30 September 2008

Inexplicable, crushing sadness.

Ever since I was a kid, I have had these random attacks of horrible, crushing sadness. They're fairly rare -- they hit me maybe a handful of times a year. And they're set off by random things. One that I always remember is seeing an old man eating lunch in McDonald's by himself when I was a kid.

And you might think, "Well, that is sad." That's what The Boy said when I was just trying to explain to him. Sure, maybe it is sad. But maybe it isn't. I do shit by myself all the time. He might like eating lunch by himself. Maybe he's out running errands and was hungry and didn't want to eat in the car. It certainly doesn't have to be sad.

The thing that set me off tonight was the guy who took the lone speaker I was toting to the dumpster behind The Boy's building on our last sweep of his apartment. He'd apparently been there before and took The Boy's dresser and some other stuff. And there's no fucking reason for me to feel sorry for him or anything. Shit, he was getting some free stuff. But something about him or the situation just set me off. From that moment on, I've been wanting nothing more than to just lay down and cry my fucking eyes out.


The end of moving The Boy was easy. I think it was only a couple of hours and two carloads for each of us to the new place. Of course, he'd been at it since 10:30 this morning. Hey -- I offered to take the afternoon off. I didn't even get very sweaty or dirty. Awesome!

Fucking Twins. Yes, I know them getting this far was beyond what anyone thought they'd do. I just got that talk from The Boy. But I am disappointed, dammit. Oh well. Now I don't have to worry about trying to record Earl/The Office/30 Rock and watch the debate on Thursday.

Um ... yay?

29 September 2008

Fucking Detroit.

Oh sure, the Twins could have managed to scrape out one more win over the fucking Royals and this whole mess could have been avoided. But where's the fun in that?

I'm hoping The Boy makes excellent progress while I'm at work tomorrow so there isn't much to do when I get there and we can just go to the new place and watch most of the game on his bitchin' TV. Of course, on the other hand, I'm feeling all superstitious and maybe it would be better to be busy and away from a TV until late in the game.


Shit. I've got a ton of stuff to do and it's already 9:19. This late yoga is fucking with my schedule. It's crazy how much of a difference a mere 30 minutes can make in your life.

28 September 2008


The Boy I Currently Like is ... mostly? in his new apartment. Well, he switched the cable/phone/interwebs and is sleeping there now. I think last night might have been his first night there. I forgot to ask, though.

I'd been dying to see the new place since he'd first told me about it. It sounded really great and reality definitely lived up to his description. I love it. And now I'm in that weird place I always go to when I see someone's new apartment as I'm helping move or something. I always end up so totally jealous and hating my own apartment. The whole newness and unlimited potential of a new apartment is probably especially striking in this instance. Knowing what The Boy is moving from just make this new place seem so. fucking. great.

He has a lot of work to do, yet. I mean, we slept on the floor last night. I think the floor was actually slightly more comfortable than his shitty futon. That may be because he let me sleep on the side of the sleeping bag with the padding under it. How terribly fucking chivalrous of him, no?

So I'm back home and looking around this place feeling like I live in a dump. It doesn't help that this place is cluttered as fuck and the sun coming in the windows earlier this afternoon illustrated the dire need for dusting. I'll get over it soon enough. For Christ's sake, when The Boy was describing what he wanted in a new abode, he kept saying "like yours" after most features. I'll get the love back. I just need to tidy up a bit and it'll all be fine. Besides, I've not helped him at all with the moving yet. I'm sure after Tuesday I'll be reminded about the good reasons not to move.

I suppose I could be tidying while I'm fucking around in the kitchen. That kind of seems like a lot of extra work, though. I've been obsessed with cooking and baking all weekend. Right now I have a quiche in the oven to take to work for breakfast this week and then later I'll be making my lunch for the week. Yesterday I made muffins that didn't cook on the inside. I have no idea how I fucked up. I've made them a few times with no problems. Also, I was sober. So I can't blame the booze for this kitchen disappointment.

Friday night I made black beans to eat in burritos and on tostadas. I also made carrot bars. I'm still trying to get through a ton of the shit from my mom's garden. If only I had an extra freezer. Or even a normal-sized freezer. Another reason to hate my apartment -- my stupid smaller appliances.

Ooooh. There goes the timer. Gotta run.

25 September 2008

Part Two: Suck it again, White Sox!

Part one.

I can't imagine I'll get much done at work tomorrow, with all the Twins talk going on. And I totally feel bad for having doubted Big Blue Monkey. That young man knows his baseball.

Fred's daughters were trying to get their mom to go to the game tonight. I hope they convinced her.

Assholes everywhere.

Am I the only one who has to follow the (both written and unwritten) rules of the road? I suppose I'm probably a bit more sensitive than usual, what with being sad. Oh, and hormonal. Mother Nature, your timing is impeccable as always, you dirty whore. But damn, there just seem to be a larger-than-normal number of shitheads in cars out there today.

On my way home from work, the back-up on Cedar to get onto the Crosstown was long. I was totally okay with that, though. I was feeling so generous that I let some guy merge in front of me. He even waved thank you! He couldn't possibly be an asshole if he gave the thank you wave, right?

