I promise that someday I will write something of at least marginal substance here again. Today, however, is not that day. People, I am TIRED. And it is only Monday. This does not bode well for the rest of the week. It's all good and fine to be busy and popular (I may be exaggerating or even completely making up the latter part of that compound), but a girl needs to take a night off now and then. One of these nights. Really.
Meanwhile, talk amongst yourselves. I'll give you a topic. What should Stefanie wear on her maybe-date with the MPR reporter she met two weeks ago? Yes, I have a maybe-date! But I did not plan an M-P-R-ty to acquire it. I just decided, in an impulsive "What the hell; what do I have to lose?" moment, that maybe it wasn't completely unreasonable to write to a total stranger whose email address happens to be in the public domain and ask if he'd like to have a drink with me. And apparently he didn't think it was completely unreasonable either, because he basically said, "OK." I know! I'm as surprised as you are. But stranger things have happened, no?
Of course, this is only a maybe-date, because first off, I did not use the word "date" in my invitation, and hence, he may have an entirely different label for this get-together in mind. And second, I have not actually heard back from him with any further confirmation of these date or non-date plans. It's all very hazy, obviously, which makes asking you what I should wear on a possibly entirely fictitious maybe-date or non-date entirely a moot point. Plus there is the problem of most of you having no idea whatsoever what is in my closet and hence no idea what the options in this multiple choice question might be.
So how about I give you a different topic instead? The Holy Roman Empire was neither holy nor Roman nor an empire. Discuss.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Bullet points of randomness, sans any bullets
I realized earlier this evening that in the course of one day, I have heard new music on the radio from Depeche Mode, The Cure, and Morrissey. For a moment this realization made me want to paint my nails black, don a pair of black and white horizontally striped tights, and contemplate my intellectual superiority to all of the girls on my high school's prom court. But then it occurred to me that the respectable and irony-free return of the music that shaped my formative years was made possible maybe not just because the talent and appeal of these aging gentlemen miraculously stands the test of time and cross-generational tastes, but because we are currently living through an extremely strange and uncomfortable (for me) period during which anything and everything from the 80s is welcomed back with open arms and no questions asked. Yes, I have new music from Morrissey, but the tradeoff for this gift is the return of leggings and bubble tops. It's a mixed blessing, obviously.
I remain wary of how far the phenomenon will stretch. If there truly is no limit to the resurgence of all things 80s, has anyone notified Weird Al or the creators of Punky Brewster yet? Let's hope not.
This was going to be a post of bulleted randomness, by the way, as I have several thoughts on my mind but none of them are noteworthy or important enough to expand into a full post on their own. I have noticed that my bullet points often become full paragraphs, however, which renders the bullet essentially useless. How do you feel about full paragraphs of transition-free randomness? Are you OK with that? Good. Moving on.
For tonight's post, by the way, we can all thank Stephenie Meyer. Not because she has anything directly to do with it (or because her unparalleled success with crappy writing is an inspiration to me), but because the annual Minneapolis-St. Paul International Film Festival is currently in full swing, and I had planned to be at a showing of How to Be this evening, rather than at home typing a blog post. Amazingly, however, although Rotten Tomatoes knows almost nothing about this film at this point, tonight's screening of it at the festival was completely sold out at least a day in advance. What does this have to do with Stephenie Meyer? Not a lot, except that I suspect at least a portion of the surprising popularity of this particular festival entry might be related to the fact that it stars Robert Pattinson, and I may have underestimated the Twin Cities' involvement in Edward Cullen Mania when I neglected to buy my ticket in advance. My bad.
Speaking of strange mistakes (that was my half-hearted attempt at a logical transition for at least ONE new paragraph in this post), my phone rang twice in quick succession on Saturday, both from the same unknown number. Surprisingly it was not a sales call or a charity or a political organization, however, all of whom were the reason I let both calls go to voicemail instead of answering. No, the message the caller left on my voicemail went something like this: "Hi, if this is Colleen, I'm calling numbers out of the phone book at random. This is Al [LastName]. Could you give me a call at home, at 612-###-####?"
I almost wanted to call Al back and introduce him to the wonder and usefulness that is the Internet, because I can only assume that searching for Colleen on the Internet has got to be at least as successful as dialing numbers AT RANDOM from the phone book. Also, who still uses a phone book? People who don't know how to spell "Colleen," apparently, because if I were, in fact, using a phone book to locate someone by that name, I would probably skip right over all listings where the first name is the initial "S." Then again, how many people are even still in the phone book these days? Those of us with land lines are a shrinking minority. Maybe the logic is that we all must know each other. Come to think of it, I believe there was a Colleen at last month's meeting of Luddites Anonymous. I'll have to keep an eye out for her next time so I can pass along the message.
And finally, one more random thought. I have realized recently that I seem to be incapable of slicing open an avocado without smiling and proclaiming out loud (What? I live alone, remember?) how very much I love avocados and how I might even actually marry one now that Iowa's acceptance of gay marriage has paved the way for us to marry our pets and inanimate objects and anything else we might decide we cherish and covet in a potentially inappropriate way. I may have to move someplace where polygamy is legal, of course, as we all know I'm already betrothed to my blue yoga pants, but I like to dream big, people. I know this can happen in our lifetime.
ANYWAY. Back to avocados. Obviously I am a big fan. Love their work. Yay for avocados is what I'm saying. But it occurred to me tonight as I was slicing one into a salad that my love for the avocado is relatively new. I don't remember when I first had avocado in its whole (not guacamole) form, but I'm certain it was post-high school. Likely even post-college. Did I even know avocados existed when I was a child or teenager? Does the rest of the tiny town where I was raised know about avocados yet? I didn't have a bagel until college either, though admittedly that was because my mother simply never bought them, not because my town didn't know they existed. I have always been a late bloomer; what else is still fully off my radar? This whole avocado thing is making me wonder what other foods I love but don't even know exist yet. And don't say wasabi peas or Hapi mixed rice crackers, because I am already in full addiction mode with both of those at the moment. And don't say "pan-seared skate wing," because we already know how that worked out for me.
