Shows I've seen in 2010

• The Current's Five-Year Anniversary Party (Lookbook, Mason Jennings, POS, & Solid Gold) - January 29 (First Avenue)
• The Avett Brothers  - March 5 (First Avenue) 
• Vampire Weekend - March 22 (First Avenue)
• Dan and Matt Wilson - March 26 (Pantages Theatre)
• Rogue Valley - April 10 (Fitzgerald Theater) 
• Owl City - May 1 (State Theatre)
• Mumford and Sons - May 25 (Varsity Theater)
• Basilica Block Party (Rogue Valley, Spoon, and Weezer) - July 9 (Basilica of St. Mary)
• Josh Ritter w/the Minnesota Orchestra - July 15 (Orchestra Hall)
• The National - August 6 (First Avenue)
• Local Natives - October 1 (First Avenue)
• Benefit for Brad Kern (Semisonic, Mason Jennings, Jeremy Messersmith, Twilight Hours, etc.) - October 8 (First Avenue)
• Rock of Ages - October 23 (Orpheum Theatre)
• Spring Awakening - November 7 (Orpheum Theatre)
• Cloud Cult - November 18 (First Avenue)
• The New Standards - December 3 (Fitzgerald Theater)

Tramampoline!

So it turns out the best way to make me not write a post for a fortnight is to say I'm going to write more than one post a fortnight. Blah blah fishcakes; whatever dudes; I've been busy. Or possibly I've been staring at Facebook and Craftster and who knows what else instead of Blogger and Bloglines. We all know I can handle only a finite number of Internet addictions at a time. But no! Seriously! I have had all sorts of stuff going on! I made a skirt. (Two of them, even!) I saved 50 starving kids. (Or so the dude at the place where I put in a measly two hours of time volunteering told us.) I helped my pal Carrie repaint her already freshly painted abode. I baked three times in a week. I finished watching the second season of Mad Men. I bought a toilet. Clearly lots of important stuff going on around here.

What I have not been doing is taking any more trampoline classes. My month of classes was up a couple weeks ago, and I decided not to pony up for another month just now. But since I am so good at waiting until something is so far gone that we've all nearly forgotten about it before I tell you about it, how's about I do that Q&A right now? Obviously I'm all about timeliness here. It's a special skill, folks. All right; no it's not. But it's how I roll, people. All things in due time. 

So then. You had questions! I have answers. Actually, you didn't even have all that many questions, so I have supplemented some of your fine questions with a few of my own. Feel free to decide amongst yourselves which are which.

Q: Trampoline class?!? I didn't even know that existed! Wherever did you hear about such a thing??
 A: Indirectly, through Facebook, of course. (Seriously, where else; am I right?) A seemingly superhuman acquaintance of mine posted an article about parkour (Note: This kind of parkour, not the kind Michael, Dwight, and Andy thought they mastered on The Office recently). That article linked to a video, which linked to an area gymnastics center that offers parkour and free-running classes, where I saw a link for "Adult Fitness" and decided to see where it led. And lo--trampoline classes! Who knew?? For the record, they also have adult circus skills classes, meaning I could finally learn how to twirl around in the air on long velvet sashes, just like Devotchka's burlesque girls. Maybe I'll try that next year.

Q: Is it one big trampoline, or does everyone have their own tiny trampoline? Is it one of those little round ones like my mom had in the 80s? (Do you even know what I’m talking about? A “mini-tramp,” if you will?) If it is one of those little round jobs from the 80s, please lie to us.
A: I DO remember the mini-tramps! I too am a child of the 80s, and my mom bought one of those as well. The mini-tramp did nothing to quell my trampoline fascination, though. Even as a kid, I knew that little, barely bouncy saucer was NOT A REAL TRAMPOLINE. It almost would have been better to have no trampoline at all than a lame, tiny useless excuse for one. The mini-tramp was a tease. (Which I suppose makes sense. Big, legitimate tramps rarely are, right?)

Q: So it's a big trampoline, then?
A: It is. And there are four of them. We take turns, which is fine, really, seeing as after several minutes, I generally need a break. Which brings me to...

Q: Is it good exercise?
A: Given that every part of my body was sore for several days after my first class, I'd say that yes, it is. A good portion of that soreness, however, likely came from the set of (spotter-assisted; I'm no She-Ra) pull-ups that a particularly drill sergeant-like woman (who was not even the instructor!) forces everyone to do before they leave the gym each night. I promise that the pull-up woman isn't the reason I decided not to sign on for more classes in November, but I can't say she helped my sticktoitiveness much.

Q: So, what sort of people take trampoline classes? What was the demographic in that joint?
A: It was actually a wider mix than I expected. Some were former gymnasts; some (like me) spent their childhoods wanting to be gymnasts and simply believe that trampolines always equal fun. Some stumbled across the class in a search for low-impact exercise options. And one guy was a strange, round-bellied, late 40-something in a royal blue sweatsuit and sport goggles. I really wanted him to be sort of awesome. Sadly, he was not.

Q: Have you learned new jumping moves? Do you do flips on it or just jog a little bit? Do you make up routines?
A: Yes, sort of, no, and maybe. There are five ways to jump on a trampoline, so we started by learning all of those. If you're curious about that (and I know you are), you can jump on your feet, seat, front, back, and knees. From there, we learned how to link various moves together, and by week two and three, I did a front flip and a back handspring with a spotter. The instructor flattered me by calling me a natural and a fast learner, but I never did master the easy combination they referred to as "The Kindergarten Routine," so the assisted handspring was a weak victory. 

Q: Can I come to your trampoline recital? 
A: Unfortunately, I don't think this gym hosts such a thing. If they did, I'm sure it would exclude quitters, so you still couldn't see me. Hence, no. 

Q: Do you still want a trampoline in your backyard?
A: Of course I do! Trampolines still aren't free, however, and I'm still a 35-year-old childless woman with neighbors, so I don't think I'll be doing anything about that any time soon.

Q: Are you angling for the Olympic Trampoline Team, because if so, I will see you at the Olympic trials, Missy.
A: No, but I may be hatching a not-so-elaborate plan to run away and join the circus. I have a feeling that in the circus, you're still allowed (and perhaps encouraged) to drink wine and stay up late. If Nadia was any indication, the Olympics require far more discipline than I'm willing to hone. That said, is there really an Olympic Trampoline Team? Because I would much rather watch that than that rhythmic gymnastics nonsense. 