Wrong. Instead of letting someone merge in front of him, he sped up and I had to let them in. Jerk. The merging karma will come back to get you, Dickwad in the green Explorer. Okay, so it was a violation of an unwritten rule. It's still annoying. You need to pay that shit forward.

The breaking of the written rules of the road is of course, far more egregious. I don't know what is wrong with the drivers in Uptown -- especially on 31st between say, Lake Calhoun and Hennepin Ave. -- but sweet buttery Christ, I'm pretty sure 85 percent of the drivers around there have no fucking clue how a four-way stop is supposed to work.

Like the guy who pulled out in front of me today -- there was a car that beat me to the stop. Then I arrived and then the third guy arrived. The guy who was there first went first. Since I arrived second, it was my turn to go. However, the guy who arrived third (who was to my left, as it turns out), decided he needed to go next. IT WASN'T YOUR TURN ASSHOLE. Even if we'd hit the intersection at exactly the same moment, it was still my turn because if that happens, the car to your right goes first.

Of course, he waved at me like I was doing him a favor by not fucking t-boning him.

A block later, a woman taking a left turn deemed her needs far more necessary than anything else and turned left in front of me as I was going through the intersection. I was cursing at these fuckers -- loudly. And through my open windows. Oh, one of these days I'm going to get a cap in my ass for doing that shit.

Then the gym was smelly and now the Twins are imploding and I am cranky. Also, I can't find the Minnesota statute on what the fuck to do at a four-way stop, so I'm worried I remember the rules incorrectly, but I don't think so. Still, that's adding to the crabbiness. Clearly, I need to get to drinking.

24 September 2008

Comfort in routine.

I was raised Catholic. I hated going to Mass. Hated. It. I used to throw tantrums every Sunday, well past the age where tantrums were expected or even tolerated, to try to get out of going to church. No dice.

Once I got older, I'd try to oversleep. That never worked either. My dad started taking me to church before I could even hold my head up on my own, and by God, when I was living in his house, I was going to go to church. I also hated my CCD classes with a passion and tortured my teachers. I shudder to think of how I might have turned out of there had ever been enough money to start a Catholic school in my home town.

So, as soon as I got out of the house, I stopped going to church. There was a brief period probably eight years or so ago, when I went back to church for a bit. I had several Catholic friends who went to a pretty neat church in St. Paul. But I stopped going and now I only go out of obligation to someone or something.

Despite the fact that I am a fallen or lapsed or recovering Catholic and quite frankly, I'm not even sure what I believe, I do welcome the routine and ritual of the church when I'm grieving. I willingly stayed through Fred's wake last night to participate in the Knights of Columbus (Fred was a 4th Degree Knight, as is my dad ... the whole weirdness and secrecy surrounding their initiation has always made me think the KCs are some sort of Stonecuttersesque organization) rosary at the end.

And of course, there was the funeral Mass today. I ended up singing at the request of Fred's widow. There is something oddly comforting to me about the ritual and routine of a mass for a funeral. On most occasions when I grudgingly attend church to avoid a fight with my dad, I pay zero attention and my thoughts always turn to sex, cursing and drinking. It's my brain's way of revolting? But knowing what's going to happen; the same prayers at the same time, songs I almost assuredly know ... it gives me something on which to focus. Especially when I'm singing, because I don't want to make an ass out of myself. I had some moments where I had to stop because I was crying too hard (I wasn't alone, I was singing with my high school choir director and another woman), but I think I held it together much better than I would have otherwise.

I sometimes wonder if my love of routine and ritual in my life in general isn't because of my Catholic upbringing. I have a lot of routines and some even border on the ritual. Though, that all could just be that touch of OCD I have. Perhaps they feed off of each other.

So, I'm back home and absolutely fucking exhausted, despite having taken a nap. On the one hand, I just want to stay home and be wiped out and do nothing. On the other hand, however, I know going to yoga tonight will provide the real centering and calming that I need.

That's my kind of ritual these days.

Updated: I fixed that broken link.

22 September 2008

Boo to bad lunches.

Well, it wasn't terrible or anything. I just had very high hopes for my leftovers. Perhaps I shouldn't trust my opinion of what I just made after drinking a bottle of wine while making it. My sweet and sour pork meatballs with stir fried broccoli, carrots and green peppers were in serious need of some salt.

And I'm a total salt snob, so I'm certainly not going to be using one of those little packets in the break room. I'll have to pack up a little bag of kosher salt to throw in my drawer. It's tough to remember that bag of peanut butter cookies is for The Stylist and should not serve to round out my disappointing lunch.

Also, a note to Sun Luck -- they call it five-spice powder because there is more than just fucking cinnamon in it.

21 September 2008

Something fun.

Because you really needn't read my horribly, horribly ineloquent previous post, I bring you The Top 10 Penis Types. From The Frisky, via City Wendy.

All of the pictures are most excellent, but Thumbkin is disturbingly hilarious.

Goodbye, Fredder.

Today I finally got the call I'd been expecting for a few months now. Since last weekend, every time my mom called, I wondered if she was calling to tell me that Fredder had died.

