing could get very high school, very fast. I mean, months ago, someone e-mailed him and asked him if he was Booty Call Matt. Really? I still can't figure that one out. Now, you could maybe take his interwebs-ready nickname and modify it slightly, but really, people are not dumb and would still figure it out. Besides, it feels like this boy should have nickname all his own in your blog that you come up with. I mean, that's how it works with nearly everyone else who makes and appearance in this blog. And the best your lame ass can do with the one mention of him prior to this is to call him The Boy I Currently Like. Pathetic.

So really, what do you do in this situation? I guess you write about it as a haphazard hypothetical which is kinda sad, but you had to say something and you're just not sure how you want to handle this situation at the moment. And you hope you'll figure things out eventually, I guess. Also, you may or may not regret hitting the "publish post" button immediately after you do it, but you are not going to take this fucker down. YOU WILL NOT TAKE IT DOWN!

09 October 2007

I hate all my clothes.

Seriously. Half of them are too big (yay!). I can't find most of my fall-appropriate clothes. It's hot in my office in the morning, so I can't wear sweaters and shit yet. Boo, clothes! I hate you.

I really need to go through my closet and get rid of stuff that no longer fits (too much newer stuff, dammit) and the stuff I no longer wear. Then I'll have space to buy a shitload of new stuff I can't afford. But I need clothes. Can't go running about nekkid. Not only would society frown upon this, but it is getting chilly. So I should probably get to shopping.

08 October 2007

Is it pub crawl time again? Already?

Hells yeah, it is! October seemed so far away when we were on the Northeast Pub Crawl in August. Then September passed in what seemed to be the blink of an eye. So when The Future Mrs. Dirk (formerly known as Targetron) suggested we get together for a pub crawl planning session on Saturday, I heartily agreed.

So, we're not doing the Light Rail Pub Crawl in October. But November 3 is awfully close to October. Planning a pub crawl on the light rail line would be difficult enough under normal circumstances. You're not just stumbling around a neighborhood. There are trains to catch, tickets to buy. However, the difficulty was cranked up another couple of notches due to the Gopher Homecoming football game against Illinois at 7:00 that same evening. Granted, the Gophers suck more than a two-dollar whore right now, so maybe there won't be a ton of people clamoring to get to the Dome. Still, there is a lot of blind loyalty when it comes to one's alma mater sometimes.

I don't know if the many Bloody Marys we drank helped our planning session, but I think the schedule looks solid. Someone suggested dropping down to five bars this time, but to that I say, "Hey, don't blame the schedule for you not pacing yourself." We did drop back to eight bars from nine, though. There's the extra travel time and whatnot. Another lesson learned from the Northeast Pub Crawl -- eat earlier and allow more options for eating later.

Side note on late-night eating options: Were any of you Twin Citians aware of Kieran's brilliant late-night food option? THE LATE NIGHT LUNCH. The kitchen is closed and you still have the munchies? Pick up a late night bagged lunch from Kieran’s: a huge fresh sandwich, a bag of chips and a cookie in a bag to take home at the end of the night or to eat here. Available till we close the doors. Only $7.00. How fucking awesome is that?

The only problem with this pub crawl is that we've been so far unable to think of a theme. We threw out engineer caps, but I sure as hell am not buying a shitload of hats for people who RSVP and don't show up. It's one thing to have leftover buttons at $1.75 a pop. I highly doubt I could get engineer caps for that price. Plus, there would be party poopers who would refuse to participate. At this point, we're just going to reuse the buttons from the last pub crawl, unless someone comes up with scathingly brilliant idea.

And what will be our signal for last call at each bar? The cowbell was pretty awesome, but it was just too big to haul around in my purse all night. I wonder where I could pick up a whistle that sounds like a train whistle. Or a slide whistle. That would be bitchin'.

I'll save the itinerary for another day. However, dear readers, if you're interested in attending, you should totally drop me a line. The more the merrier and all that.

07 October 2007

Guilt.

