I'm not normally much of a worrier (particularly about things out of my control, which is the category under which about 90% of the things I might worry about generally fall). That said, I've been more anxious than usual about my departure for the east coast tomorrow. It's probably all the horror stories I've heard about canceled and delayed flights lately (CBS News's story about thousands of displaced travelers today due to airplane inspections at major hubs likely didn't help). I've never been booked on a flight that was later canceled or overbooked, but for some reason, I got it in my head that tomorrow is when it would happen. Tomorrow, when I'm relying on getting to Philadelphia early enough to drive to Boston with Lara early enough to meet NPW and Noelle for dinner. It's a crazy travel day I've got planned, and it starts at 7:00 tomorrow morning. Except really, it doesn't. Somehow when I booked my 7:00 a.m. flight, I neglected to do the backward math and realize that a 7:00 flight means I need to be at the airport shortly after 6:00, which means I need to leave my house by 5:15, which means I need to get up at, oh, around... 4:30?!? That is 4:30 in the a.m., mind you. Obviously I should have gone to bed right after the 6:00 syndicated airing of The Simpsons tonight.
I am very, very rarely awake at 4:30, and on the unusual occasions that I am, I much prefer it be because I've not yet gone to bed, and not because I need to be up and showered and ready to go through airport security. It should be interesting to see just how this goes.
In any case, I have my boarding pass printed and all I can do now is hope for the best. Really, though, I likely needn't worry. I'm sure my flight will depart on time, I will be showered and packed and on it, and tomorrow night at this time I'll be beating some of my favorite Internet friends at Balderdash.
I'm deciding to ignore the bad feeling I had about this flight because of a new theory I'm working on--a theory that, basically, my instincts are crap. I've realized for years that I can't trust my gut the way conventional wisdom says I should. This is particularly true in dating... On the rare occasion that I have a good feeling about someone, I'd like to think it means something, but it's been proven to me time and time again that it does not. Take The Scientist, for instance. If my instincts meant anything, he would have realized that I am immeasurably more fun than a microscope and he would have left the lab and become my new boyfriend by now. Such is not the case. My gut knows nothing. My gut is both squashy and unreliable! I ask you, what good is that?
Rather than focus on the negative, however, rather than refuse to draw generalizations based on a handful of isolated incidents, I've decided to embrace this realization and make it work for me. If I can't trust my gut on good things, maybe it's routinely wrong about bad things as well. I'll ignore the good intuition AND the bad! Live a life without instincts! It's liberating, really. I feel freer than I've felt in years.
OK, that last part may not be entirely true, but it's something I'm pondering anyway. Not as much as I'm pondering how very tired I will be all day tomorrow, but pondering it nonetheless. Speaking of which, 4:30 is getting closer and closer every minute. I'd really best turn in by now.
Have a fabulous weekend, everyone. I'll see you on the other side of the Great Blogger Meetup of '08.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
No zombies were harmed in the making of this post. Unfortunately, none were written about, either.
So have you all heard about this Choose Your Own Blogventure thing? It is the brainchild of the terribly clever NPW (Special Agent NPW to some), and I am supposed to be writing my portion of it right now. It shouldn't be terribly hard, of course, but at the moment I can't seem to decide just where to go from "imminent zombie attack," and hence, I am stalling a bit. (Yes. Zombie attack. Anyone want to take a wild, shot-in-the-dark guess as to whose story segment precedes mine? And also, have I revealed too much? Was that against the rules? I hope not.)