Q: So that sounds awesome. Why on earth aren't you in class RIGHT NOW? 
A: Well, first of all, because it it not Wednesday. And also because trampoline classes are not free, unfortunately, and because this was one of those pay periods where I paid a few bills, had the crazy and reckless idea to buy groceries, and suddenly had no money left in my checking account at all. Also, since I am collecting reasons and excuses, going to trampoline class involves a bothersome commute down 35W, which is an always annoying stretch of interstate made even more problematic by the array of construction barrels and barricades and constantly shifting exit lanes featured right now. FYI, Minnesota Department of Transportation, I do NOT make a habit of texting, reading, or applying makeup while driving. You really don't need to keep testing me to make sure I'm paying attention, so how about you decide once and for all whether 62 East will be a right or a left exit and just leave it at that, OK? Ahem. I realize this is not L.A. or Atlanta (or for heaven's sake, Baghdad). I could be subjected to far greater trials than a weekly jaunt down 35W. I could also spend my Wednesday nights watching Glee from the comfort of my purple couch and my flannel pajama pants. This month, I choose that.

NaBloNoGo

Well, would you look at that? It's November 2 already, which means that after three years of perfect attendance, I have blown NaBloPoMo on the VERY FIRST DAY. I'm kidding, obviously. Did you honestly think I was going to do that to myself again this year? If so, you are hilarious. Or possibly, out of touch with reality. Have you not been paying attention to my lazy-ass blogging of late? Seriously: only seven posts since July. SEVEN. Obviously NaNoBloPoMo would be a much more likely calling for me this year.

Mind you, I have been keeping busy. I have been taking skirt-making classes and trampoline classes (whoopsie; I was supposed to write a Q&A about that, wasn't I?), and Saturday I hopped on the nation's only Pedal Pub and had an absurd amount of ridiculous (admittedly tipsy) fun. And here is where I prove what a lousy blogger I really am lately, because ordinarily this is the point where I would insert some pictures documenting the Halloween Pedal Pub excursion around St. Paul, but because I apparently forgot that I have a blog, I neglected to put those pictures on Flickr and instead housed them only in a not-easily-linkable-to-the-world album on Facebook. Hence, those of you who ARE linked to me there will just have to vouch for the hilarious-looking time I had. Everyone else, pretend the people in some of these videos are my friends (Note: They are not) for a general idea of what transpired.

Actually, it is just as well I have no pictures to link to, because I would rather tell you what I am about to tell you accompanied by no photographic evidence to help you speculate. And what I want to tell you is that my still semi-newish friend Melissa is not only kind and funny and an excellent yoga buddy and travel partner (scroll to the third-last paragraph if you're going to click that link); she is also a fine, well-matched wing woman for me. Why? Because Melissa indirectly orchestrated the inclusion of two new-to-us single males in this outing, and when I asked, "Are they cute?" she answered, "One of them is..." Fast-forward to Saturday, when, mid-Pedal Pub crawl I asked her, "So, which friend of [so-and-so]'s did you think was cute?" And she answered, "[Dude I personally thought was decidedly less cute]." And when I said, "That's funny. I thought [taller, nerdier dude] was the cute one," she replied, "I thought you might!" It's important to note that neither one of us actually made any progress with either of these strangers, but the fact that our tastes were actually fairly opposite I think bodes well for competition-free single-girl outings henceforth. Hurrah.

Following the Pedal Pub, I went to my pal Angela's house, for her now traditional Halloween chili. It was delicious as usual, as were the myriad varieties of cornbread on hand. I brought The Pioneer Woman's pumpkin spice muffins (with cream cheese frosting), which were, like all of her recipes, an undisputed hit. As usual, however, the muffins are gone but a half a bowl of frosting remains, and someone really ought to sneak into my house and remove that from my refrigerator before I spread the rest of it on chocolate chips or Triscuits or a flour tortilla, for lack of any more appropriate frosting vehicle on hand. Oof. Help me.

In all, it was a fine Halloween. I think I regained the last of the eight pounds I lost during my recent food poisoning bout (Crap; did I not write about that either? I'm not sure if that makes me a bad blogger or a good one...), and I also have a giant bruise on my left knee that I have little recollection of having acquired (Note: Not just a bruise, but a bruise with a fishnet-stocking patterned scrape atop it. I am not even kidding about that.). Each of those is a small price to pay, however, for a fun afternoon and evening with friends old and new.

So it's November already, and while this year that doesn't mean a post a day from me, I will try to do more than a post a fortnight at least. And I'll get to the trampoline post; I promise. Even not-so-burning questions require answers, I know.

Brevity is rarely my strong suit

So. Wow. I got nothin'. A full week yet again, and no stories for you? Nope. No stories. Only bullets. Here we go.

• Saturday I participated in a pub crawl in my neighborhood. Except instead of being called a pub crawl, it was called a pub mosey. I'm still not sure what the difference is between a crawl and a mosey. A mosey would be faster than a crawl, right? I don't think it was any faster, but it did seem more meandery, go-at-your-own-pace than a typical pub crawl. Maybe that's the difference between a crawl and a mosey. Then again, I've never actually participated in an "official" pub crawl, so I may have no idea what I'm talking about and may have based that theory only on the fact that the last crawl I observed whilst out and about involved a "round-up and move on" whistle to keep everybody strictly on task. So maybe I'm just saying the pub mosey was not led by Captain Von Trapp. Is that the difference? Who knows.
  
  
• I really thought that for once my bullet points of randomness would be short ones. I'll work on that.
  
  
• Towards the end of said mosey, I may have made out with a stranger. In public. Because I am klassy like that. And also, apparently, 25. Well done, self. If I tell you he was Australian, that makes it all OK, right? Everything sounds charming and intelligent with an Australian accent. That's a written rule, right? Surely the Australian accent forgives all sins.
  
  
• I realize few things are less interesting than blogging about the weather, but if autumn were a human, I would be filing a Missing Person's Report. We went directly from 80-degree days to furnace-on, sub-40s. It has also snowed two out of the past three days. Snow. In the first half of October. Even for Minnesota, that is absurd, and I am not handling it well. Frankly, I am cranky and depressed and would very much like to hide inside in my yoga pants until the sun comes out again. I am being a petulant four-year-old about it, crying, "No fair" every time I go outside. Fall is my favorite, and early winter is ruining it. Boo.
  
  
• Goodreads informed me via email today that I have been reading David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas for 83 days now. I should probably notify Goodreads (and my sidebar) that I have actually all but completely abandoned Cloud Atlas because it has all but completely bored me nonstop. Has anyone else actually read that one? Can someone tell me why it's gotten such favorable reviews? Because I have given it more than a fair chance, and it has not delivered. Time to listen to Nancy Pearl and move on.
  