Yes, these are the big questions that I ponder during the mundane moments of daily life. Isn't there anything of little import that you're thinking about today?
I remain wary of how far the phenomenon will stretch. If there truly is no limit to the resurgence of all things 80s, has anyone notified Weird Al or the creators of Punky Brewster yet? Let's hope not.
This was going to be a post of bulleted randomness, by the way, as I have several thoughts on my mind but none of them are noteworthy or important enough to expand into a full post on their own. I have noticed that my bullet points often become full paragraphs, however, which renders the bullet essentially useless. How do you feel about full paragraphs of transition-free randomness? Are you OK with that? Good. Moving on.
For tonight's post, by the way, we can all thank Stephenie Meyer. Not because she has anything directly to do with it (or because her unparalleled success with crappy writing is an inspiration to me), but because the annual Minneapolis-St. Paul International Film Festival is currently in full swing, and I had planned to be at a showing of How to Be this evening, rather than at home typing a blog post. Amazingly, however, although Rotten Tomatoes knows almost nothing about this film at this point, tonight's screening of it at the festival was completely sold out at least a day in advance. What does this have to do with Stephenie Meyer? Not a lot, except that I suspect at least a portion of the surprising popularity of this particular festival entry might be related to the fact that it stars Robert Pattinson, and I may have underestimated the Twin Cities' involvement in Edward Cullen Mania when I neglected to buy my ticket in advance. My bad.
Speaking of strange mistakes (that was my half-hearted attempt at a logical transition for at least ONE new paragraph in this post), my phone rang twice in quick succession on Saturday, both from the same unknown number. Surprisingly it was not a sales call or a charity or a political organization, however, all of whom were the reason I let both calls go to voicemail instead of answering. No, the message the caller left on my voicemail went something like this: "Hi, if this is Colleen, I'm calling numbers out of the phone book at random. This is Al [LastName]. Could you give me a call at home, at 612-###-####?"
I almost wanted to call Al back and introduce him to the wonder and usefulness that is the Internet, because I can only assume that searching for Colleen on the Internet has got to be at least as successful as dialing numbers AT RANDOM from the phone book. Also, who still uses a phone book? People who don't know how to spell "Colleen," apparently, because if I were, in fact, using a phone book to locate someone by that name, I would probably skip right over all listings where the first name is the initial "S." Then again, how many people are even still in the phone book these days? Those of us with land lines are a shrinking minority. Maybe the logic is that we all must know each other. Come to think of it, I believe there was a Colleen at last month's meeting of Luddites Anonymous. I'll have to keep an eye out for her next time so I can pass along the message.
And finally, one more random thought. I have realized recently that I seem to be incapable of slicing open an avocado without smiling and proclaiming out loud (What? I live alone, remember?) how very much I love avocados and how I might even actually marry one now that Iowa's acceptance of gay marriage has paved the way for us to marry our pets and inanimate objects and anything else we might decide we cherish and covet in a potentially inappropriate way. I may have to move someplace where polygamy is legal, of course, as we all know I'm already betrothed to my blue yoga pants, but I like to dream big, people. I know this can happen in our lifetime.
ANYWAY. Back to avocados. Obviously I am a big fan. Love their work. Yay for avocados is what I'm saying. But it occurred to me tonight as I was slicing one into a salad that my love for the avocado is relatively new. I don't remember when I first had avocado in its whole (not guacamole) form, but I'm certain it was post-high school. Likely even post-college. Did I even know avocados existed when I was a child or teenager? Does the rest of the tiny town where I was raised know about avocados yet? I didn't have a bagel until college either, though admittedly that was because my mother simply never bought them, not because my town didn't know they existed. I have always been a late bloomer; what else is still fully off my radar? This whole avocado thing is making me wonder what other foods I love but don't even know exist yet. And don't say wasabi peas or Hapi mixed rice crackers, because I am already in full addiction mode with both of those at the moment. And don't say "pan-seared skate wing," because we already know how that worked out for me.
Yes, these are the big questions that I ponder during the mundane moments of daily life. Isn't there anything of little import that you're thinking about today?
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
We've come a long way since the Flowbee
It was brought to my attention on that last post that many of you are not familiar with Mates of State. Let's remedy that, shall we? Yes, yes, I know you all hate video posts, but take a quick look when your coworkers aren't near enough to notice you're not working, OK?
I had other things I was going to tell you this evening... like that the new-to-me laptop I've been so excited about seems to have become possessed already but that I lack the techno-prowess to know what to do about it and hence, am attempting to solve it like I solve so many problems in my life: by ignoring it in the hopes that the problem goes away on its own. Or that my pal Carrie and I went to an MPR & Citizens League event tonight and both simultaneously developed a crush on the MPR reporter who was a panelist for the event, and that we are considering inviting him to our next party (or even perhaps planning a party solely so we can invite him).
I was going to tell you these things and possibly more, but I spent the time I would have spent typing that talking to Lara instead, and now it is time for bed. Lara fully supports that party idea, by the way, and even went so far as to suggest we call it an M-P-R-ty. Heh. Lara may have been inhaling fumes from her Ukranian egg decorating supplies when she cracked that joke, but I have to admit I lack any similar excuse for laughing at it.
Do you remember in old movies, when a long distance phone call was a major event? When people scheduled calls and had operators put them through, and a hush fell over the entire house because "Mr. So-and-So is on the phone, from NEW YORK! LONG DISTANCE!"? I don't want to imply that a phone call from Lara is not an event, but I do appreciate the fact that the air of formality over a long distance call has long since dropped. I mean, while we talked, Lara was dyeing Ukranian eggs, and I decided to read her the questions on Mental Floss's "SkyMall Product or Rejected Invention Patent?" quiz. It was probably exactly what we would have been doing if we were chatting in the same room together, instead of several states away. Ah, the wonders of technology.