I'd spent a good chunk of the day with my parents yesterday. My mom called after I got home to see if I was enjoying the margarita basket (tequila, margarita salt, strawberry margarita mix, regular margarita mix, chips and salsa in a basket all wrapped up in tulle) she'd won in the church fall festival silent auction last weekend. So, when she called late this morning after I'd gotten home from the gym, I thought maybe that's why she was calling. See, at my nephew's football game last weekend she said that if Fredder made it another month, it would be a miracle.

But no. She was calling to see if I was stopping out at the house for dinner after I got my hair done tomorrow. I mean, I just spent yesterday with them and my nephew has two football games this weekend and! my cousin is running cross country at the U this weekend, so it's not like I'm not seeing the crap out of them or anything.

Then she called again this afternoon. Maybe she's calling for some other silly reason, since I'll be seeing her again in less than a week.

Nope. This was finally it. Amazingly, I didn't cry. Not even when I got off the phone. It took about a half hour for me to finally lose it. While I was drying my hair. So, my tears where going up my face and into the hair I was trying to dry (I dry my hair upside down, you see).

Fredder had cancer in the lining of his stomach. When it was diagnosed almost six years ago, we thought he had just weeks to live. But he was put on some experimental leukemia drug and he was fine for a few years. So, you know, it's good that all of his family and friends had all of those extra years with him. Eventually, though, those drugs stopped working and things looked bad. The doctors switched his meds and that gave him probably another good year. But late last year it seemed that his time was running out. The family just hoped he'd make it through Christmas. And he did. And he was having good days sometimes, even up until the end. Despite the fact that he was in so much pain, even taking a shower was too much for him.

My dad has lost his best friend. One of my best friends has lost her father. My mom's best friend has lost her husband. We've all lost a really great man. He touched a lot of lives.

There is some consolation, though. I know Fredder's family is close-knit. And I know this because I often felt like a member of their family. And I am certain that my mom and dad will take care of Fredder's widow the same way my grandparents' best friends took my grandma under their wing when my grandpa died.

Okay, I need to wrap this up here. I have a headache. My eyes are swollen and I can't breathe. I need to get back to the solace of the kitchen and my bottle of wine. What better way to be a good Irish girl and toast the memory of the man who (unwittingly) helped me get drunk for the very first time, than to spend my Sunday evening with a bottle (or two) of wine?

Goodbye, Fredder. I hope the Schmidt's in heaven is cold and plentiful.

20 September 2008

"She has a father."

God, I hate weddings. Well, at the very least, weddings for the my mom's side of the family. Honestly, I'm not entirely thrilled with most weddings. The party and whatnot is usually fun -- especially when it is for my dad's side of the family. But if I had a choice, I'd avoid them as a rule.

My second-youngest cousin on my mom's side of the family got married earlier today. It was your typical small-town wedding (did you know public schools catered wedding dinners now? Me neither, but I haven't had a meal that awful since high school), right down to the readings. Does everyone use the "love is patient, love is kind," and the reading from Ephesians about women submitting to their husbands? Honestly. Though, the "love is never rude" line from the first reading always cracks me up. Of course, the Ephesians reading always gets my feminist undies in a bunch.

Then the pastor (Lutheran wedding ... at least they're short) started his homily with this discussion about submission which made me totally uncomfortable. Look, I think talking about submission and being on one's knees is just fine (delightful, even) in the bedroom. Or, you know, the living room or in whatever room you choose to do your dirty stuff. But I do not like clergy talking to me about submission. He also used caramel apples as some sort of visual aid.


We then went to the bar to pass the time between wedding and reception. We drank, watched the Twins and played video games with my nephew and my cousins' kids. Then my grandparents showed up. Lovely. I've written before about how awful these people are. It's so fucking hard for me to even be civil to them most of the time.

My grandpa gave my cousin away today. I'm not even sure what we were talking about, buy my grandpa said something I couldn't really hear about still being able to walk or something. Apparently, he was telling me that should I ever get married, he could give me away. I didn't figure it out until my mom said, "She has a father." Yes, grandpa, unlike most of your grandchildren, my dad is very much in my life. About a minute later, mom said, "And she has a brother."

I was retelling the story to my sister on the ride back and we added all of my uncles to the list. And, failing all of them, we'd probably try to reanimate the corpse of my dead grandpa before I asked my mom's dad.

Doesn't matter, though. Because on the off chance that I ever get married, I'm eloping.

18 September 2008

Your leader in Lolcats hate.

Or so says the Google. I've had a ton of hits today from people searching "I hate lolcats," with the vast majority coming from Europe or Canada.

I decided to follow the link in my site tracker, and to my delight and amazement, I found that when one enters "I hate lolcats" into Google, I'm the first result.

This is yet another proud day in my blogging life.

I still hate Lolcats, though, I don't see them as much these days. I don't know if they're over or it's just that I don't run into them as often because my fucking-around-on-the-interwebs time has been so severely compromised by having to work at my job. I would like to hope its the former, but it's probably the latter.

The Boy I Currently like still thinks I'm dead inside because I hate them. Though, I must admit that the last one he sent me actually made me smile. He only dodges my Lolcats-related ire because his use of them is judicious and usually well-timed. Also, because he has a cute butt. And while I thought I'd fallen prey to using Lolcat-speak every now and again, it cheered me to find out that my favorite (and the only one I ever use), "DO NOT WANT," originated not with Lolcats, but a horrible Star Wars translation. This only makes me love it more.