  
• Yet another long nearly forgotten member the class of '92 has decided to Facebook-friend me. This time it was my first serious crush of high school, the boy I am a little mortified to remember crying over while I listened to Phil Collins's Groovy Kind of Love on constant repeat. What I neglected to mention when I wrote about him in that "Five songs..." post was that I actually ran into him at a bar in our hometown about ten years ago, at which point I laughed about my ridiculous unrequited crush and he countered by asking me out. For real. As in, "You're not getting out of this bar without agreeing to a date with me." His confidence was almost admirable, given that he was, at the time, working at a factory and still living in his parents' house, but shockingly, his brown eyes didn't have the same hold on me anymore. If his Facebook profile is any indication, his brain wouldn't either. You know how sometimes people say things both happen and don't happen for a reason? How maybe sometimes the greatest gift is an unanswered prayer? Without going into too much detail (i.e., without ripping apart his Facebook page), let's just say I'm really glad that one didn't work out. I'm glad that one never became my first love, or my high school sweetheart, or my first husband. I'm glad of that. Really.
  
  
• Remember how I said I was going to type short bullets? I was lying, obviously.
  
  
• I noticed in the gym locker room today that my kickboxing instructor has the same weird toe thing that I have. Shockingly, my mental goalie blocked something for once, and I did not actually say, "Hey! We're mutant toe sisters!" I am seemingly the only "regular" in that class whose name she does not know. I've thought perhaps I should remedy that with a casual, "I'm Stefanie, by the way" someday. Having her know me as "Stefanie" would be fine with me. Having her know me as "That crazy girl who was looking at my toes" is not.
  
  
• Speaking of classes and bearing toes in public, I am taking a trampoline class! I have been to only one at this point, but so far, it is exactly as fun as it sounds. That is, if jumping on a trampoline for an hour a week sounds fun to you (and WHY WOULDN'T IT???). This is actually probably the most interesting thing in this list so far (to me, anyway), and yet, I have no idea what you might want to know about it. Trampoline class questions, anyone? Let's have a Q&A.
  

Foodstuffs

I know most of you don't know my good friend Carrie, but is anyone curious how she fared in the Julie & Julia cooking contest I mentioned? She won! Well, she won second place, which is still awesome, of course (she got to take home an excellent set of brand-new cookware), but honestly, I was so shocked she did not win the grand prize that I almost forgot to clap when they announced her name as the runner-up. No, seriously. Whoops. It's times like that when I fear I would be a terrible parent. Or an excellent one, I suppose, depending on your perspective.

I am fairly certain it was the first place winner's sparkling Rachel Ray smile and gaggle of small, seemingly adorable children and not her any-more-stellar-than-Carrie's chicken salad that secured her the grand prize. Which, incidentally, trust me: if the judges had been sitting directly in front of those children, they would not have been deemed so precious. Little treasures, I am sure, but they could not get their high-pitched squeals and their grabby little hands away from me quickly enough. But that is neither here nor there. I wish the winner and her enormous family all the best, and I shall move on before I say anything else that would put me squarely back in that "terrible parent" camp.

After the contest, I got to accompany Carrie to an advance screening of Julie & Julia, which you really must see as soon as you are able, because it is beautiful and charming and might make even the likes of ME think it's a good idea to try my hand at French cooking. (Definitely not aspics or some crazy pastry-wrapped deboned duck, but perhaps a beef stew or pear tart. Maybe.) Meryl Streep is radiant, of course, and Amy Adams is adorable as always, and I almost don't even want to paste in the link for this movie that I just went to find, because I cannot believe Rotten Tomatoes currently deems it worthy of only a 20% rating. 20% means it is "Rotten," and that I simply do not understand. Granted, only five reviews have been counted thus far, but did those five reviewers see the same movie I did?? I'm perplexed.

In other food news, I have a post up at Allie's Answers today. That shouldn't be food news, since my assigned beat on that site is environmentally friendly cleaning products, but rules were meant to be broken and beats were meant to be veered from. Or so I decided after I got a tour and a free meal at a nearby Chipotle recently and felt compelled to write about it. Yes, my guest post is about Chipotle. I should warn you that if you click over, you may be unable to avoid taking yourself to Chipotle for lunch. Don't blame me; blame the accompanying photo Courtney found. Seriously, I need to close that Firefox tab immediately because if I look at that delicious burrito one more time there is no way I'm getting to bed without a snack. Yum.

And finally, this has nothing to do with food, but I found out today that I will be working on a short-term project with a former co-worker for the next two weeks. This project involves pretending I know how to use a tool I last saw three years and probably two software versions ago, but I am a professional! I can DO this, right? Wish me luck. This also means that instead of pulling on a pair of jeans and driving across the suburbs to my very far away office tomorrow morning, I shall be putting on a dress and going downtown! Just like a real grown-up. Actually, this means that my commute will be an awesome 4.1 miles instead of the usual 25, but given that it's 4.1 miles of stop lights and downtown rush hour traffic, I'm unsure whether the time savings will be at all notable. I shall see.

And with that, I should get myself to bed, so that I can actually be a responsible and professional grown-up in the bright and early morning hours. Is it me, or does it feel like Monday was somehow simultaneously just a moment ago and also a hundred years ago right now? This week has been a blur, and I don't even have alcohol or an unusual flurry of activity to blame. Go figure. Happy weekend, all.

I'm not dead, but apparently I want to talk about what would happen if I were

Seeing as I'm single, I live alone, and I am occasionally morbid, I sometimes wonder how long it would take for anyone to notice and investigate if I went missing or broke my neck going down my stairs. If it happened on a week night, there is a good chance my boss would notice my absence within a day and track down my sister or my parents to investigate. I say merely "good chance" because my boss and I work in offices that are only approximately 30 feet away from one another, but as neither of us is exactly a wandering social butterfly at work, those 30 feet are apparently an insurmountable distance to cross unless absolutely necessary, and we often go full days without actually seeing each other's face. If I went missing or dead on one of those days, or perhaps over a long weekend, it is a bit unsettling to me to think how long it might go unnoticed. I can't decide if I should feel lucky I do not have any pets, as it ensures no animal (save maybe Samsa) will eat my face off before the medical examiner arrives, or if I should run out and acquire a pet post haste, knowing said pet might be so helpful as to do away with my remains in a tidy manner before any truly vile decomposition sets in.