Meanwhile, I thought maybe I'd warm myself up for my first zombie story by writing about something equally frightening, but when I tried to think of scary things, all that came to mind immediately were the Nutrisystem meals that have been sitting in the kitchen at work for the past three weeks or more. I have no idea who attempted to donate them--who had the nerve to leave the saddest prepackaged meals I have ever seen in that altar-like spot on the counter normally reserved for proper willpower-tempting offerings such as donuts and leftover Christmas cookies. Whoever it was, though, should win some sort of prize. They've just blown apart my theory that people will eat anything if it's left in the office kitchen. Also, note to the Nutrisystem people: hire a photographer. A professional one, I mean. The worst of the worst packaged meals in the freezer case still look delicious in the photo labeled "Serving suggestion," and mad photo skillz and tricks of deception have everything to do with that. I suppose there's something to be said for truth in advertising, but personally, I'm used to reserving my disappointment over my lunch until after I've peeled back the plastic film.
Shifting gears to the equally trivial (and decidedly girly--boys, feel free to think about basketball or zombies for the next paragraph or so), do you know what I am not currently disappointed about? My new hair dryer. I have always been of the opinion that, within certain important parameters, a hair dryer is a hair dryer. I'm like a guy that way: simpler is better. Too many choices overwhelm me. It's not my fault I can't make a decision: present me with seventeen seemingly indistinguishable options and it's no wonder I feel my head might explode. Hence, my Saturday afternoon trip to Ulta to replace my recently deceased hair dryer was entirely more stressful than it probably should have been. I might actually be embarrassed to admit how long I stood in front of the veritable wall of hair dryers, carefully considering the differences between each one, had there not been two other women directly beside me presumably running the exact same inner monologue: This one's red and has a retractable cord, but I don't really like its shape... This one is only $17, but it's also hot pink with polka dots... What's the difference between "ceramic" and "ceramic tourmaline"?... Do I really need adjustable ion levels??
As it turns out, apparently I do need adjustable ion levels (and tourmaline technology, too), because my hair is suddenly softer and less static-prone than it's been at any time in recent memory. I have not switched any other products, and the weather is not decidedly different from the weather a week ago, so I can only assume I have my pretty new light blue Revlon Total Styler to thank. (It's obviously the "Total" part that sold me, by the way. No one wants to be only partially styled, after all.) So yay, Revlon Total Styler! Your "super-quiet, lightweight design" may not be any more silent or more wieldy than my rattly old dryer, but I am pleased with you anyway.
I have no idea why I just decided to bore the entire Internet (or, more realistically, my tiny corner of it) by talking about abandoned diet meals and hair dryer shopping, but apparently this is what happens when I've got not a lot going on. I could relay the content of the flurry of emails between Lara, NPW, Noelle, and me earlier today, but it's probably best that we reel in our anticipation about that blogger meetup until after we've discovered if we can all actually stand each other. Besides that, we mostly just trash-talked about board games anyway. That's right, people. A group of bloggers are getting together in a city most of them don't live in, and the thing we're most excited about is Boggle, Balderdash, and Bananagrams. I have said it before and I'll say it again: this is what I love about the Internet. I may be a huge nerd, but I am among friends. Kindred spirits abound. East coast, here I come. Well, here I come on Friday, anyway. Meanwhile, that zombie story isn't writing itself. Best get cracking.
Meanwhile, I thought maybe I'd warm myself up for my first zombie story by writing about something equally frightening, but when I tried to think of scary things, all that came to mind immediately were the Nutrisystem meals that have been sitting in the kitchen at work for the past three weeks or more. I have no idea who attempted to donate them--who had the nerve to leave the saddest prepackaged meals I have ever seen in that altar-like spot on the counter normally reserved for proper willpower-tempting offerings such as donuts and leftover Christmas cookies. Whoever it was, though, should win some sort of prize. They've just blown apart my theory that people will eat anything if it's left in the office kitchen. Also, note to the Nutrisystem people: hire a photographer. A professional one, I mean. The worst of the worst packaged meals in the freezer case still look delicious in the photo labeled "Serving suggestion," and mad photo skillz and tricks of deception have everything to do with that. I suppose there's something to be said for truth in advertising, but personally, I'm used to reserving my disappointment over my lunch until after I've peeled back the plastic film.