Speaking of technology, allow me to present my favorite answer on the "SkyMall Product or Rejected Invention Patent" quiz. Mental Floss pitted the "Cool Steps" self-cooling footwear against the "The NECKpro over-door cervical traction device," and it nearly stumped both of us. I mean, a miniature air compressor in each shoe does sound a tad ridiculous, but so does an at-home traction device. Aren't there some things that should not be do-it-yourself ventures? I would have assumed cervical traction fell solidly in that category, along with at-home dental work and chiropracty. Alas, no. Behold: the NECKpro...
It's no personal mini-donut maker, but every product has its niche, I suppose.
I had other things I was going to tell you this evening... like that the new-to-me laptop I've been so excited about seems to have become possessed already but that I lack the techno-prowess to know what to do about it and hence, am attempting to solve it like I solve so many problems in my life: by ignoring it in the hopes that the problem goes away on its own. Or that my pal Carrie and I went to an MPR & Citizens League event tonight and both simultaneously developed a crush on the MPR reporter who was a panelist for the event, and that we are considering inviting him to our next party (or even perhaps planning a party solely so we can invite him).
I was going to tell you these things and possibly more, but I spent the time I would have spent typing that talking to Lara instead, and now it is time for bed. Lara fully supports that party idea, by the way, and even went so far as to suggest we call it an M-P-R-ty. Heh. Lara may have been inhaling fumes from her Ukranian egg decorating supplies when she cracked that joke, but I have to admit I lack any similar excuse for laughing at it.
Do you remember in old movies, when a long distance phone call was a major event? When people scheduled calls and had operators put them through, and a hush fell over the entire house because "Mr. So-and-So is on the phone, from NEW YORK! LONG DISTANCE!"? I don't want to imply that a phone call from Lara is not an event, but I do appreciate the fact that the air of formality over a long distance call has long since dropped. I mean, while we talked, Lara was dyeing Ukranian eggs, and I decided to read her the questions on Mental Floss's "SkyMall Product or Rejected Invention Patent?" quiz. It was probably exactly what we would have been doing if we were chatting in the same room together, instead of several states away. Ah, the wonders of technology.
Speaking of technology, allow me to present my favorite answer on the "SkyMall Product or Rejected Invention Patent" quiz. Mental Floss pitted the "Cool Steps" self-cooling footwear against the "The NECKpro over-door cervical traction device," and it nearly stumped both of us. I mean, a miniature air compressor in each shoe does sound a tad ridiculous, but so does an at-home traction device. Aren't there some things that should not be do-it-yourself ventures? I would have assumed cervical traction fell solidly in that category, along with at-home dental work and chiropracty. Alas, no. Behold: the NECKpro...
It's no personal mini-donut maker, but every product has its niche, I suppose.
Monday, April 13, 2009
I wonder if he'd wanna be a manta ray
So then. I hope everyone had a lovely weekend. I hear there was a holiday of some sort yesterday, but it's hard for me to get particularly worked up over any holiday that does not involve a free day off of work, so it was pretty much just an average Sunday to me. Well, average except for the late morning brunch with friends, which perhaps should be a routine part of every weekend, but is not, given that it conflicts with both my desire to stay in bed as late as I feel like on weekends and my desire not to spend any more money than I already spend on social plans with friends.
Regardless, I had a fine time yesterday. Our urban orphans and heathens Easter brunch gets a little more top shelf every year. The whole tradition started four years ago when my sister and I were at Nye's Polonaise (best bar in America!) with some friends for my birthday and she spotted the Easter brunch flier on our table. Neither of us planned to go home for the holiday, and we decided it would be fun to gather our friends for the sort of traditional old school supper club buffet we would be partaking in if we were making the six-hour drive to attend church and dinner with our parents. In my mind, it was exactly what a holiday meal should be (or rather, for better or worse, what a holiday meal always has been, and as such, it had a homey and nostalgic appeal), but a certain foodie friend of mine who shall remain nameless (ahem) to this day cannot get past the cheese cubes and deli slices served on the appetizer table, and hence, we've sought out swankier digs in the years since.
This year took us to Vincent (sorry; Vincent: A RESTAURANT! That subtitle is obviously important, as it is everywhere, including in the outgoing voicemail message that plays when you call to modify your reservation), where I correctly predicted all of the choices the aforementioned foodie friend would make from the prix-fixe menu, while I, on the other hand, thwarted the efforts of anyone who might have attempted the same guessing game for my selections by choosing both eggs(!) AND fish(!) with my meal. If only I had ordered the mushroom-heavy buckwheat crepes as well, my entire table might have passed out from the shock (or at the very least, examined the base of my skull for evidence of some type of alien implantation). Alas, let us never assume I am always a creature of habit, too set in her ways to entertain the idea of trying new things. Despite my life-long hatred of eggs, I discovered last summer that Eggs Benedict is actually quite tasty, so I chose that over the fruit-topped waffles for my second course yesterday. And for my third course, I bypassed the safe-sounding spring vegetable risotto and went out on a limb and ordered the pan-seared skate wing instead. Skate is a fish, in case like me, you didn't know that. And no, fish don't have wings, but apparently skate is a member of the ray family, so essentially I ate something akin to the wing-like fin of a stingray or manta ray for brunch. According to my friends, it was spectacular, but apparently eggs and skate in the same meal is a bit too far out of the comfort zone for me, because for the rest of the day, my stomach felt a bit off. You know, sort of like I'd just eaten runny egg yolk and rubbery manta ray. No long-term harm done, of course. We'll call it a learning experience. Yesterday I learned I don't like skate wings. Knowledge is power, friends.
All that said, for the most part, our entire brunch was delicious, and I really should revisit Vincent (A RESTAURANT!) for their much-hyped happy hour sometime soon.