Luckily, I may not have to worry about any of these scenarios, because lo, I have the Internets. And the Neighborhood Watch Group in my corner of the Internets (by which I mean 3Carnations) totally has my back. It took a mere week of no Internet activity this time for 3Carnations to send me an email making sure I'm still alive. I could survive a week with no food or water lying on my basement floor with a broken neck, right? She could totally have sent help in time? What's that? No? Well then. 3Cs, maybe this is the reason you should join Facebook: the ability to keep closer tabs on me and provide more prompt follow-up in case of my demise.

At any rate, I am fine. I always think I will have more time for blog reading and writing in the summer, given that there is nothing good on TV to distract me, but I forget that in the summer, I am much less averse to leaving my house in the evening hours, what with the lack of total darkness and bitter cold that thwarts any ambition to combat hermitude during winter months.

So I have simply been busy lately. What have I been up to? Well, let's see.

I picked up and thereafter sampled my free wine. I will say, for Chardonnay, it is not half bad. I might even go so far as to say that for Chardonnay, it is delicious. It was also free, and it's hard to argue with that.

Of course, it would have been far too fiscally responsible of me to walk out with my 12 free bottles of white wine without also spending some money on red. The summer wine sale is in progress, and I cannot see my favorites priced at $6, $7, and $8 a bottle and not do some stocking up. I bought six bottles and yet, I sort of want to go back and buy six more. People, there are BARGAINS in store! It pays to buy in bulk! I have never once felt the urge to acquire a Costco or Sam's Club membership in order to stockpile toilet paper or Ramen noodles, but where alcohol is concerned, apparently I am all about economies of scale. My logic knows no bounds. My priorities not remotely flawed.

Moving on. What else has happened recently? Well, it finally rained. It rained right in the middle of the outdoor viewing of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof that I attended, but it rained nonetheless. Also, one (just one!) of my cherry tomatoes has turned nearly red. I think that had more to do with luck or fertilizer than with rain, but the rain is welcome in any case. Neither the rain nor the fertilizer has saved my Big Beef tomatoes, unfortunately. Today, the most promising-looking one of those somehow entirely disappeared. I stared at my tomato plants for a full two minutes pondering its sudden absence. Whatever animal, neighbor, or lawn gnome took off with it was probably watching me, laughing, the whole time.

In more interesting news, I attended four shows in six days. I am totally a Girl About Town. The last of those was a semi-secret, semi-private Jenny Lewis show that I scored free tickets to on my way out of another show. It was sponsored by Target and Converse, meaning it was very corporatey and logo-laden, but we had a lovely time nonetheless. Plus, I got a free girly red martini in a blinking martini glass, and nothing says "Fun" like a blinking martini, no? You like blinking lights, don't you? (Like the one on the waffle iron. Or the little guy on the Don't Walk sign. I may be tired and losing my focus here, but somebody please get that reference.)

Also, I planned two vacations. Actually, not so much "planned" as "committed to." And this may have happened before my last post and I just neglected to mention it until now. I did say I was overdue for a vacation. Apparently my remedy for that is to take two. Hurrah! First up is a week-long road trip to the Badlands, etc. (South Dakota tips, anyone?) Then in September it's a long weekend in L.A. Unlike my last trip out of the state, neither of these will be with my coworkers. Mexico may beat South Dakota on most people's list of hot spots worth visiting, but being able to return from vacation without saying, "Huh. Haven't been in this office for a while, and yet, I just saw YOU yesterday!" ranks pretty high on my list. I can't wait.

And finally, in less exciting news, I have developed an awesome case of insomnia. Oh man, it is the best. Know what's even better than feeling tired and headachey and nauseated all day because you have a hangover? Feeling tired and headachey and nauseated all day without even having had the fun of an irresponsible bender the night before to warrant it. As I type away right now, my head is heavy, my eyelids are drooping, and yet, like magic, I am certain the moment my head hits my pillow, I will be wide awake, ready to tackle all the world's problems (or at least, ponder incessantly the most trivial of my own). If you have any remedies or suggestions for this dilemma, I would love to hear them. Partying like a rock star is one thing. Looking and feeling as though I've partied like one without having done any actual partying is quite another. Yawn.

More proof that I'm probably just well overdue for a proper VACATION.

Well, I don't know about you, but I thoroughly enjoy this long weekend thing, and I would very much like another, please. In fact, it occurs to me that we may just have found the issue that would get me to cross party lines in the next election. Promise me a standard four-day work week, and you have my vote, madam or sir. (I do realize that this is an unlikely platform, but a girl can dream, can't she?)

Speaking of votes, I finally found out this week how one of the ones I cast eight months ago panned out. I'm pretty sure that when votes were counted by hand and delivered to the precinct reporting place via Pony Express, the results still came in earlier than this, but hooray for democracy however it plays out, I suppose. The important thing is I have two senators again. I would hope this means Amy Klobuchar could take a well-earned day off, but when she chatted with Garrison Keillor on the stage of the Prairie Home Companion 35th anniversary show yesterday afternoon, she explained that it was actually her fifth public appearance of the day. Fifth. As if I didn't have enough reasons already why a life in politics is not the life for me, Senator Klobuchar has given me one more. At noon on this particular Independence Day, I was sitting in a townie bar with three excellent friends, enjoying cheap drinks and free chocolate peanut butter cake (courtesy of the star-spangled bartender who baked it herself in honor of the day's events), while we waited in air-conditioned comfort for the time when the Oklahoma Avon, MN land rush would allow us to claim our spots in the city park for the afternoon's free show. At that same time, my sole senator was marching in one of four parades, waving and kissing babies and sweating in the sun, her criss-crossing journey across the state likely having begun before I even got out of bed that lovely Saturday. Yes, my life is a humble, low profile one with occasional annoyances of the routine sort, but I'll take that over terminally lost summer holidays any day, thanks.

In addition to yesterday's public radio-related day trip, my social calendar for the weekend also included a screening of Food Matters in the parking lot of a local performing arts space and a 35-mile bike ride along Minneapolis's Grand Rounds (interspersed with stops for fresh tilapia tacos and ice cream, of course). Those 35 miles were hard fought, I should mention. A quick tip: if you have not gotten on a bike in over a year, it is maybe not the best idea for your first ride of the season to be a rather long one, accompanied by three friends who either bike to work nearly every day, attend spinning class routinely, or are, as far as you can tell, wired not unlike a tiny, fast-paced, never-tiring robot. Word to the wise, as it were. I'd best get in some more practice miles if I plan to bike with those particular friends any time again soon. Meanwhile, I can finally now sit in one place for more than a half hour and then arise again without any piercing pain in every muscle below my pelvis, so I am thankful for that, anyway.