Also, I don't mind the Lolcat-speak as much when say, Jezebel is doing Lolvogue. Or when it's in porn form. I suppose this makes me a horrible hypocrite, but what can you do?

17 September 2008

Oh, for fuck's sake.

When I was at UNC Wilmington, you can imagine I was something of an odd duck. I was one of only a few Midwesterners there, though, there was another girl from Minnesota.

Most of the people on my floor in the dorm were from North Carolina. There was a guy from Maryland and one from Pennsylvania. And a girl from New Jersey, too. Jeff, the guy from Pennsylvania, took to calling me Miss North Dakota, because he said I talked like his Grandma, who was from Fargo. I countered with calling him Duckie, which he hated. But dammit, he did kinda look like Duckie Dale.

Eventually, I was able to convince everyone to at least call me Miss Minnesota. Small victories, you know? As it turned out, by the time I was ready to come back to Minnesota, my accent was so strong that even my roommate's dad couldn't tell us apart on the phone. Not only that -- I developed something of a country North Carolina accent. Nice!

But it didn't take long for my Minnesota accent to come back. I think I sometimes slip into that Southern accent if I've been drinking and I'm around people with an accent, but it's much more rare than it used to be. And since I live in Minneapolis and grew up in southern Minnesota, I don't have that strong, Fargo-y Minnesota accent. In fact, I didn't believe people in Minnesota actually had that strong of an accent until the day I visited Crookston not long after I finished college. It was the first time I'd ever heard anyone use the phrase "uff da" in an actual sentence.

But, my Minnesota accent does come out in full force every now and then. I was visiting my friend Malina out in the DC suburbs a few years ago, with our friend Shirin, who lives in Oakland. We were at the Bistro having some drinks and God only knows what we were talking about and I said, "Oh, for fuck's sake."

Those two girls lost it. They imitated me forever. Apparently, that's one phrase I use that really puts my accent on display.

So, I suppose that explains why I thought Marge Gunderson was in the car with me when the third or fourth car jumped in the lane in front of me on my drive home because I wasn't all up on the ass of the car in front of me, forcing me to slam on my brakes and causing me to yell, "Oh for fuck's sake!"

It's pretty bad when you can hear your own accent, right?

16 September 2008

Is this what I have to look forward to?


Wisconsin toilet-paper researchers develop 3-ply tissue they tout as 'ultra-soft'

I swear, I thought for a second this was from The Onion. But no. The link to this story was on the Strib's front page this afternoon.

First, I'm kind of annoyed the AP writer had to say, "Yes, there is such a thing as a toilet-paper researcher." Do you really need to take such a patronizing tone? Your attempt at being clever has failed, anonymous AP reporter. Of course there are toilet paper researchers. OMG! Companies do research and product development! Who would ever have possibly guessed that? Ass. Look, as someone who was trained as a journalist, I realize you write to a low common denominator. But come on.

However there is something even more disturbing in this story than having my intelligence insulted. It is this:

The company touts the toilet tissue as "ultra-soft" and says it plans to market the product to women 45 and older who view their bathroom as a "sanctuary for quality time."

Sweet buttery Christ. Am I someday going to view pooping as quality time? Don't get me wrong, a good poop can feel very satisfying. I mean, it's not as good as a peegasm or anything. But to go so far as to consider time spent in the loo as quality time? If this is what I have to look forward to when I'm older, please kill me now. Or when I get to the point where I view my bathroom as a sanctuary, at the very least.

Also, I don't really see how an extra ply is going to make the toilet paper "ultra soft." Another layer would make it stronger, sure. But adding another ply to rough, crappy toilet paper will do nothing to make it softer. It'll just be thicker rough, crappy toilet paper. Is this like Coors Light claiming their beer is so awesome because it tastes cold? You can't taste cold, morons. Sure, it's better to drink it cold because then you can't taste how much it sucks. But cold is not a flavor.

15 September 2008

As if those eHarmony commercials weren't bad enough ...

The guy in the newest one reminds me of Booty Call Matt. There's a shot at the end of the spot where the lame-Os are moving in for a smooch or something, and he's in profile. He looks so much like Booty Call Matt, it's scary. His stubble is even the same. I can't remember what the dude's hair looks like, but I imagine that's the difference that makes me not notice the resemblance until the end, where you can't see his hair.

Gross. Actually, the guy has a touch of Detlef in his face, too. If he kisses like Detlef, I feel so fucking bad for that girl.

Speaking of annoying dating site commercials, I've not been seeing the Chemistry.com commercials lately. What the fuck happened to them? They had good spots at the beginning. Now they have the couple I want to punch in the junk with the guy who says, "I don't pluck; I manscape," and pops his "P" in manscape. Can there only be two dating sites in heavy commercial rotation at one time? Because I've been seeing a lot of the Match.com commercials with the sultry giggling blonde women. There are no dudes on Match?

Gah. Online dating kinda makes my skin crawl even when I'm not doing it. Yet, I love living vicariously through people who are. I don't understand that at all.