A few hours after brunch, I was off to the Varsity Theater to cap off the final part of my three-concert week. Both Lily Allen and Mates of State put on an excellent show, by the way. I still sort of can't believe the latter played to a sold-out crowd in a respectably sized venue. I am about to sound like one of those high and mighty music fans who says "Well I saw Nirvana back when they opened for... [whoever Nirvana opened for when no one had heard of them yet]" (See? Totally not that kind of music snob at all. And yet...) The first time I saw Mates of State was over another Easter weekend, probably close to ten years ago now. I'd made plans to go out with my friend Kristina that Saturday evening. If I remember correctly, we were headed to First Avenue for a Mason Jennings show. (Mason Jennings, by the way, married a girl who was at several of the same parties I attended my senior year of high school. That would be a more impressive bit of trivia if it were Mason himself and not his now wife, or if there were actually any chance whatsoever that said wife might actually remember who I am, and yet for some reason I bring it up anyway.) We were headed to see Mason Jennings in First Avenue's main room, but the band playing later in the much smaller adjacent 7th Street Entry was one Kristina had heard on a new music sampler that came with a magazine she subscribed to at the time, and she decided that for an extra five bucks, we should check out that show while we were there as well.
I remember an inordinate number of strange details from that evening. I remember Kristina bargaining with the door man, who insisted we were not allowed to leave and re-enter once we'd paid, and yet who let us leave for an hour to visit The Saloon anyway. The Saloon is a gay bar, for those of you not in the Twin Cities and therefore not aware, and I remember that while at The Saloon, we saw a promotional performance by the Twin Cities Gay Men's Chorus of their newest production, which was an all-Abba review. I also remember using The Saloon's computers and free Internet access to drunk-email the friend who would later become my boyfriend, because I thought he would find the whole evening entirely amusing. And after we'd done all of that (and likely also used the completely empty women's restroom at the gay bar), we went back to the 7th Street Entry, where we saw Mates of State perform in a room barely larger than my living room, to a crowd of fewer than 30 people. They were good, and I wondered if I'd ever hear of them again, and lo, here I am, years later, spending another Easter weekend with the Mates of State, but doing so with a whole lot more company than last time. Also, doing so entirely more sober than last time, as one more thing I remember about that evening was crashing on Kristina's futon and waking up on Easter Sunday very glad I didn't have to rally myself off to church with my family that day.
Another thing I remember about that Easter Saturday so many years ago is that I received a birthday gift from Kristina that night. She bought me a house plant that, in the tipsy ridiculousness that followed three gin and tonics (which were also a new introduction to me that night--I insisted that gin tasted like pine needles, and Kristina insisted that I give it a chance anyway), we decided should be named Menos. Menos. As in, the Spanish word for "minus," which I believe came up only because Kristina asked me what time it was, and for some reason, I decided to answer her in Spanish. "Son las diez menos quarto," I said. And suddenly, "Menos" was the funniest word in the world to her. "Menos! Menos!" she cried. "You should name your plant Menos!" And so I did. And because not too long after that, Kristina moved away and essentially fell out of my life, that plant is still alive and growing atop a shelf in the corner of my kitchen today. I've realized, you see, that plants from friends who aren't particularly important to me are the only plants I can successfully keep alive. The peace lily from my good friends Dale and Jenny (the one that came with a Last Will and Testament, such is my reputation for bad luck with plants) died within a matter of weeks. The flowering plant my former good friend Julie gave me? It met a similar fate. But the mish-mosh of breeds in a planter from an old coworker of mine? (The strange many-in-one plant that I aptly named Clusterfuck?) That one is still thriving, as is Menos, even though sadly, my friendship with Kristina is not.
I had to mention Dale and Jenny by name in that last paragraph, by the way, because I sent Dale an email last week, wherein I was hesitant to rattle on about any stories from my life of late because I knew there was a chance he'd already read those stories himself. I don't know how regularly he checks in on my blog, but I know he stops by from time to time, and I wasn't sure how recently he'd done so. "I still read your blog," he said in his reply. "But mainly I'm just looking for stories about me or your dad's snack cabinet." No snack cabinet in this post, obviously, but at least you got your mention, Dale.
Speaking of Dale, he really should get his own blog, as I'm certain he has ample fodder for it at home. The other day, his two-year-old apparently proclaimed, "I don't wanna be a robot!" That's a story I'd want to hear the rest of; wouldn't you?
Regardless, I had a fine time yesterday. Our urban orphans and heathens Easter brunch gets a little more top shelf every year. The whole tradition started four years ago when my sister and I were at Nye's Polonaise (best bar in America!) with some friends for my birthday and she spotted the Easter brunch flier on our table. Neither of us planned to go home for the holiday, and we decided it would be fun to gather our friends for the sort of traditional old school supper club buffet we would be partaking in if we were making the six-hour drive to attend church and dinner with our parents. In my mind, it was exactly what a holiday meal should be (or rather, for better or worse, what a holiday meal always has been, and as such, it had a homey and nostalgic appeal), but a certain foodie friend of mine who shall remain nameless (ahem) to this day cannot get past the cheese cubes and deli slices served on the appetizer table, and hence, we've sought out swankier digs in the years since.