Aside from the unexpected effort of that bike ride, however, my weekend involved no manual labor whatsoever. (That is, unless you count a few fairly painless loads of laundry and some dishes as well.) The important thing is I did no yard work, digging, or planting, and tackled no other projects or errands either. (I have not even driven my car since Thursday. Let's hope it still starts when I attempt to leave for work tomorrow.) Today was a lovely, largely leisurely day, and it pains me more than a bit to set my 6:30 alarm for tomorrow morning.

And that's about all I've got at the moment. I'm starting to think I should go on a date again one of these days, if for no other reason than the material. I rather enjoy having my evenings taken only by things I want to take them, however. Perhaps I should just fabricate a date story instead? Hmmm.

I'm still alive

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.

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.

What do Dexter, the Bible, and Library Boys have in common? Nothing, except they're all in this post.

I know I'm really late to the bandwagon on this Dexter phenomenon, so maybe the rest of you can help me out on this. If I need to stop the DVD after every episode before the end credits music rolls and that creepy string part comes in... If watching the first season finale tonight got my heart rate up more noticeably than my 30 minutes on the elliptical earlier today... Basically, if I am a big old 'fraidy cat who can't believe she even started watching an entire series about a serial killer... well, should I even queue up the remaining seasons in my Netflix list? Given some of the decisions I've made in my life (dating ones, in particular), clearly I am some kind of masochist, so perhaps now that I've started I may as well proceed. But season one wrapped up so nicely--a neatly contained story all on its own. Maybe that's enough? It probably gets better, but does it also get creepier? I live alone, you see. And there is no boy here at the moment in whose armpit I can bury my face (which is the only way I got through the final scenes of The Ring, mind you). So... I'm uncertain. Advice (sans spoilers, please), anyone?

Moving on to things that are too ridiculous to scare me, do you remember when I took a stab at writing a script for the Angry Alien 30-Second Bunny Theater production of Twilight? (Do you also remember that somebody was supposed to remind me to go look for that production in a couple months? No? Hrm. Then perhaps that's why I had to remember to look for it myself today!) Anyway, it is there now! Whee! And shockingly, my version is not so far off from their end result. Go ahead and go watch it. I'll wait.

Good stuff, no? Yes, friends, the Internet is filled with all manner of wonderful things. Also, all manner of frighteningly hideous and laughable things... like these pants, which have showed up in a sidebar ad beside my email at least five times in the past two days. I know that supposedly Gmail targets the ads its users see based on the content of their messages. I use Yahoo, however, which I can only hope and assume is not so meddling or advanced, because while I have typed the words "Roller skating always = fun" in an email recently, I am quite certain I've typed nothing along the lines of "let's all zip our shiny pants up to our sternum and party like it's 1978." Seriously, we may not all agree on much, but can we all agree the shiny, skin-tight, high-waist disco pant is a terrible idea? I thought so. Thank you. Ah, American Apparel. The great unifier in its absurdity. Naturally, I would expect nothing less from the people who brought us the return of hypercolor and the brilliant skirt-as-dress plan. (Note: If you're clicking through on that last link, go right ahead and skip to #2 of that post.)

To prove that I do still leave my house on occasion for entertainment that isn't displayed on a screen, I should tell you that I went to the Central library last night to hear David Plotz talk about his new book, Good Book, based on the Slate series he wrote detailing the "bizarre, hilarious, disturbing, marvelous, and inspiring things [he] learned when [he] read every single word of the Bible." OK, that Slate series was housed on a screen, of course, but Plotz's appearance at the library wasn't, so the first sentence of this paragraph still stands. I haven't actually read the related Blogging the Bible series, but I very much enjoyed Plotz's talk. And now I am curious to read the Book of Ruth, which is, apparently, like a subcompact Jane Austen novel, a perfect story that encapsulates everything that matters in life and yet can be read in ten minutes flat. I'm also curious just what sort of jabs Elijah made to have Plotz deem him the original insult comic. Plotz's experiment in general is an intriguing and tempting one, and maybe I should try it myself, but he also assured us that if we don't know the Bible very well, his book is a useful and entertaining substitute, so perhaps I'll just read his instead.

My library venture entertained me even before the main event got on stage, though. I seated myself directly behind and to the right of a quiet-looking, 30-ish nerd/hipster hybrid with short dark hair, a scruffy beard, and black-rimmed glasses. He scribbled something in his Moleskine, and a few minutes later, looked up and then shifted himself to let another library patron slide past him into the row. I looked at the two of them sitting on either side in front of me and had to stop myself from laughing out loud, wondering if either man realized they were, essentially, the exact same man. Short dark hair, scruffy beard, black-rimmed glasses. Charcoal pants. One in a muted-tone sweater, one in a similarly colored hoodie. Both jotting notes in tiny books. I surveyed the rest of the crowd. Quiet-looking, dark-haired, bespectacled men were everywhere. Not a one of them wearing a color more vibrant than maroon. A while ago, my friend Carrie wrote about searching for Cafe Boy. I didn't realize Library Lecture Boy was just as specific a type. Usually, he is even my type (minus the quiet part, I suppose, though in a library, quiet is to be expected, of course). In case you are wondering, though, no, I didn't actually talk to any of the Library Lecture Boys. It may have been a "kid in a candy store" sort of scenario, but this kid has a stomach ache, so I'm steering clear.

This post may start with the usual complaints about Daylight Saving Time, but I promise it complains about several other things as well.

Is it my imagination, or is this "Spring Forward" thing happening earlier than usual the past couple years? Don't answer that, actually. It is not my imagination. Starting Daylight Saving Time three weeks early was yet another brilliant idea from the Bush administration, and now as a result, every spring and fall when I make the tour of my house to reset my clocks, I say a special thank you to my least favorite ex-president as I reset the ONE clock that previously was smart enough to reset itself on its own. That would be my VCR's clock, which, while an ancient and archaic appliance according to most people, was actually advanced enough to know when Daylight Saving Time was supposed to start and end and adjusted its time automatically. That is, until George W. got his hands on it. (Daylight Saving Time, I mean. Not my VCR. Even now that he's out of office, I'm pretty sure Bush has better things to do than rifle through my humble home.) This may be the least of the legacies of the Bush presidency, but it's an especially annoying one to me. Grr.