Shifting gears to the equally trivial (and decidedly girly--boys, feel free to think about basketball or zombies for the next paragraph or so), do you know what I am not currently disappointed about? My new hair dryer. I have always been of the opinion that, within certain important parameters, a hair dryer is a hair dryer. I'm like a guy that way: simpler is better. Too many choices overwhelm me. It's not my fault I can't make a decision: present me with seventeen seemingly indistinguishable options and it's no wonder I feel my head might explode. Hence, my Saturday afternoon trip to Ulta to replace my recently deceased hair dryer was entirely more stressful than it probably should have been. I might actually be embarrassed to admit how long I stood in front of the veritable wall of hair dryers, carefully considering the differences between each one, had there not been two other women directly beside me presumably running the exact same inner monologue: This one's red and has a retractable cord, but I don't really like its shape... This one is only $17, but it's also hot pink with polka dots... What's the difference between "ceramic" and "ceramic tourmaline"?... Do I really need adjustable ion levels??
As it turns out, apparently I do need adjustable ion levels (and tourmaline technology, too), because my hair is suddenly softer and less static-prone than it's been at any time in recent memory. I have not switched any other products, and the weather is not decidedly different from the weather a week ago, so I can only assume I have my pretty new light blue Revlon Total Styler to thank. (It's obviously the "Total" part that sold me, by the way. No one wants to be only partially styled, after all.) So yay, Revlon Total Styler! Your "super-quiet, lightweight design" may not be any more silent or more wieldy than my rattly old dryer, but I am pleased with you anyway.
I have no idea why I just decided to bore the entire Internet (or, more realistically, my tiny corner of it) by talking about abandoned diet meals and hair dryer shopping, but apparently this is what happens when I've got not a lot going on. I could relay the content of the flurry of emails between Lara, NPW, Noelle, and me earlier today, but it's probably best that we reel in our anticipation about that blogger meetup until after we've discovered if we can all actually stand each other. Besides that, we mostly just trash-talked about board games anyway. That's right, people. A group of bloggers are getting together in a city most of them don't live in, and the thing we're most excited about is Boggle, Balderdash, and Bananagrams. I have said it before and I'll say it again: this is what I love about the Internet. I may be a huge nerd, but I am among friends. Kindred spirits abound. East coast, here I come. Well, here I come on Friday, anyway. Meanwhile, that zombie story isn't writing itself. Best get cracking.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
If there's carrot cake and stroganoff in hell, it can't be all bad, I guess.
Well, crap. Is it Sunday night already? How on earth did that happen? I think we're all in agreement that time speeds up as we get older, so I suppose the weekends flying by in a blip should be no great surprise, but it annoys me anyway. I dream of a world with inverse weekends--two days of work followed by five days to spend as I see fit. Unfortunately, I have a friend who's living that dream right now, and it seems monetarily that plan is lacking just a bit. So it's off to work again tomorrow for me. Those of you with a four-day weekend due to that whole Easter thing? You can kindly bite me, OK? Thank you.
That said, I do have only a three-day work week in front of me, and for that, I rejoice with glee. Yes, Internets, I haven't yet shared this publicly, but I'm heading out of town again this weekend, bound for the east coast this time. I'm taking care of #4 on my list of New Year's resolutions and finally meeting my Internet BFF, Lara, in real life. And I'm managing a few other blogger meet-ups in the process. Full details later (with pictures, I'm sure). And it's good that that resolution is finally panning out, because the rest of them? Not so much, it seems. I'm actually doing pretty well on the vitamin one (and the calcium supplement, too). It seems marking myself accountable on my kitchen calendar was the key I needed to make that one stick. And the "get fucking organized" goal? I'm working on it. One problem area's been taken care of, and a remedy for the mess in the basement is in progress. Really. Unfortunately, the closest I've come to fixing the budget crisis was finally paying off my credit card with a disappointingly large portion of my tax refund today, and as for the getting to bed at a reasonable hour on week nights one? Well, it's currently 11:25 on a Sunday night and I'm still on my computer, so I guess you be the judge of my success on that one.