This year took us to Vincent (sorry; Vincent: A RESTAURANT! That subtitle is obviously important, as it is everywhere, including in the outgoing voicemail message that plays when you call to modify your reservation), where I correctly predicted all of the choices the aforementioned foodie friend would make from the prix-fixe menu, while I, on the other hand, thwarted the efforts of anyone who might have attempted the same guessing game for my selections by choosing both eggs(!) AND fish(!) with my meal. If only I had ordered the mushroom-heavy buckwheat crepes as well, my entire table might have passed out from the shock (or at the very least, examined the base of my skull for evidence of some type of alien implantation). Alas, let us never assume I am always a creature of habit, too set in her ways to entertain the idea of trying new things. Despite my life-long hatred of eggs, I discovered last summer that Eggs Benedict is actually quite tasty, so I chose that over the fruit-topped waffles for my second course yesterday. And for my third course, I bypassed the safe-sounding spring vegetable risotto and went out on a limb and ordered the pan-seared skate wing instead. Skate is a fish, in case like me, you didn't know that. And no, fish don't have wings, but apparently skate is a member of the ray family, so essentially I ate something akin to the wing-like fin of a stingray or manta ray for brunch. According to my friends, it was spectacular, but apparently eggs and skate in the same meal is a bit too far out of the comfort zone for me, because for the rest of the day, my stomach felt a bit off. You know, sort of like I'd just eaten runny egg yolk and rubbery manta ray. No long-term harm done, of course. We'll call it a learning experience. Yesterday I learned I don't like skate wings. Knowledge is power, friends.
All that said, for the most part, our entire brunch was delicious, and I really should revisit Vincent (A RESTAURANT!) for their much-hyped happy hour sometime soon.
A few hours after brunch, I was off to the Varsity Theater to cap off the final part of my three-concert week. Both Lily Allen and Mates of State put on an excellent show, by the way. I still sort of can't believe the latter played to a sold-out crowd in a respectably sized venue. I am about to sound like one of those high and mighty music fans who says "Well I saw Nirvana back when they opened for... [whoever Nirvana opened for when no one had heard of them yet]" (See? Totally not that kind of music snob at all. And yet...) The first time I saw Mates of State was over another Easter weekend, probably close to ten years ago now. I'd made plans to go out with my friend Kristina that Saturday evening. If I remember correctly, we were headed to First Avenue for a Mason Jennings show. (Mason Jennings, by the way, married a girl who was at several of the same parties I attended my senior year of high school. That would be a more impressive bit of trivia if it were Mason himself and not his now wife, or if there were actually any chance whatsoever that said wife might actually remember who I am, and yet for some reason I bring it up anyway.) We were headed to see Mason Jennings in First Avenue's main room, but the band playing later in the much smaller adjacent 7th Street Entry was one Kristina had heard on a new music sampler that came with a magazine she subscribed to at the time, and she decided that for an extra five bucks, we should check out that show while we were there as well.
I remember an inordinate number of strange details from that evening. I remember Kristina bargaining with the door man, who insisted we were not allowed to leave and re-enter once we'd paid, and yet who let us leave for an hour to visit The Saloon anyway. The Saloon is a gay bar, for those of you not in the Twin Cities and therefore not aware, and I remember that while at The Saloon, we saw a promotional performance by the Twin Cities Gay Men's Chorus of their newest production, which was an all-Abba review. I also remember using The Saloon's computers and free Internet access to drunk-email the friend who would later become my boyfriend, because I thought he would find the whole evening entirely amusing. And after we'd done all of that (and likely also used the completely empty women's restroom at the gay bar), we went back to the 7th Street Entry, where we saw Mates of State perform in a room barely larger than my living room, to a crowd of fewer than 30 people. They were good, and I wondered if I'd ever hear of them again, and lo, here I am, years later, spending another Easter weekend with the Mates of State, but doing so with a whole lot more company than last time. Also, doing so entirely more sober than last time, as one more thing I remember about that evening was crashing on Kristina's futon and waking up on Easter Sunday very glad I didn't have to rally myself off to church with my family that day.
Another thing I remember about that Easter Saturday so many years ago is that I received a birthday gift from Kristina that night. She bought me a house plant that, in the tipsy ridiculousness that followed three gin and tonics (which were also a new introduction to me that night--I insisted that gin tasted like pine needles, and Kristina insisted that I give it a chance anyway), we decided should be named Menos. Menos. As in, the Spanish word for "minus," which I believe came up only because Kristina asked me what time it was, and for some reason, I decided to answer her in Spanish. "Son las diez menos quarto," I said. And suddenly, "Menos" was the funniest word in the world to her. "Menos! Menos!" she cried. "You should name your plant Menos!" And so I did. And because not too long after that, Kristina moved away and essentially fell out of my life, that plant is still alive and growing atop a shelf in the corner of my kitchen today. I've realized, you see, that plants from friends who aren't particularly important to me are the only plants I can successfully keep alive. The peace lily from my good friends Dale and Jenny (the one that came with a Last Will and Testament, such is my reputation for bad luck with plants) died within a matter of weeks. The flowering plant my former good friend Julie gave me? It met a similar fate. But the mish-mosh of breeds in a planter from an old coworker of mine? (The strange many-in-one plant that I aptly named Clusterfuck?) That one is still thriving, as is Menos, even though sadly, my friendship with Kristina is not.
I had to mention Dale and Jenny by name in that last paragraph, by the way, because I sent Dale an email last week, wherein I was hesitant to rattle on about any stories from my life of late because I knew there was a chance he'd already read those stories himself. I don't know how regularly he checks in on my blog, but I know he stops by from time to time, and I wasn't sure how recently he'd done so. "I still read your blog," he said in his reply. "But mainly I'm just looking for stories about me or your dad's snack cabinet." No snack cabinet in this post, obviously, but at least you got your mention, Dale.
Speaking of Dale, he really should get his own blog, as I'm certain he has ample fodder for it at home. The other day, his two-year-old apparently proclaimed, "I don't wanna be a robot!" That's a story I'd want to hear the rest of; wouldn't you?
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
This charming man
It's been a while since I started a post with, "Woah, has it been a week already?" So. Woah. Has it been a week already? Perhaps I have been super busy lately. I suspect not, however. No, on the contrary, it has been one of those weeks where, despite the fact that no one would ever mistake me for a sci-fi buff, I am convinced I am going through time warps repeatedly at both mundane and inopportune times. Some houses have mice; mine has wormholes. Given my irrational fear of any critter bigger than my thumbnail, I suppose I'll take the wormholes, but it does make for some concern about early onset Alzheimers when someone asks, on a Monday morning, "So, how was your weekend?" and I actually have to stop and focus concentrated thought to remember exactly what my weekend entailed.