Speaking of annoyances, I started my weekend off on a fantastic one by getting into a car accident on my way out to meet friends Friday night. I am fine, and I'm well aware that is the most important part, but it's unsettling anyway. The jerk who I hit was making a left turn at an intersection where I was proceeding straight from the oncoming line of traffic, and he claims that since the light was yellow, HE had the right of way. I don't actually remember learning that rule in driver's ed; I'm pretty sure that in lieu of a green arrow signal, the rule is always "Left turn must YIELD," but this guy also said it was legal for up to two cars to turn left on a red light if they don't have a chance to make their turn before the light changes, so clearly he's working off a different manual than the one I received. Let's just hope our insurance company goes by the same manual I'm familiar with and not the wacky "make your own rules" one that jackass seems to own.

On the up side, while the delusional jackass's fancy silver Mustang has a giant dent in its right side, my car sustained almost no damage at all. People may malign my aging Saturn, but I'm telling you, it may in fact be invincible. The bumper is clearly made of titanium, as it has sustained notable impact and force from other vehicles at least four times now and has nary a crack or scratch to show for it. My license plate is mangled, yes, and there's some silver paint from the jackass's side body mingling along with the red paint I still hadn't touched up from that mishap last summer. But actual damage? None, as far as my untrained eye can see. So... GO Saturn, I suppose. Could the Honda Civic a friend of mine recently told me I should be driving instead promise the same?

While I'm looking for silver linings, I could also mention that I finally figured out how to file my taxes almost for free this year, and I was happy to see that my refund was already in my bank account, mere days after clicking "Send return." I saw that, and I promptly did the least fun and most grown-up and responsible thing possible with it--I made a second payment to my credit card bill this month, and I paid my $596 medical bill in full. And then I transferred the rest to savings, because my savings account and I have had a rather unbalanced relationship lately, and I thought it would be nice to give a little for once instead of always being a "take, take, take" sort of girl.

The medical bill, by the way, was for an echocardiogram I had back in January, which I don't think I actually blogged about, despite the fact that a strangely flirtatious Middle Eastern cardio technician slathering goop on my chest and then fondling me with a plastic wand while making uncomfortable small talk would ordinarily spell prime blog fodder. If I worked for a larger company (or lived in Canada), that test would have cost me nothing, of course, but since I do not, $596 was my portion of the bill. Frankly, I am tired of all the criticisms about national health care. In this case, Socialism sounds like a fine plan if you ask me.

I did allow myself at least one small impulse purchase knowing that tax return was in my bank account, though. I've realized it might be time for a new handbag, but rather than let one of my experienced handbag mentors guide me to a proper all-leather investment with a three-digit price tag, I bought this one at Target instead. Carrie and Angela, I'm well aware that neither of you would approve of this PVC, polyester-lined purchase, but at a mere $19.99, I promise I'm not opposed to investing in something more appropriate under your guidance as well.

Let's see. What else have I been up to lately? Well, Tuesday I put on my civics nerd hat (kidding; I actually look terrible in hats) and went to my precinct caucus. I wasn't feeling committed and ambitious enough to volunteer as a Ward or City Convention delegate, but I did volunteer to help with some data entry work this weekend. My friends Amy and Mark, who live 12 blocks and one precinct away, are both delegates, and had I been in the same room as them, perhaps I would have stepped up to that plate as well. As it happened, the only one egging me on in my precinct room was an egg-shaped guy in an R.T. Rybak shirt, nodding and pointing at me in a strange but encouraging way as our caucus leader asked for delegates. Naturally I assumed he thought I was cute and wanted me to be a delegate simply so we'd find ourselves in the same room again sometime soon, but alas, it quickly occurred to me that he probably saw the Rybak sticker on my sweater and was just trying to load the delegation in his candidate's favor. Pish posh.

So I will not be attending this year's Ward 1 or City convention, but I did spend most of the day yesterday helping to enter caucus attendee details into the state voter database. A surprisingly small number turned out, and a few hours in, the woman in charge started slightly badmouthing a few other active party members for transgressions during the caucus. When I said goodbye that afternoon, she thanked me for my help and said that she hoped her catty talk didn't dissuade me from getting involved in additional future events. I didn't have the nerve to say, "Au contraire! If anything, cattiness makes me MORE inclined to participate!" but the sentiment was in my head nonetheless.

And I guess that's about all I've been up to lately. Please tell me that your weekend was more positively eventful than any of that.

If I keep this up, I may find myself becoming one of those people who uses "party" as a verb.

My weekends are starting to feel a bit like Groundhog Day. You know... drink some wine, watch a couple get engaged... same old, same old.

Yes folks, I actually witnessed two engagements in one week. Tis the season, I suppose? This time, it was some friends of The Buddhist, the female half of which proposed at the Art Institute and then dragged her new fiance' over to a local wine shop, where thirty or so of their closest friends and friends-of-friends were waiting for a surprise congratulations party. I fall into that latter category, of course, the friends-of-friends category, although I must say that the friends of The Buddhist whom I have met thus far are so tremendously kind and fun and flattering that I may just start collectively dating all of them instead. I'm not sure of the specifics in making that happen, but I'm sure we can work out the details.

The engagement party was the first of four parties I attended this weekend, because clearly I am just that busy and popular. I've been told that I cannot actually count the baby shower I attended Saturday afternoon as a party, given that it took place in a community center and included parents and grandparents but no alcohol, but I care not. I received an invitation and I brought a gift. Also, there was cake. It may not have been a particularly raucous party, but I say that qualifies it as a party nonetheless. After all, how many times do I get invited to four parties in one weekend? I'm not going to let some killjoy take that claim from me.

I am invited to another party this coming weekend... This one is an Oscars party, but I will not be attending, as A) I will be in Mexico at the time, and B) I do not actually know the people who sent the invitation. Because I feel it might be rude to reply to the Evite with an, "I'm sorry, but... WHO are you??" I have instead used my powers of deductive reasoning to determine which friends the party hosts are associated to me through and conclude with approximately 96% certainty who those hosts are. I am all for making new friends through existing friends, but I still think it's a little weird to mine a past Evite to round out your guest list. Or maybe that's just me.

In any case, as I said, my primary conflict is that I will be in Mexico, which I tell all of you on the Internet with the express instructions that you please NOT find and burglarize my house while I'm gone. I promise you, the booty you would gather would not be worth the trouble. Unless! Wait! Perhaps one of you could engineer a reverse-burglary instead? I will even save you the effort of breaking in and possibly alarming my neighbors. I will leave a key under the mat, and you can just come right in and replace my ailing, stuffed-to-capacity Dell desktop with a shiny new laptop. If you'd like to take care of that whole "holes and duct tape in the shower" mess while you're here too, I'd be much appreciative. It'll be just like one of those surprise home makeover reality shows, except that I haven't actually suffered a near-fatal disease or saved a litter of kittens from a burning building as a means of deserving said makeover. Details.