I'm a bad sister. After consulting with little sister, we decided not to go and watch our brother run in the TC 10 Mile today. Instead, I slept in a bit (I was actually just waking up when he finished the race), lazed about and drank coffee whilst watching the Barefoot Contessa (why do I watch that rich, snooty bitch?) and Nigella (drool). Then, I took off on a very roundabout route to get to the gym.

I called my brother after I got home (eventually, I had to take a different roundabout route home from the gym). He was telling me how cool it was to have strangers all along the route cheering you on as you run. So, all these random people were out at the asscrack of dawn, cheering for my brother as he ran (and ran well, I might add. I am seriously impressed with his results). And I was fucking around, sleeping and working out. I'm a shitty, shitty sister.

Yeah, he's never been terribly supportive of anything my sister and I have done. He's the youngest, so he missed out on a lot of it. Still, he's always the one to wait until the last minute to see if something better might come up when we ask him to do something with us. He's the one who ditches family to hang out with his friends. So, really, what do I owe him? Probably not much.

But that still doesn't stop me from feeling like the World's Most Craptastic Sister.

05 October 2007

Oh, honey. Don't we all?

Someone stumbled upon this here corner of the interwebs in the wee hours of this morning using the following search term:

"i want to fuck bacon."

Dream big, interwebs searcher!

04 October 2007

Hey, Bruegger's Guy!

Yes, you. The one with the "Shift Supervisor" on your name tag (God, why didn't I focus on the name instead of the title?). At the Bruegger's on Excelsior in St. Louis Park. You rang me up and got my coffee.

I watched you fill my cup with French Roast. I saw it run out before the cup was full; you tipped and shook the container to try to get more out. Then I watched you move over to the one marked "Hazelnut Cream," and I watched you dispense that into my cup.

When you returned to the register, I asked, "Did you just put flavored coffee in there?" You know, because I saw you doing it. You mumbled something about "No ... decaf ..."

Now, I thought about saying something. But I figured that a wee bit of decaf diluting the caffeinated goodness of my French Roast wouldn't kill me, so I let it go. Plus, I didn't want to be an asshole. There was just a huge rush of people in there right before me, so I took word for it.

I left. I didn't even take a sip of the coffee until I was long gone, on my way to work. And guess what that coffee tasted like. HAZELNUT. You motherfucking asshole. YOU LIED TO MY FACE. I saw you do it. I called you on it and you lied to me, you fucking bastard.

You know, all I wanted was a goddamn cup of coffee to go with my bagel. I was starving, because I had been fasting. I'd just come from my fantastic annual exam, where I'd been poked with needles in both arms, been felt up and had a variety of objects stuck in my happy place (which isn't so happy when there is metal in it, as it turns out). I had just scheduled my very first mammogram, you dick.

Thanks for ruining my morning with your douchbaggery, asswipe.

03 October 2007

Getting some bang for my buck.

Tomorrow is my least favorite day of the year -- my lady bits exam. Though, for all the bitching and complaining I and other women do about this exam, it's never as bad as one builds it up to be. Sure, it's uncomfortable, but it's over fast.

This year, this exam will serve as my annual thyroid check up, which is cool. One less copay! And since I'm really trying to maximize my copay dollar, I'm coming in with a full list of shit I want checked out. Usually, it's just "Make sure my cooter is free from unwanted guests and give me a refill on my whore pills and sexy asthma meds."

Not this year, buddy. My left hip has been sore for months. As has my left knee. There were times the pain got so bad that I thought I should make an appointment. But I toughed it out so I didn't have to drop an extra copay. Then there are the tension headaches. I thought about leaving them off my list of concerns. But why should I? Maybe I don't have to suffer constantly. Okay, so the tension headaches aren't constant. I actually hadn't had one for a while until just recently. The knee pain and tension headaches come and go, but when they're around it's no fun. The hip pain has been pretty constant. All of them started up when I increased the frequency and intensity of my visits to the gym. God forbid I try to be active.

When all that stuff is written out in one place, it makes me sound like some decrepit old woman. And some days I feel like I am. However, I'm pretty sure my hip and knee pain have something to do with my left leg being longer than my right -- almost enough to require some kind of orthotic shoe insert. That's what I'm gunning for. I'd rather not do more physical therapy. I did that a couple of years ago for tendinitis in my Achilles. This is where I found out my left leg was longer than my right and that my hips were really flexible, which exacerbates the problem. However, at the time the problem was on the right side. Jesus H. Christ. Just give me the $200 shoe inserts and let me be on my way.