It's a bit late in the week for a weekend update, but just what did my weekend entail? Well, Friday night I went out for drinks with friends and discovered a happy hour deal that frankly I should have known about ages ago by now. $3.50 for TWO gin and tonics, and the bartender reimbursed me my two-dollar parking fee, too. Seriously--I handed her a meter receipt and she pulled two dollars from the till. I am considering going back and trying to trade in a dry cleaners receipt as well, but I think that may be pushing my luck just a wee bit. Also, dry cleaners receipt? Where did that come from? That particular train of thought would imply that I actually take my dry cleanables in for dry cleaning, rather than seemingly treating them as disposable items that just get tossed by the wayside when laundering is required. I vetoed a skirt at Target tonight primarily because I realized the multiple ruffles involved would be a pain in the arse to iron, so presumably I am maybe finally learning my lesson and taking garment care into account before purchasing, but that doesn't make the fact that I've had a pair of dry clean-only pants balled up in a pile at the base of my closet for the better part of a year any less ridiculous and shameful. Wait a minute. How did this post suddenly become all about laundry? Sorry about that. Moving on.
Saturday I met with a friend of a friend who did my astrological chart for me. That reading should perhaps warrant a post of its own, but instead, I will just try to summarize some of the take-away points, the first of which is that apparently there is great wealth in my future if I can just stop being such a damn Pisces and actually SWIM in the murky stream I'm floating in instead of just letting the stream carry me. Apparently I'm supposed to own my own business (or at least partner in one). It seems the planets say I have leadership and communication skills, and people will really listen to me, but I need to figure out just what sort of business would make me happily get out of bed in the morning to make those people listen to me. Frankly, when I get out of bed in the morning, what I'm usually thinking about is getting right back into bed for more sleep. Is there a business idea there? I'll have to think on that.
In that reading, I also learned that I'm best to stay away from Aquarius men, which is both a surprise and not a surprise to me. I realized a while ago that nearly every man who's held any significance in my life, relationship-wise, has a late January to mid-February birthday, and I've been wondering if that means I'm drawn to Aquarians for any valid reason or if, since none of those relationships have worked out, I should steer clear of Aquarians from now on. (In case you're keeping track? The Buddhist? An Aquarius. The newly divorced "One who I used to think was The One"? Aquarius. This guy? Aquarius. This one too? Aquarius. Seriously, if I put all of these guys in a room and tried to draw similarities, I'd be hard pressed to come up with many, but if you believe in this whole sun sign thing, perhaps there's something to it nonetheless.) In any case, my chart says the answer is the latter: Aquarius = NOT a good match for me. For me, apparently it's all about the Libras. Have I dated one single Libra yet? Not that I can recall. I guess I should add "When's your birthday?" to the litany of questions asked on a first date and cut to the chase on this matter from now on. Meanwhile, do you know any eligible Libras? If so, feel free to pass them along.
Let's see. What else have I been up to? Well, Monday night I saw Morrissey in concert, and it was a fine opener to what will be a three-concert week. It is April, you see, which means that the concert calendar for the next two months is jam-packed with acts who have shied away from the Minneapolis/St. Paul area all winter long. It's as though every manager and booking agent says, in mid-February, "Time to start planning this spring's dates. April? Yeah, it should be safe to go to Minneapolis by April. My client shouldn't freeze solid upon landing by then." If I had unlimited funds and unlimited energy, I would be attending no fewer than 17 concerts between now and the end of May. Since my budget is scant and my energy is constantly waning, however, I will instead be seeing only a few. Monday was Morrissey, which basically I had to attend almost as a way of tidying up some unfinished business from my youth. I never saw him in high school or college, you see. I had the chance to tag along with a group during my semester in Scotland, and oddly I've always sort of regretted not going. I like to survey the crowd at any show and determine the dominant demographic, and I was comforted to see that, at the State Theater Monday night, the demographic was, basically, me. Well, me and my friend Amy, who accompanied me, and hundreds of other thirtysomethings who we probably have more than a few things in common with, life history-wise. Morrissey put on a fine, high-energy show with a fine band of buff young boy toys in matching tight plaid shirts. I sort of think it's best I waited until now to see Morrissey live, because I doubt that in the 90s his shows had the same grandiose celebratory air they have now. Morrissey is a diva, no question about that. But by now, he has earned his diva status. He can prance around the stage with dramatic arm flourishes, telling the girl in the front row who cried, "I just love you unconditionally!" that, "unconditionally isn't quite enough" for him. Could he have gotten away with that in the 90s? Perhaps. But the arrogance seems somehow more charming and warranted now.
This weekend I'm off to see Lily Allen, as well as Mates of State (with featured opener Black Kids). In between those two shows, I'll be attending the fourth annual Easter Orphans and Heathens Brunch, wherein my friends and I who have no family in the Twin Cities (or who are, for one reason or another, not spending this religious holiday with family) gather together for conversation and daytime cocktails and gluttony. Easter is a bit late this year, and yet I sort of still can't believe it's upon us so soon. I've worked my way through a whole bag of Reeses Pieces candy-coated mini eggs, but I've yet to have a Cadbury Creme Egg, and as such, the season still feels a bit incomplete. I should probably remedy that before the Easter candy disappears entirely from the Target shelves. It's good to have goals and time lines, after all. I'm sure my astrological chart would agree.