Side note: We have a winner in the Trader Joe's cashiers' jokes about my alcoholism. I went in after yoga tonight and loaded up on some Shaw, and the guy who rang me up is the guy who often flirts with me. I pulled my wine tote out of my purse and he said, "Oh! I see you've brought your Irishman's lunch bag."

I laughed and said, "It's funny 'cause it's true." To which he replied, "I know. I'm Irish." And I'm all, "As am I." Then we traded Irish jokes. Oh, aren't stereotypes fun?

Also, speaking of yoga, I was that asshole in class tonight. I got to my cold early with the Zicam, so I'm already getting over it (seriously, if I could be around The Boy while he was smoking more than normal yesterday and not feel like ass today, I have to be better). However, I do have a wee bit of a cough. And during Savasana, I could feel a coughing fit coming on. Jebus help me, I did everything I could to keep it in. My eyes were watering and every muscle in my body was tensed. But I had to give in, so I kept it as quiet as possible. I hated myself for disturbing everyone, but I felt so much better after I got that tickle out of my throat.


14 September 2008

The Bob Saget Fan Club blows.

And their owner isn't very good either. I'm afraid to even check the score to see how terrible I did this week. It's my own damn fault.

For whatever reason, I just haven't been paying much attention to what's going on. Being busy at work is probably part of the problem. In years past, I had nothing but time on my hands in the office, so I could do a bunch of research and whatnot. Now that I've got a job where I actually have to work, I should be doing my research at home. But apparently, I just can't be bothered to do that.

Now I'll be getting a fine this week because I started Houston's tight end when they're having their bye week because of the fucking hurricane. Last I'd heard, the game was moved to Monday. But I asked The Boy about it today and he's all, "No, they've moved it to Week 10." And I wasn't worried because I don't have any Houston players. Well, save for the one on the bench. Of course, I get home and see my tight end is a Texan and there he is in the starting line up. Fuck.

Stoner Commish sent an e-mail this morning at 10:00 telling us to make changes because of the switched bye week. However, at 10:00 this morning, I was curled up next to The Boy, sleeping away until after the start of the first game. Well, except for that 15 minutes or so where someone was vacuuming in the hallway. Oh well. The $5 fine is well worth the quality time I got to spend with The Boy.

I felt like I hadn't seen him in ages, but it really hadn't been that long. He thinks it seemed longer because he's also expected to work at his newish job (honestly, where do these people get off?), so we don't spend most of the work day e-mailing each other like we've done in the past. So, it was really very nice being able to be lazy and just lay around with him.

And I've been oddly productive since I got home a few hours ago. I've showered, given myself a pedicure and I have a pot of tomato sauce simmering away on the stove. Not a huge deal, except I used fresh tomatoes from my mom's garden. I peeled, seeded chopped all of the tomatoes, chopped all the other veggies and then pureed half of the tomatoes. The bulk of the stuff in that pot is from my mom's garden -- tomatoes, onion, green pepper, carrots, basil and oregano. Despite all of the work, it didn't take very long at all. Or, it didn't seem to take long. Yay me! I shouldn't get too excited. It might turn horrible over the next two hours it has to cook yet.

I can't believe I have to go back to work tomorrow. Boo!

12 September 2008

Sick, but no sick day.

Funny that I should come down with a cold the week I can finally start taking time off of work. But I have fewer than three sick days for the remainder of the year and honestly, I'm not sick enough to stay home.

Why is it that I can feel like utter crap while at work, but the second I get home I feel a million times better? I was falling asleep at my desk yesterday, but after? I went to the gym and had a great work out. Then, I came home and cooked and did dishes and other stuff around the house and didn't sit down until like, 10:00. Couldn't get to bed early, either.

Now here I am today again, dragging ass. I'm sure I'll be a drinking dynamo again tonight. And there's all kinds of stuff to do over the weekend -- cooking, baking, my nephew's football game, the BLB Block Party, football-watching, drinking ... And I'm sure I'll be able to do it all. But I'll be dragging ass again on Monday.

I will never understand the mystery of feeling like ass at work, but feeling much better at home. I suppose it's kind of like you only want what you can't have. I mean, I'd like to just lay down for a few minutes. That's not asking too much, right? But you must wait like, nine hours! No resting. Then all of a sudden, you're home and look! There's the couch. You can rest all you want. Rest? Pffft. I need to go to the gym and run errands. There is baking I must do. All those veggies from the farm in the fridge? They must be made into something. NOW.

Perhaps I can work out a deal with my body. I'll stay home tonight, but I must insist on at least one drink on the deck. That counts as resting, right?

11 September 2008

What the fuck, Target?

I loves me some Target. Sometimes it's almost a bit of a problem. When they opened the first SuperTarget in the metro, I wanted to fucking live there. But damn, they've been pissing me off lately.

Why is it that whenever I buy a two-pack of Target gloves for dish washing and other household chores (my hands are dry enough, thank you very much), I'll use one pair forever before I toss them, and then the next pair fills with water the second time I use them? How do you do that, Target?

Then there's the whole constantly-being-out-of-shit that seems to be happening pretty frequently, no matter where I go. Since I've been at the new job, I've been stopping at the Richfield SuperTarget on my way home from the office. Okay, so I basically go there or the one near the gym in St. Louis Park. But as often as I go to either (entirely too often, I must admit), they're both out of shit all the fucking time.