The Mexico trip is one I mentioned a while ago. It's a company trip, making it a wholly mixed blessing, I say. On the one hand, it's a free (or, almost free... the details of the "almost" part are something I've ranted about to nearly everyone who'll listen, but I don't feel at liberty to publish them here) trip to a very warm place in the middle of February. I could certainly use a vacation, and I would certainly enjoy wearing sandals comfortably for four days or so. On the other hand, I usually take vacations to get away from everything that reminds me of work, and having all of my coworkers there with me will sort of make that impossible. It's a bit like a four-day company holiday party. I usually cut out of the holiday parties right after dessert. Staying for four days is a foreign idea to me.

Regardless, I plan to make the best of it. We're staying at an all-inclusive resort, so I intend to sip my weight in margaritas while I soak up some sun and blow through a couple books. Today I even found a swimsuit that I can almost bear to wear in front of my coworkers, so that's one less thing to worry about as well. I stopped short of one of these wholesome numbers, but managed to find a modest yet not matronly, reasonably cute one-piece that will not result in the middle-aged men I see every day staring at my cleavage or abdomen, and really that's about all I can ask for in a swimsuit for this particular trip, so, yay.

With that trip to plan for, I suspect my posting will be even more sporadic than usual this week (which actually probably means business as usual, and yet I felt the need to warn you anyway). It's just as well, as later this week you'll all be busy reading the posts in R's next Blog Share. No anonypost from me this time. (Mexico, remember? Too much to do, folks. Or so is my excuse.) I'm sure it'll be as entertaining and heart-wrenching as the last three. Someone make note of the highlights for me, OK?

Weekend update on a Tuesday (but fully bullet-free!)

So it seems I'm on the one-post-a-week plan now, which I suppose would be fine, if I were spending those several days between posts mulling over amusing little anecdotes to share on my next login. Instead, in the intervening time it seems I not only forget I have a blog, but also forget how to write. Maybe it's not entirely my fault. I am still reading that damn Twilight series, after all, so maybe Stephenie Meyer is to blame. Maybe I could craft clever, poignant sentences, but thanks to Bella Swan, the only adjectives in my head are "impossibly beautiful" and "dazzling," and unless I am writing about eternally 17-year-old vampires or Julia Roberts's teeth, neither of those do me much good.

Fear not, however. I am a mere 200 pages away from saying goodbye to the Cullens for good, at which point I plan to cleanse my mental palate with something of substance. Or at least something more charged with the pointless, light-hearted frivolity we've come to expect around here. Maybe some Jane Austen, so I can have my light-hearted frivolity under the guise of heady literature. Win-win!

Meanwhile, I could at least try to tell you what I've been up to lately without resorting to the quick and lazy bullet-point form... Let's see. Last night, I listened to a Presidential address without heckling for the first time in eight years. The night before that, I scored a prime, two-feet-from-the-stage spot at a surprisingly sparse Rhett Miller show, putting me in clear, up-close view of one of my very favorite imaginary boyfriends and his not-so-imaginary shiny rock star hair and ever-bendy rock star hips. We were close enough for him to sweat on us (though if you've ever seen Rhett perform, you know that you could probably be a good fifteen feet from the stage and still make that same claim). It would have been even better if the very sloshed girl and her even more sloshed husband in front of us hadn't thought the fact that they got engaged at a Rhett show two years ago entitled them the right to command Rhett's attention for the duration of his set, but hey, there's one of those at every concert, is there not?

Working backwards, that brings us to Saturday. And what did I do Saturday? Oh, nothing special. Just watched a couple of dear friends get engaged in a snowy, candle-lit downtown park. In all seriousness, it was magical, which is only fitting given that the man who was doing the proposing is the one I long ago referred to as The Magical Boy. He wanted to propose to his lovely girlfriend at Peavey Plaza on Nicollet Mall, and he enlisted me and Carrie to set the scene for him while they were at dinner. We arranged ice luminaries around the frozen fountain and placed flickering candles inside, then queued up a stereo to play a love song from La Boheme when the couple arrived. She said yes, of course, after which Carrie and I (and The Buddhist, who, though he'd never met The Magical Boy, was happy to come along for the ride anyway) popped out of our hiding spots on the other end of the park and joined in an impromptu dance party on the skating rink.

If we are keeping track of checkmarks in The Buddhist's "plus" column, by the way, we can add two more to the list. First, that he was fully OK with changing our plans for the evening when I told him this very special task had come up, and second, that, after meeting The Magical Boy and his new fiance', he summed up his first impressions with, "It's hard to say which one of those two is cuter." My thoughts exactly. They truly are the most non-sickeningly adorable couple I know. So congrats, Aaron and Colleen. Can't wait to attend the undoubtedly fun, creative, and uniquely environmentally friendly and socially responsible party you're sure to throw when you tie that knot.

Yet more proof that this city is shrinking and every man on Catch dot Mom is in some way a blast from my past

Word has it that it's a whopping 19 degrees outside at the moment, and while that may not feel particularly balmy to you, it is in fact 39 degrees warmer than it has been for the previous two days. Thirty-nine degrees. In one day. I am glad swings like this generally happen only in the winter. Even in Minnesota I doubt we'd adapt well to a lovely 71-degree day followed immediately by an unexpectedly brisk 32-degree one.

Despite the welcome warm front, I haven't actually ventured outside yet today. I should, of course. I should be determining how to reattach my license plate, since the so-called self-healing Saturn doesn't seem to be taking the initiative to do so itself. No fewer than three people have now helpfully pointed out to me, "You know, you can get a ticket for driving without a front license plate, even if the plate is in your car." My excuse to the undoubtedly kind and understanding officer was going to be, "But it's negative-20 degrees outside, and I don't have a heated garage! Sir, do you really want me outside testing my resourcefulness in weather like this? Do I look particularly hardy to you?" Successfully batting my eyelashes at officers of the law has never been a strong suit of mine, but surely that excuse would work. No? Right. Best get myself out of these yoga pants and off to my tool chest before the sun goes down.

I promise I will stop talking about the weather now, though. Why? Because I have far more interesting things to tell you. Namely, that I am having dinner tonight at a local Buddhist center. With an ex-boyfriend whom I have not seen in eight years. Who is now a Buddhist. Living at a Buddhist center. Where he is making me dinner tonight. Did you get all of that?