It's a bit late in the week for a weekend update, but just what did my weekend entail? Well, Friday night I went out for drinks with friends and discovered a happy hour deal that frankly I should have known about ages ago by now. $3.50 for TWO gin and tonics, and the bartender reimbursed me my two-dollar parking fee, too. Seriously--I handed her a meter receipt and she pulled two dollars from the till. I am considering going back and trying to trade in a dry cleaners receipt as well, but I think that may be pushing my luck just a wee bit. Also, dry cleaners receipt? Where did that come from? That particular train of thought would imply that I actually take my dry cleanables in for dry cleaning, rather than seemingly treating them as disposable items that just get tossed by the wayside when laundering is required. I vetoed a skirt at Target tonight primarily because I realized the multiple ruffles involved would be a pain in the arse to iron, so presumably I am maybe finally learning my lesson and taking garment care into account before purchasing, but that doesn't make the fact that I've had a pair of dry clean-only pants balled up in a pile at the base of my closet for the better part of a year any less ridiculous and shameful. Wait a minute. How did this post suddenly become all about laundry? Sorry about that. Moving on.
Saturday I met with a friend of a friend who did my astrological chart for me. That reading should perhaps warrant a post of its own, but instead, I will just try to summarize some of the take-away points, the first of which is that apparently there is great wealth in my future if I can just stop being such a damn Pisces and actually SWIM in the murky stream I'm floating in instead of just letting the stream carry me. Apparently I'm supposed to own my own business (or at least partner in one). It seems the planets say I have leadership and communication skills, and people will really listen to me, but I need to figure out just what sort of business would make me happily get out of bed in the morning to make those people listen to me. Frankly, when I get out of bed in the morning, what I'm usually thinking about is getting right back into bed for more sleep. Is there a business idea there? I'll have to think on that.
In that reading, I also learned that I'm best to stay away from Aquarius men, which is both a surprise and not a surprise to me. I realized a while ago that nearly every man who's held any significance in my life, relationship-wise, has a late January to mid-February birthday, and I've been wondering if that means I'm drawn to Aquarians for any valid reason or if, since none of those relationships have worked out, I should steer clear of Aquarians from now on. (In case you're keeping track? The Buddhist? An Aquarius. The newly divorced "One who I used to think was The One"? Aquarius. This guy? Aquarius. This one too? Aquarius. Seriously, if I put all of these guys in a room and tried to draw similarities, I'd be hard pressed to come up with many, but if you believe in this whole sun sign thing, perhaps there's something to it nonetheless.) In any case, my chart says the answer is the latter: Aquarius = NOT a good match for me. For me, apparently it's all about the Libras. Have I dated one single Libra yet? Not that I can recall. I guess I should add "When's your birthday?" to the litany of questions asked on a first date and cut to the chase on this matter from now on. Meanwhile, do you know any eligible Libras? If so, feel free to pass them along.
Let's see. What else have I been up to? Well, Monday night I saw Morrissey in concert, and it was a fine opener to what will be a three-concert week. It is April, you see, which means that the concert calendar for the next two months is jam-packed with acts who have shied away from the Minneapolis/St. Paul area all winter long. It's as though every manager and booking agent says, in mid-February, "Time to start planning this spring's dates. April? Yeah, it should be safe to go to Minneapolis by April. My client shouldn't freeze solid upon landing by then." If I had unlimited funds and unlimited energy, I would be attending no fewer than 17 concerts between now and the end of May. Since my budget is scant and my energy is constantly waning, however, I will instead be seeing only a few. Monday was Morrissey, which basically I had to attend almost as a way of tidying up some unfinished business from my youth. I never saw him in high school or college, you see. I had the chance to tag along with a group during my semester in Scotland, and oddly I've always sort of regretted not going. I like to survey the crowd at any show and determine the dominant demographic, and I was comforted to see that, at the State Theater Monday night, the demographic was, basically, me. Well, me and my friend Amy, who accompanied me, and hundreds of other thirtysomethings who we probably have more than a few things in common with, life history-wise. Morrissey put on a fine, high-energy show with a fine band of buff young boy toys in matching tight plaid shirts. I sort of think it's best I waited until now to see Morrissey live, because I doubt that in the 90s his shows had the same grandiose celebratory air they have now. Morrissey is a diva, no question about that. But by now, he has earned his diva status. He can prance around the stage with dramatic arm flourishes, telling the girl in the front row who cried, "I just love you unconditionally!" that, "unconditionally isn't quite enough" for him. Could he have gotten away with that in the 90s? Perhaps. But the arrogance seems somehow more charming and warranted now.
This weekend I'm off to see Lily Allen, as well as Mates of State (with featured opener Black Kids). In between those two shows, I'll be attending the fourth annual Easter Orphans and Heathens Brunch, wherein my friends and I who have no family in the Twin Cities (or who are, for one reason or another, not spending this religious holiday with family) gather together for conversation and daytime cocktails and gluttony. Easter is a bit late this year, and yet I sort of still can't believe it's upon us so soon. I've worked my way through a whole bag of Reeses Pieces candy-coated mini eggs, but I've yet to have a Cadbury Creme Egg, and as such, the season still feels a bit incomplete. I should probably remedy that before the Easter candy disappears entirely from the Target shelves. It's good to have goals and time lines, after all. I'm sure my astrological chart would agree.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
This and That
I think perhaps I've finally stepped out of the abyss I've been in recently. Whoo hoo to that; another funk passed (I hope). I haven't spontaneously broken into tears in well over a week now, which is solid progress given that for a while there, it seemed crying was becoming a new hobby for me. In fact, I don't think I cried at all last week, either, except when I heard Bob Mould's new song, I'm Sorry, Baby, But You Can't Stand in My Light Anymore. Those tears were totally justified, though. Have you heard that one yet? You can listen to it here. If you've ever likened yourself to a bit of a Wendy Darling, an unfortunate magnet for lost boys, I guarantee you too will feel a swift punch to your stomach when he gets to the line "I always find the broken ones. What does this say about me?" Maybe I'm the broken one indeed. Ouch. (Sidenote: You're not going to click that link, are you? Fine, but you totally should.)