They didn't on my last visit -- and often don't -- have the tampons I want to buy. Both the Target brand and the ... I can't remember -- Glad or Ziploc brand of disposable containers? Only sizes I didn't want. On that same visit where I couldn't get my tampons, they didn't have the Kleenex I wanted, either. Again, this happens a lot. There's always tons of the kind with lotion and the regular Kleenex. But I want the damn ultra soft -- especially when my allergies are bad or I'm sick.

Of course, my allergies have been bad and have transitioned into a cold. Fuck! So, I stopped last night before yoga to get some DayQuil and NyQuil, and wouldn't you guess it -- they're out. Well, kind of. There were only the smaller sizes and this being the early stages of the cold, 12 Dayquil are not going to last me. I settled for buying the Target brand. Which was nice, because ... well, it was convenient to get both in one box. But Jesus H. Christ, Target, it's fucking impossible to get those things out of their little blister packs. I NEED MY DRUGS, ASSHOLES.

Also, when I said I had my own bag, the sales associate at the register asked for my birthday. Are you doing demographic research on half-assed enviros, Target? They never ask at Richfield.

Oh, Target -- for all my bitching, you know I'll never leave you, right?

08 September 2008

Restlessness and other odds and ends.

Sweet Jesus, have I felt restless the last couple of days. It's kind of like the anxious feeling I usually have when I start my new pack of birth control pills (which I just did), but I'm in a good mood.

It's probably a combination of a million things; meeting all the Classy Broads on Saturday, the change in the weather, things changing a bit at work, the start of football, The Boy finding his new apartment ... there's a lot of stuff happening. But I feel like something should be happening to me. Or I should be doing something. Maybe I'll have another glass of wine.

I figured yoga would help. And as luck would have it, Bally added three evening yoga classes. The new schedule started tonight. There were only three other people in the class. I heart individual attention. It is a bit sucky because Monday class conflicts with Monday Night Football. And Monday and Wednesday classes start at 7:30. I didn't get home until just before 9:00 tonight. Though, I did have to stop to get gas. Still, it's like 10:00 and I have shit to do and I can't fucking be up all night. And yet, I'm sitting here blogging. Nice.

There are good things about the added and even later yoga classes. With class not starting until 7:30, I can throw in some cardio before class. I did that tonight and it felt good. I was nicely stretched out after cardio and I was warmed up for yoga. The additional classes mean that hopefully I can be less anal about my schedule. Hahahahahahahaha. Oh, that's a good one. But seriously, I'm going to try. Wednesday night is no longer Off Limits. There it is, in print. I'm going to do my best to not get into the "Monday and Wednesday are off limits, and I'd really rather not do anything Tuesday or Thursday, because I totally have to lift this week." Jesus. I need to loosen up a little.

New classes weren't the only delightful gym surprises. Note: the used condom on the ground next to my car in the parking ramp was not a delightful surprise. No more parking in the dark part of the underground ramp. There are some bad-ass new TVs up in the cardio area. There are three fewer TVs, but damn. If I can watch football (or basketball or baseball) on a sweet TV, working out is considerably more fun.

What else? Oh, I read this discussion about Sarah Palin: feminist or not? on Jezebel today. Fucking honestly. If you think she is a feminist, you don't know what feminism is. Having a vagina does not automatically entitle you to your Feminist Card. If you're going to tout to the press how your daughter made the choice to keep her baby and how you kept your baby after the Down syndrome diagnosis, yet if you had your way, you'd take that right away from other women, YOU ARE NOT A FEMINIST.

I'm confused by this quote: "On that stage last night, Sarah Palin represented everything the feminist movement claims to strive for: a successful working woman with a happy family life and a husband who helps raise the children."

Uh, I think the feminist movement is down with the happy family with a husband helping to raise the children if that's what you want. I'm not striving for that. I don't want kids. I'm not even sure I want to get married. But I have the choice to not have children or not get married. Jesus Christ.

Is it November yet? I know it's not, but that doesn't mean you don't have to get your ass out and vote tomorrow, bitches.

07 September 2008

Blogging can lead to bachelorette parties.

Back in July, I wrote a vague post about how much blogging rules and everyone was curious about why I wrote it.

I can now tell you what I was on about. See, that day or the day before I'd received an e-mail from Diana. She was looking for some advice on planning a pub crawl in Northeast for Sarah's bachelorette party. And I was more than happy to help. But she also had a request -- she wanted me to be the surprise mystery guest.

Me? Really? Ain't the interwebs grand?

Anyway, I was thrilled and terribly honored to find out these ladies wanted to meet me. I can't even wrap my head around that. Why anyone would think I'm worth hanging out with is beyond me. It's like grad school -- people were always having parties and I never went. I was a part-time student, for one thing. School and my fellow classmates were not my life. But I did finally go to one party at the end of my last year there. That night, a couple of girls told me they were so glad I finally came out to a party. They'd been wanting me to come to their parties all year.

Me? Really? I barely even knew these girls.