All of that said, I hope everyone had a lovely Easter, if you celebrate it, and a fine, old-timey, no-stores-open-today Sunday if you don't. My friends and I had a tasty brunch this morning at a restaurant we really should visit more often, if for no other reason than the free brunch on a return visit that we earned by our purchase today and for their eight-glasses-for-$25 wine club, which is a club I really ought to join, I think (despite my fear-of-commitment aversion to organized memberships of any sort). Next time, however, we need to shoot for later in the day. I bragged that skipping church makes for an easier reservation, but the diners who arrived after church got the better brunch, I fear. As we divvied up our bill, we glanced at the dessert table and saw a cheesecake being brought out that wasn't there before. I mean, sure, my peanut butter bar, mini cream puff, and carrot cake were tasty, but cheesecake? The ultimate in desserts? I feel cheated. We saw that, and I said, "I bet if we wait long enough, they'll bring mashed potatoes out, too." And for some reason, just before we paid, I said it again, such is my love of mashed potatoes (even in a big silver bin on a buffet). And wouldn't you know it? With our coats on, heading out the door, a man in a white apron brushed right passed us, giant tray of mashed potatoes in his sweaty little hands. Seriously: the Christians got a better brunch for their $12. Our risen savior rewards his followers with cheesecake and mashed potatoes. The lazy heathens get carrot cake and stroganoff (which, granted, was still not a bad deal, mind you, but obviously my love of mashed potatoes is strong).
All right. I thought I had more inconsequential nonsense to ramble on about, but this late Sunday night is quickly growing even later, and dead tired on a Monday is my least favorite (even if seemingly unavoidable) way to start the week. So perhaps later I will bore you with my questions about just why the slow and disturbing No Country for Old Men was such a shoe-in
for Best Damn Picture of the Whole Damn Year, or why mixing up a glass or two of Instant Ghetto Sangria is both a good and a terrible idea on a Sunday night. Meanwhile, how was your weekend? Good? Good. Do tell.
That said, I do have only a three-day work week in front of me, and for that, I rejoice with glee. Yes, Internets, I haven't yet shared this publicly, but I'm heading out of town again this weekend, bound for the east coast this time. I'm taking care of #4 on my list of New Year's resolutions and finally meeting my Internet BFF, Lara, in real life. And I'm managing a few other blogger meet-ups in the process. Full details later (with pictures, I'm sure). And it's good that that resolution is finally panning out, because the rest of them? Not so much, it seems. I'm actually doing pretty well on the vitamin one (and the calcium supplement, too). It seems marking myself accountable on my kitchen calendar was the key I needed to make that one stick. And the "get fucking organized" goal? I'm working on it. One problem area's been taken care of, and a remedy for the mess in the basement is in progress. Really. Unfortunately, the closest I've come to fixing the budget crisis was finally paying off my credit card with a disappointingly large portion of my tax refund today, and as for the getting to bed at a reasonable hour on week nights one? Well, it's currently 11:25 on a Sunday night and I'm still on my computer, so I guess you be the judge of my success on that one.
All of that said, I hope everyone had a lovely Easter, if you celebrate it, and a fine, old-timey, no-stores-open-today Sunday if you don't. My friends and I had a tasty brunch this morning at a restaurant we really should visit more often, if for no other reason than the free brunch on a return visit that we earned by our purchase today and for their eight-glasses-for-$25 wine club, which is a club I really ought to join, I think (despite my fear-of-commitment aversion to organized memberships of any sort). Next time, however, we need to shoot for later in the day. I bragged that skipping church makes for an easier reservation, but the diners who arrived after church got the better brunch, I fear. As we divvied up our bill, we glanced at the dessert table and saw a cheesecake being brought out that wasn't there before. I mean, sure, my peanut butter bar, mini cream puff, and carrot cake were tasty, but cheesecake? The ultimate in desserts? I feel cheated. We saw that, and I said, "I bet if we wait long enough, they'll bring mashed potatoes out, too." And for some reason, just before we paid, I said it again, such is my love of mashed potatoes (even in a big silver bin on a buffet). And wouldn't you know it? With our coats on, heading out the door, a man in a white apron brushed right passed us, giant tray of mashed potatoes in his sweaty little hands. Seriously: the Christians got a better brunch for their $12. Our risen savior rewards his followers with cheesecake and mashed potatoes. The lazy heathens get carrot cake and stroganoff (which, granted, was still not a bad deal, mind you, but obviously my love of mashed potatoes is strong).