On to things that do not make me cry (or rather, that do draw tears, but only tears of laughter)... This someecard is the funniest thing I have seen all week. Mind you, it is disturbing, but if you're the easily offended type you probably wouldn't be here, given all the shit ass motherfucker type language I've been tossing around lately. (If you are offended by that, I apologize. I'll try to reel it back in to the usual only occasional well placed "For fuck sake" again henceforth.)
In other news, remember that unfortunate incident a few weeks ago where Mr. I Make My Own Traffic Rules turned across my line of traffic and ended up with a sizable dent in his fancy silver Mustang? Our insurance company finally decided where to place blame, and the larger portion of it landed on his policy. Whew. He had a "witness" who claimed I ran a red light, but apparently when both drivers say the light was yellow, a supposed witness's word carries less weight. Nice try, lady. Perhaps you could just stay in your car and mind your own business next time.
Because it was only marginally my fault, I have to pay only $60 rather than my usual deductible, which is well worth it if you ask me. Perhaps it seems silly to replace the bumper on an eleven-year-old car, but on the off chance I actually attempt to sell or trade it in someday rather than driving it into the ground, I'll be much better off without the remains of at least three mishaps marring it. Still, because I am a Midwesterner, grounded in "Oh no, no; I don't want to be a bother" sensibilities (and because my latent Catholic guilt resurfaces whenever I feel I might be doing something the slightest bit shady), I was more than a bit paranoid when the insurance company's damage inspector came to verify the worthiness of my claim. I thought for sure he'd take one look and say, "Are you kidding me, lady? Your car is older than my third-grader, and that scrape over there was clearly the result of you misjudging the distance between your car and a giant retaining stone. We are NOT paying for this." In truth, there is a giant scrape where I misjudged the distance between my car and a retaining stone in the Crapplebee's parking lot, but is it my fault that fixing the damage that was part of this accident will conveniently fix that, too? Answer: it is not. It is a nifty bonus, though.
Let's see. I had other things I was going to tell you, but they seem now even less important than the last four paragraphs of things that were not particularly important. For instance, do you really want to hear about how I found a form on the Wendy's web site today that lets you invite a friend to meet you for a Frosty or a Garden Sensations salad? No, I'm guessing that won't be nearly as amusing to you as it was to me. Incidentally, Lara did not meet me at the designated Wendy's franchise after I sent her that message. What--ten minutes isn't enough notice for a Philadelphia girl to get to the St. Paul suburbs for lunch?
Likewise, you probably aren't particularly interested to know that I am sucking it up woefully in my recent Facebook Scrabble games, with the exception of the game Beej invited me and Aaron to join him in, wherein I used all my tiles and scored 70 points on my very first turn. Damn shame those boys have attention deficit disorder where Facebook Scrabble is concerned. One of my finest Scrabble moments may well be overshadowed by the shallow disappointment of an abandoned game.
But I said I wasn't going to tell you either of those mundane stories. Eh. I say a lot of things. Surely that's no surprise by now. Carry on.
On to things that do not make me cry (or rather, that do draw tears, but only tears of laughter)... This someecard is the funniest thing I have seen all week. Mind you, it is disturbing, but if you're the easily offended type you probably wouldn't be here, given all the shit ass motherfucker type language I've been tossing around lately. (If you are offended by that, I apologize. I'll try to reel it back in to the usual only occasional well placed "For fuck sake" again henceforth.)
In other news, remember that unfortunate incident a few weeks ago where Mr. I Make My Own Traffic Rules turned across my line of traffic and ended up with a sizable dent in his fancy silver Mustang? Our insurance company finally decided where to place blame, and the larger portion of it landed on his policy. Whew. He had a "witness" who claimed I ran a red light, but apparently when both drivers say the light was yellow, a supposed witness's word carries less weight. Nice try, lady. Perhaps you could just stay in your car and mind your own business next time.
Because it was only marginally my fault, I have to pay only $60 rather than my usual deductible, which is well worth it if you ask me. Perhaps it seems silly to replace the bumper on an eleven-year-old car, but on the off chance I actually attempt to sell or trade it in someday rather than driving it into the ground, I'll be much better off without the remains of at least three mishaps marring it. Still, because I am a Midwesterner, grounded in "Oh no, no; I don't want to be a bother" sensibilities (and because my latent Catholic guilt resurfaces whenever I feel I might be doing something the slightest bit shady), I was more than a bit paranoid when the insurance company's damage inspector came to verify the worthiness of my claim. I thought for sure he'd take one look and say, "Are you kidding me, lady? Your car is older than my third-grader, and that scrape over there was clearly the result of you misjudging the distance between your car and a giant retaining stone. We are NOT paying for this." In truth, there is a giant scrape where I misjudged the distance between my car and a retaining stone in the Crapplebee's parking lot, but is it my fault that fixing the damage that was part of this accident will conveniently fix that, too? Answer: it is not. It is a nifty bonus, though.
Let's see. I had other things I was going to tell you, but they seem now even less important than the last four paragraphs of things that were not particularly important. For instance, do you really want to hear about how I found a form on the Wendy's web site today that lets you invite a friend to meet you for a Frosty or a Garden Sensations salad? No, I'm guessing that won't be nearly as amusing to you as it was to me. Incidentally, Lara did not meet me at the designated Wendy's franchise after I sent her that message. What--ten minutes isn't enough notice for a Philadelphia girl to get to the St. Paul suburbs for lunch?
Likewise, you probably aren't particularly interested to know that I am sucking it up woefully in my recent Facebook Scrabble games, with the exception of the game Beej invited me and Aaron to join him in, wherein I used all my tiles and scored 70 points on my very first turn. Damn shame those boys have attention deficit disorder where Facebook Scrabble is concerned. One of my finest Scrabble moments may well be overshadowed by the shallow disappointment of an abandoned game.
But I said I wasn't going to tell you either of those mundane stories. Eh. I say a lot of things. Surely that's no surprise by now. Carry on.
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