So, yeah. I went and had a blast, even though I ended up pussying out early because my allergies have been borderline out-of-control lately and I'd had a headache for two days (still have it!). I never even felt like that much of an outsider, which just goes to show you how lovely these ladies are. And I never had any second thoughts about showing up and going out with them. By the way -- best bachelorette party I've ever attended. Totally hipster friendly and nary a fake cock in sight.

We did dinner at Town Talk and then headed out pub crawling. Nye's was delightful, as always. I was talking to a bunch of dudes there and eventually got into a conversation with one of them that came around at some point to me growing up on a farm. It was time to leave and this guy was all, "You are the most interesting woman I've ever met in Minneapolis. You're a farm girl who can drive a tractor, but there's still an alternative sense about you. You're really rockin' those pigtails." Actually he said that to my tits, which was where he'd been directing most of his conversation. Eyes up here, Sparky.

It's weird to have someone distill you down to your essence after talking to you for a few minutes. I'm a small-town farm girl turned Minneapolis hipster. That's me.

At the U-Otter-Stop-Inn, we did karaoke and I danced with an adorable bearded 23-year-old while Sarah sang some Patsy Cline. Wha? I can honestly say that was a first. Oh, those 23-year-old boys were the cutest fucking things ever, with their beards (which I totally felt) and western shirts. Okay, I think it was just the one I danced with who had the western shirt.

I took off after the Otter and I didn't even get to say goodbye to Sarah. I feel bad. I had an excellent time and would absolutely hang out with them again. I only hope I made a decent first impression and they don't think I'm an asshole, what with the drinking and excessive cursing and my various other assholey qualities I might have displayed.

You ladies rock and Sarah, I wish you the absolute best in your marriage.

05 September 2008

All this angry feminisim ...

Is starting to wear me down. It's been two solid weeks since I read the cupcake story and got my undies all bunched up. Since Sarah Palin's nomination (she changed schools six times in six years! Oooh, what an academic all-star), the angry feminism has just kicked into high gear and I imagine it's going to stay there for a while.

But I need a break if I'm going to keep this up until Election Day. Doesn't dressing up like a school girl and being spanked sound like just the thing to refresh and renew my spirit?


04 September 2008

Are you ready for some football?

Fuck and yes. Oh my God. It feels like it's been forever. The cool weather, my fantasy football draft and coming home from yoga when it is suddenly considerably darker than it seemed just a few weeks ago, all have me itching to watch the foosball.

I'm always torn about which is better -- Spring or Fall? The start of baseball or the start of football? I almost think Fall is better, because there is still baseball being played and basketball is right there on the horizon. However in Spring, you've got the NCAA tournament sidling up next to the start of baseball and there's plenty of NBA action still happening. Too close to call, I guess.

I was waffling about whether I would skip the gym or not to watch tonight's opener. After all, I had to skip on Tuesday for my draft and I didn't technically work out on Monday. Though, I probably walked close to five miles through St. Paul that day. As luck would have it, I think I've got a touch of plantar facitis. Trekking through St. Paul in my Chucks all day on Monday only exacerbated the problem. Dammit.

It's so hard for me to skip the gym -- which is a good thing. Though, when I should really be skipping or I actually need to skip, I can't help but feel guilty. I suppose it's because I'm afraid of falling into old traps. You'd think that with this whole "new Jess" closer to two years than one, it wouldn't be as much of a worry. And really, it's not. Maybe it's that pervasive Catholic guilt getting into parts of my life it just doesn't belong. Heaped on top of everything else is the fact that my heel feels much better than it did yesterday. This is thanks to yoga and regular intervals of ibuprofen to reduce the inflammation, but still.

Let's look at it this way Jess -- which is better: taking a few days off now or trying to work through it (no pain, no gain motherfuckers!), making things worse and needing to go to the doctor and stop working out for even longer.

It's sad when you have to talk to yourself like a child.

So yeah, I'm totally watching the game tonight. I've already forgotten who I picked to win and I don't think any of The Bob Saget Fan Club starters are members of either team. I'm rooting for the Washington Racist Mascots. I know he's no longer with them, but Michael Strahan's gap-tooth visage lingers in my memory and will forever taint the Giants. God, I hate him.

03 September 2008

I watched Sarah Palin's speech.

And I'm so angry I cannot even write about it.

Also, I love The Daily Show with all my heart, but sometimes the fucking hilarious hypocrisy it points out makes me want to fucking weep.

Is it possible to be totally fired up to fight and at the same time want to lay down and die? 'Cause that's pretty much how I feel.

Ranting: repeats and TMI.

I have ranted in this space before about people fucking with my computer when they come over to my house. I realize it is at least partially my fault for having my laptop on and sitting on my coffee table. But when it is there, it is in its place and as put away as it is going to get. If we need the space, sure -- I'll move it to my bedroom. But when I have people over to sit on the deck and have drinks, space in the living room isn't really a concern.

And you know what? Yes, my computer is often slow. My stupid Comcast Internet is often shit. But please don't try to fix things for me. Every time that happens, my computer somehow ends up in worse shape. I've gotten the blue screen of death twice since my guests left. I'd been having no problems for months until Sunday and now I'll have to run the stupid check disk utility daily until things settle down.