All right. I thought I had more inconsequential nonsense to ramble on about, but this late Sunday night is quickly growing even later, and dead tired on a Monday is my least favorite (even if seemingly unavoidable) way to start the week. So perhaps later I will bore you with my questions about just why the slow and disturbing No Country for Old Men was such a shoe-in
for Best Damn Picture of the Whole Damn Year, or why mixing up a glass or two of Instant Ghetto Sangria is both a good and a terrible idea on a Sunday night. Meanwhile, how was your weekend? Good? Good. Do tell.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Book of Revelation...Fire-breathing lion's head...tail made out of snakes...Who else is it gonna be?
Hello, friends. While it is still my Very Special Birthday Week, it is no longer my actual birthday, so I'd really better post something new, hadn't I? First, though, I should say that I had a lovely birthday, which involved dinner with (and excellent presents and prizes from) several good friends, as well as four different cakes. Four cakes is not a record, of course, given that whole five-cake birthday when I turned six, but it was exciting nonetheless. Also, my sixth birthday did not involve vodka, so there are some advantages to getting older, I suppose.
Because comparison is fun, check it out:
Haven't changed a bit, have I? Well, my excitement about cake hasn't, anyway.
Also, while I was busy recovering from my own birthday, my blog had a birthday as well. Stefanie Says turned three yesterday. Presumably we're potty trained and ready for preschool now. It's all very exciting, of course.
As if all of that (not to mention St. Patrick's Day) weren't cause enough for celebration, those wacky Christians who are in charge of the holiday calendar went and put Easter in the same seven-day span as well. I will be enjoying that the same way I have for the past few years--by stuffing myself at a brunch with several of my favorite fellow heathens. It's amazing how easy it is to get a group reservation on one of the busier days of the year, even mere days in advance of the holiday, if you're simply willing to take a late morning time slot during which all the real Easter celebrants are at church. Score on that, I say. An early meal just means I'll be home sooner to get a jump on that inevitable afternoon nap.
I'm sure my very Catholic mother would be shaking her very disapproving head at that last paragraph, calling me out in shame at my seeming disrespect for our Savior's rising from the grave. And while I apologize for my flip remarks, I still say Easter always was one of the weaker and less eventful holidays, despite what they said in my grade school religion classes. Metalia's the expert on this, not me, but it actually seems that Jews have all the fun, what with the Bag o' Plagues and the Huggable Matzah Ball and the Let My People Go board game.
Actually, scratch any enthusiam about that "Let My People Go" board game. It just called to mind a not-so-rousing game of Bible Trivia that my sisters and I were once roped into playing at a family friend's house when we were kids. I have always enjoyed winning board games, but I remember my poor showing in that one being not unlike Bart and Lisa's miserable failure against Rod and Todd Flanders in their game of Bible Bombardment. No stickers for me, obviously. Eight years of Catholic school and little aside from pervading guilt to show for it, I guess.
But enough about me. How will you be spending the most Cadbury-friendly holiday this year?
Because comparison is fun, check it out:
Haven't changed a bit, have I? Well, my excitement about cake hasn't, anyway.
Also, while I was busy recovering from my own birthday, my blog had a birthday as well. Stefanie Says turned three yesterday. Presumably we're potty trained and ready for preschool now. It's all very exciting, of course.