I'd rather not get drugs for the tension headaches. At my last job, we had a woman come in and do 15-minute chair massages for $10 once a month. This kept my headaches at bay the entire time I worked there. However, I've yet to find a place I can get a $10 massage in Minneapolis. A coworker at an even older job did manage to get massages prescribed by her doctor for her headaches, but it took a lot of work. Honestly, I should probably just start budgeting for a massage monthly or every other month. I could make it work. But a $20 copay for that would be even sweeter.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go lie about how much I drink.

02 October 2007

There are times when you just have to suck it up.

My brother is running in the TC 10 Mile on Sunday. I will probably get up at the asscrack of dawn on Sunday and trudge to St. Paul to try to get a glimpse of him at the finish line.

Though, I'm always a bit hesitant to do stuff like this when it comes to him, as I'm still holding a grudge for his refusal to attend either my undergrad or grad school commencements. Or either party I had for those two momentous occasions. In retaliation, I tried to skip out on his graduation party, but my mom essentially refused to let that happen ... because I had to be her kitchen bitch that day. Oh, but I got my bit of revenge. I nearly ended up making out with/going home with one of my brother's friends. This kind of thing makes him very uncomfortable. Apparently, he had to endure weeks of teasing because his friend liked his sister.

Still, grudge or not, I will most likely be there to cheer him on.

On Sunday, I was hanging out with Macho Man, World's Worst Wing Woman and some of her former coworkers before we all went to see Arcade Fire and LCD Soundsystem. For whatever reason, it came up that I often do things I would rather not do or go to places I hate for my friends. Sometimes I bitch about it openly, but I'd like to think most of the time, my complaining is done to outside parties or here.

World's Worst Wing Woman asked why I would do something I didn't want to do or go to somewhere I hated for my friends. Macho Man seemed to share her confusion. Really? You don't know the answer to that? Because you make sacrifices for people you love. Sometimes I'll suck it up and go to a club that grosses me out because that is where my friends want to go and I just want to spend time with them -- especially if it is a group of friends I don't see very often.

I go to Mass when I'm home because it is important to my dad and I'd really rather not fight about it. So, I sacrifice an hour's worth of sleep and think about sex and booze the whole time I'm there with a running monologue full of cursing in my head. He doesn't need to know that. I'm there and that is what is important.

Sometimes it works out that I get a two-for-one when I'm trying to be supportive of my friends and family. I go to my nephew's football games because he is my nephew, first and foremost. But those games are fun. And while I do love The Slats, I would hope that I'd still go to their shows even if I wasn't into their music because one of my very good friends is in the band.

But I just can't wrap my head around Macho Man's and World's Worst Wing Womans's inability to understand my motivations. Then again, knowing both of them the way I do, I really shouldn't be surprised.

01 October 2007

What a difference a beard makes.

There is this guy at the gym -- he's the head trainer or manager or something. I've been trying to decide for months whether I think he's hot or not. He reminds me just the tiniest bit of The OC, which of course has me leaning toward hot. Though, there's something a bit off about him, but I'm not sure what it is.

I mean, there's the douche factor. He's got a tribal tattoo. And a fauxhawk sometimes. It's more than that, though. I'm just not sure what it is. I can't tell if he's one of those hot guys that most women think is hot and I don't because I have weird taste in guys. It's entirely possible that's the case. I'm not into the conventionally hot guys. I realize they're attractive and all, but their particular brand of attractiveness doesn't do anything for me.

The reason doesn't matter anymore. Because now he's gone and done it. He grew a beard. And it is fucking hot. Damn you all to Hell, trainer guy.

Lucky for me, I see the tribal tat, fauxhawk and have seen him slam dumbbells on the floor. I cannot forget that he's a tool. But still ... it's not fair. Guess it is extra motivation to get to the gym. I'm often sad that there is little to no eye candy there. So, score! I guess.