I don't come to your house and steal the TV remote or change your music. Why do people do that to me? You could at least ask first before you decide we should watch something else or listen to another song or that you need to delete the version of Adobe that allows me to open PDFs.

Guess I won't be doing any more entertaining any time soon.

And now for the entirely too much information rant. I apologize in advance to my male readers and well, really to everyone. But if I can't rant about this in my blog, where can I do it?

Why the fuck is it so goddamn difficult to find slender regular tampons? I do not want anything bigger. I do not need anything bigger. And quite frankly, since Tampax decided to redesign their tampons, anything bigger than a slender regular is really uncomfortable. And not only are they next-to-impossible to find, they only come in the small-sized boxes. Yesterday at SuperTarget, I was forced to buy a 20-pack of the lite version. Which makes me think they are diet tampons or the equivalent of a training bra. Yay for My First Period! Jerks.

02 September 2008

And now for something a little less girly.

And something completely self-indulgent -- I just finished up my fantasy football draft. Yes, The Bob Saget Fanclub version 2008 is in the books.

I'd been lamenting to people (okay, mostly to The Boy), wondering why the hell I stay in this league. And he reminded me -- it's because I'm in a league with potheads and fantasy football morons. I have a good chance of winning money! In fact, I have won a considerable amount of money from these fuckers over the years. The Boy and I were talking about it over the weekend and I was speaking in gambling terms -- I'm up $7 after last year. But I won $175 last year. It's just that the fees were $168. He told me that I shouldn't think about it that way. So I won't. I've won hundreds of dollars playing fantasy football!

This year's draft was mildly concerning, though. It didn't seem that anyone was making really crazy picks. However, after again talking to The Boy halfway through, I realized it was more because while they were making stupid picks, they weren't taking Reggie Bush first overall or taking Vince Young in the third round (I got him as my backup in the 14th). They reassured me, though, by taking Arizona backup and mega-hot-piece-of-ass Matt Leinart before the starter, Kurt Warner (who will be backing up Leinart soon enough, but still).

So yeah, I'm all ready for Thursday. Except for setting my line-ups and making my picks in the IDYFT pick 'em contest. (I want the Football Jesus statue to match my Basketball Jesus, but a remote control, farting teddy bear would be awesome. Then again, my tie-for-third-place prize from last season was rather excellent, too.) But I have all kinds of time to do that.

I realized in the draft chat room (we all do it remotely) that I quite miss The OC, who is the reason I'm in this league at all. And I miss him as a friend and coworker, not as a boy I used to like. Though, I really did like him. It's good to know I'm well over that.

So, yay for football! It's nice to be excited, even though I still don't have an NFL team for which to root.

In the news.

Look, I realize the AP is probably stretched a bit thin right now. You've got the RNC to cover and a variety of hurricanes, tropical storms and tropical depressions currently pummeling or about to pummel the Southeast. But honestly, they actually published this story?

Hungriest man eats 11.5 pounds of chili-spaghetti to win Ohio title, beats best-known eater

Better yet, the Strib picked it up and wrote and equally craptastic headline. That is quite possibly the most poorly-written news story I have ever read. And I wrote for and edited my high school paper. Jesus. Did they send out 17-year-old high school junior Cindy Lee Watkins to cover this chili-spaghetti mixture eat-off? Dear God almighty.

To make up for you having to read that steaming pile of newspaper poo, I present you with this jem from The Superficial about Sarah Palin's shotgun son-in-law to be. It's delicious!

The Boy's take on it? "It is mean and shallow of me, but I'm finding all of this shit to be hilarious." And this is why I think he rules.

01 September 2008

Fuckin' hippies.

Today was the big Take Back Labor Day concert on Harriet Island, across the river from the RNC. KayGee, The Prison Librarian and I figured it would be best to take the bus to St. Paul, what with the convention starting and the huge antiwar protest going on.

Huge motherfucking mistake.

Long story as short as I can make it, our bus dropped us off very far from downtown St. Paul because supposedly, St. Paul police had decided no buses downtown because there "was a riot." We didn't see a riot -- just families heading back to cars and other gathering spots after the big protest.

We walked for more than an hour, navigating blocked streets and blocked bridges. We saw cops in riot gear. We were warned by passing drivers to be careful because "they're teargassing people up there." There was a sound like a cannon or some other large-scale weapon going off as we walked along the river. Not sure what it was. Maybe the tear gas?

It was surreal and totally fucking irritating. We were always so close to where we needed to be, but invariably, there was a chain link fence topped with barb wire in our way. Turns out it would have been a million times easier to drive there than take the bus. Because, as Macho Man said, "Anarchists have bus passes."

So glad we didn't turn around and go home. The show was great. We cheered as we drove back to Minneapolis to finish our night at Liquor Lyle's. I'd write more, but Jesus, I'm tired.

Po-Po in riot gear at Wabasha and Kellogg (I think it was Kellogg).

The Pharcyde.

The Pharcyde doing "My Prerogative."

Giancarlo Esposito getting the crowd going before The Pharcyde, after Mos Def.

Crowd shot. There were a ton of people there.

More of The Pharcyde.

More crowd shots.

Mos Def. Oh, how he rocked my world.