As if all of that (not to mention St. Patrick's Day) weren't cause enough for celebration, those wacky Christians who are in charge of the holiday calendar went and put Easter in the same seven-day span as well. I will be enjoying that the same way I have for the past few years--by stuffing myself at a brunch with several of my favorite fellow heathens. It's amazing how easy it is to get a group reservation on one of the busier days of the year, even mere days in advance of the holiday, if you're simply willing to take a late morning time slot during which all the real Easter celebrants are at church. Score on that, I say. An early meal just means I'll be home sooner to get a jump on that inevitable afternoon nap.
I'm sure my very Catholic mother would be shaking her very disapproving head at that last paragraph, calling me out in shame at my seeming disrespect for our Savior's rising from the grave. And while I apologize for my flip remarks, I still say Easter always was one of the weaker and less eventful holidays, despite what they said in my grade school religion classes. Metalia's the expert on this, not me, but it actually seems that Jews have all the fun, what with the Bag o' Plagues and the Huggable Matzah Ball and the Let My People Go board game.
Actually, scratch any enthusiam about that "Let My People Go" board game. It just called to mind a not-so-rousing game of Bible Trivia that my sisters and I were once roped into playing at a family friend's house when we were kids. I have always enjoyed winning board games, but I remember my poor showing in that one being not unlike Bart and Lisa's miserable failure against Rod and Todd Flanders in their game of Bible Bombardment. No stickers for me, obviously. Eight years of Catholic school and little aside from pervading guilt to show for it, I guess.
But enough about me. How will you be spending the most Cadbury-friendly holiday this year?
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Happy Birthday to Me
One good thing that came out of my little sister spending so much time at my parents' house prior to my grandma's death is that she scanned hundreds of old family photos so we could all enjoy them in electronic form. This one is not necessarily my favorite, but it is the only one that features my puffed-out cheeks and a frightening clown cake. The photo, by the way, is from my sixth birthday, the year I received five different cakes. Oddly, I liked the scary clown one best. There's no accounting for my six-year-old taste. (The red smocked dress might also be evidence of that.)
Here's hoping any cakes I see today are not of the nightmare-inducing variety. I'm also hoping the birthday present Mother Nature gave me this morning was just a brief, cruel joke and the snow and ice that made my commute to work a bit harrowing are long gone before my friends and I venture out to my birthday gathering tonight. If there is one thing I should not have to do on my birthday, it is shovel. Well, shovel or have a root canal. Or clean my bathroom. Or get a flat tire. Hell, there are a whole lot of things I should not have to do on my birthday, I suppose. But I'll stick to the shoveling thing for now. Go, Sun, go!
Here's hoping any cakes I see today are not of the nightmare-inducing variety. I'm also hoping the birthday present Mother Nature gave me this morning was just a brief, cruel joke and the snow and ice that made my commute to work a bit harrowing are long gone before my friends and I venture out to my birthday gathering tonight. If there is one thing I should not have to do on my birthday, it is shovel. Well, shovel or have a root canal. Or clean my bathroom. Or get a flat tire. Hell, there are a whole lot of things I should not have to do on my birthday, I suppose. But I'll stick to the shoveling thing for now. Go, Sun, go!
Sunday, March 16, 2008
You guys, I totally forgot I have a blog.
Huh. Have I really not clicked "Publish" on anything since last Tuesday? I could have sworn I did a Friday Five... You mean that didn't somehow make its way from my head to the Blogger screen on its own? No? Must work on that. If we can publish straight from phone to blog (well, "we" being people with fancier phones than mine, obviously), then surely the brain-to-blog interface is right around the corner. Of course, if that happens, Wordpress will get it first, giving Noelle one more reason to yell at those of us still on Blogger to migrate already for her convenience.*
All right then. How was your weekend? Good? Good. In Minnesota, it's been a balmy 40-some degrees for the past few days, which means people are traipsing about in shorts and flip-flops because apparently the thing to do when it's finally warm enough not to see your breath outside is to dress insensibly enough as to ensure you're still as cold as you've been for the past five months. I will never understand this. Yes, it's nice to brave the great outdoors beyond my front door with my coat carelessly left unbuttoned, but I'm still wearing a coat, dammit. It's 45 degrees outside; that's just good sense. My skin is not ready for direct exposure to the elements. One must work up to such things.
I actually didn't spend much time outside breathing non-recirculated air this weekend, despite WhiskeyMarie's compelling order to do so. No, instead I went the opposite route and spent nearly all daylight hours in my cold, dark basement, like the common mole person I generally strive not to be. I am making slow but certain progress on this basement semi-finishing project, by the way. At this rate, I'll be ready to watch a movie in a comfortable, naturally air-conditioned room by mid-August, which is, incidentally, the only time this basement room I'm working on will likely be livable at all. (Note to self: Must buy a space heater if I intend to be down there for any length of time at any other time of year. This I've learned so far.)
This weekend I tackled the least fun part of the basement beautification and organization project: clearing away all the detritus that Ralph's family left behind and that I've been lazy enough to ignore up to now. Can we just take a moment to acknowledge one more of the many, many differences between owning and renting? When you rent, you can leave all manner of shit and rubbish behind, but the cleanup will come out of your security deposit, thereby ensuring the next renter starts off with a clean slate. There is no deposit when selling a house, but if there were, Ralph's children would have been billed a balance after that deposit was depleted. Here is but a brief list of the things I cleared out of my basement today--things currently piled in and near my alley-side garbage bin, ready to press the limits of the City of Minneapolis's rather generous solid waste & recycling rules (not to mention my own environmental conscience):
None of this should surprise me, of course. The first thing I did when I moved in was scrub the inside of the refrigerator so I felt safe putting food inside. The next day, my friend Lisa and I scraped all surfaces of the kitchen to rid them of the sticky, greasy, yellow goo in which everything was coated. "I keep expecting to find a whole pork chop," I remember Lisa saying. I agreed, but was extremely relieved we never found it.
Time flies when you're not having fun, and after all those hours in my basement, I feel I've been cheated out of my weekend somehow. In even better news, there's a winter storm warning for tomorrow into Tuesday. Apparently, neglecting to acknowledge the onset of spring dooms you to another several days of winter. Actually, snow this week is just about right. When that whole March Madness thing doesn't interfere with my friends' ability to attend my birthday festivities, a late-winter blizzard does the trick in its place. Payback is a bitch, I tell you. I had no idea ignoring the onset of spring weather meant more winter in its place. That damn groundhog has nothing to do with it; it's hermitude in the face of sunshine that really determines how much more winter we have. Fellow Minnesotans, if my productivity really is to blame for the snow we're shoveling tomorrow, I do apologize. But if I tell you it's my birthday week, you have to forgive me, don't you?
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* What was that you were saying about tone the other day, Noelle? You know I love you, right? I hope that sentence didn't sound like I don't.
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All right then. How was your weekend? Good? Good. In Minnesota, it's been a balmy 40-some degrees for the past few days, which means people are traipsing about in shorts and flip-flops because apparently the thing to do when it's finally warm enough not to see your breath outside is to dress insensibly enough as to ensure you're still as cold as you've been for the past five months. I will never understand this. Yes, it's nice to brave the great outdoors beyond my front door with my coat carelessly left unbuttoned, but I'm still wearing a coat, dammit. It's 45 degrees outside; that's just good sense. My skin is not ready for direct exposure to the elements. One must work up to such things.
I actually didn't spend much time outside breathing non-recirculated air this weekend, despite WhiskeyMarie's compelling order to do so. No, instead I went the opposite route and spent nearly all daylight hours in my cold, dark basement, like the common mole person I generally strive not to be. I am making slow but certain progress on this basement semi-finishing project, by the way. At this rate, I'll be ready to watch a movie in a comfortable, naturally air-conditioned room by mid-August, which is, incidentally, the only time this basement room I'm working on will likely be livable at all. (Note to self: Must buy a space heater if I intend to be down there for any length of time at any other time of year. This I've learned so far.)
This weekend I tackled the least fun part of the basement beautification and organization project: clearing away all the detritus that Ralph's family left behind and that I've been lazy enough to ignore up to now. Can we just take a moment to acknowledge one more of the many, many differences between owning and renting? When you rent, you can leave all manner of shit and rubbish behind, but the cleanup will come out of your security deposit, thereby ensuring the next renter starts off with a clean slate. There is no deposit when selling a house, but if there were, Ralph's children would have been billed a balance after that deposit was depleted. Here is but a brief list of the things I cleared out of my basement today--things currently piled in and near my alley-side garbage bin, ready to press the limits of the City of Minneapolis's rather generous solid waste & recycling rules (not to mention my own environmental conscience):
- One wire shelf and metal handle for a fridge I do not own.
- One metal furnace filter (from the days, apparently, when we had time to clean and reuse furnace filters, rather than buy paper-based, disposable ones manufactured by 3M).
- One envelope of keys that I am sure I will regret throwing away within weeks from now, when I finally discover some locked secret compartment within my home that's somehow gone unrecognized for the past four and a half years.
- Four rolling furniture feet from a piece of furniture I have never seen.
- One box of assorted wires, tubes, and pipe fittings.
- One dingy white wicker hamper, minus the lid.
- One Montgomery Ward exercise bike, most likely circa before I was born.
- Six vinyl tiles of assorted patterns, none of which are currently installed within my home.
- Three screens that are not needed for any window within my house. (Update! The screens are gone! Is there a screen fairy trolling up and down my alleyway? Is there a Golden Goat for building materials that I should know about?)
- One (leaking) tub of Dutch Boy "Texture Paint," which I think serves as the answer to my long-held question of how the hell they created that weird "sponge-painted with a garden slug" effect on the walls of my living room and bedrooms.
- Two sets of first-generation radio earphones (complete with what I'm hoping is simply aged and yellowing plastic, as opposed to ancient earwax).
- One whatever the hell this is, which I finally unscrewed and removed from the worktable beside my furnace. (Does anyone know what this machine is used for? And also, do you need one?)
- One disassembled end table/magazine rack (in pieces, it's hard to tell just what it used to be).
- One chipped and rusted metal bowl, half-filled with a clay-colored powder of unknown origin.
- 24 paint cans ranging from empty to nearly full. (In all fairness, approximately half of these were mine. But that doesn't forgive the half that weren't.)
None of this should surprise me, of course. The first thing I did when I moved in was scrub the inside of the refrigerator so I felt safe putting food inside. The next day, my friend Lisa and I scraped all surfaces of the kitchen to rid them of the sticky, greasy, yellow goo in which everything was coated. "I keep expecting to find a whole pork chop," I remember Lisa saying. I agreed, but was extremely relieved we never found it.
Time flies when you're not having fun, and after all those hours in my basement, I feel I've been cheated out of my weekend somehow. In even better news, there's a winter storm warning for tomorrow into Tuesday. Apparently, neglecting to acknowledge the onset of spring dooms you to another several days of winter. Actually, snow this week is just about right. When that whole March Madness thing doesn't interfere with my friends' ability to attend my birthday festivities, a late-winter blizzard does the trick in its place. Payback is a bitch, I tell you. I had no idea ignoring the onset of spring weather meant more winter in its place. That damn groundhog has nothing to do with it; it's hermitude in the face of sunshine that really determines how much more winter we have. Fellow Minnesotans, if my productivity really is to blame for the snow we're shoveling tomorrow, I do apologize. But if I tell you it's my birthday week, you have to forgive me, don't you?
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* What was that you were saying about tone the other day, Noelle? You know I love you, right? I hope that sentence didn't sound like I don't.
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