Somehow I always sort of assumed I would run into Jimmy again eventually. (You remember Jimmy, don't you? He is the reason I get approximately 17 search engine hits a week for search strings such as "pothead boyfriend" and "dating a pothead.") While I always thought I would see him again someday, however, I never actually thought it would be on Catch dot Mom. And yet, there he was in my Inbox earlier this week, in one of those confounding "Daily 5" messages. "[Insert user name here] noticed you in his Daily 5. And he's interested!"

I almost didn't even click through to the profile. The photo was a tiny, from-a-distance full-body shot in which I couldn't even see the guy's face. The user name was an annoying combination of letters and numbers spelling out a cheery, optimistic message to potential dates. My automatic reaction was to hit "Delete" without clicking through for any more detail. Besides that, my energy for this nonsense wanes regularly, and after the defeated, deflated feeling that followed what I (one-sidedly) deemed my best date of '08, I haven't felt much renewed motivation to log in. But for some reason I clicked through anyway, and my jaw dropped as I realized who'd found me.

I've been trying to recall exactly what I've done in the past eight years, and whether my life is notably different now than it was then. Every time someone I haven't seen in a while asks me what I've been up to lately, I draw a blank, generally replying with something meaningless and far-from-clever, such as, "Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Nothing new, I guess." But surely something must be new. In eight years? Certainly. Yes, I am still single (or rather, single again). Yes, I am still at the same job. But I bought a house. Fell in love. Had my heart broken. Fell out of love. (The order of those last two is questionable.) Went to Mexico, Jamaica, Austin, Philly, Boston, and various other locales. Made friends. Lost friends. Unintentionally dented a few hearts. Finally acquired salt and pepper shakers. Learned to knit. Read lots of books. Gained ten pounds. Met a depressing number of men on the Internet. Didn't like most of them. Made some strides toward figuring out who I am and what I need.

Eight years. Eight. It sort of baffles me that someone I dated in my mid/late-twenties was eight years ago at this point. I sound like a trite movie cliche, all "Turn, Turn, Turn" and "Sunrise, Sunset," but tell me, where on earth does the time go?

I don't know exactly what Jimmy's been up to the past eight years, but somehow I feel like his list might be a little more interesting than mine. Got married. Got divorced. Became a Buddhist. Oh yeah. And apparently stopped smoking so damn much pot.

In any case, we greeted each other online with enthusiastic friendliness. "Stefanie! I thought that was you! It would be great to catch up," he said. And you know what? It would be great. We always got along well and had fun talking, and besides that, I'm terribly curious. Every woman has a few unanswered questions in her past, and he's been one of mine. Hence, the get-together this evening. A get-together that started out as "let's meet for a drink" and then turned into "how about dinner first," which then became, "I'll cook for you over at my place." His place being the Buddhist center, of course.

I relayed all of this to Carrie via email. "You're having dinner at the Buddhist center? Delightful!" she replied. Almost as delightful as the time her late-middle-aged Bohemian woodworker friend invited her to his century-old home for spaghetti and martinis. At two o' clock on a Sunday afternoon. "Where do we find these characters?" I asked her. I don't know, but I do appreciate the odd little details that make our humdrum lives seem worthy of a scene in a movie or a sitcom. "It's all going in my book," she said. It's a book we could probably write together, pooling our material seamlessly. It worked for those girls who wrote The Nanny Diaries, and we are at least as clever as they are, I say.

I'll get right on that, of course. Right after I fix that damn license plate.

Shows I've seen in 2009

• Rhett Miller - February 8 (Fine Line)
• Morrissey - April 6 (State Theater)
• Lily Allen - April 11 (First Avenue)
• Mates of State (w/Black Kids) - April 12 (Varsity Theater)
• Neko Case (w/Crooked Fingers) - April 26 (State Theater)
• Dan Wilson - April 30 (Whole Music Club)
• Cloud Cult - May 2 (First Avenue)
• Bob Schneider - June 10 (Varsity Theater)
• Local Natives & Blind Pilot - June 17 (400 Bar)
• Solid Gold, Yeasayer, Calexico, & The Decemberists - June 20 (Rock the Garden, Walker Art Center)
• Josh Ritter - July 9 (Varsity Theater)
• The National - July 16 (First Avenue)
• Old 97s - July 19 (First Avenue)
• Halloween Alaska - July 20 (Loring Park)
• Jenny Lewis - July 21 (Fine Line)
• Fleet Foxes - August 9 (First Avenue)
• Dar Williams (w/Haley Bonar and Stephen Kellogg) - August 21 (Minnesota Zoo)
• Mark Mallman - September 5 (First Avenue)
• Regina Spektor - September 11 (State Theater)
• Phoenix - September 22 (First Avenue)
• They Might Be Giants - November 3 (First Avenue)
• The Swell Season - December 5 (State Theater)
• Andrew Bird - December 10 (St. Mark's Cathedral)
  

Maybe I won't die alone (but if I do, it might be because of Judgy McMeanspirited rants like this)

Well then; would you look at that. Another day of NaBlo; another post going in just under the wire. And on a week night no less. I really ought to try sleeping a proper and sufficient number of hours one of these nights just to see if it's at all possible for me to wake up at 6:30 feeling anything close to well rested. One of these nights. Not tonight, clearly.

Tonight my favorite coworker and I went downtown to see Ingrid Michaelson at the Pantages. I believe it was my coworker's second trip to Minneapolis in eight years, but she was happy to visit the big shiny city with me anyway. I sort of wish that for just a minute or two, I could see myself the way my coworker sees me. For some reason, she genuinely thinks I am an extremely hip, stylish, modern girl about town, and it amuses me no end. I have no idea where she got this impression, although I suppose that in our office full of middle-aged suburban white men, it's safe to say I probably am among the five hippest people in the group. That's sort of like noticing that I'm one of the five skinniest people at Old Country Buffet, though. It's really not a representative sample.

Anyway, we had a lovely time at the show. There were two opening acts, both of whom I would highly recommend checking out should you happen to notice they're coming to your town. We missed all but the last two songs of David Ford's set because we were too busy chatting and finishing our dinner and our martinis down the block, but what I heard was quite lovely and I'm sure he was a crowd pleaser. Next up was Newton Faulkner, who was nearly part musician, part standup comic. I do wonder if his is a show you can see more than once or if he gives crowds the same seemingly spontaneous amusing banter every time, but as this was the first time I've seen him, I should just appreciate his delightfully charming set and not think about that.

When Ingrid came on, I actually worried for a bit that the headliner would be my least favorite part of the show. Her entire band looked liked they'd just stepped out of the JC Penney commercial that made her first radio hit famous last year--all trendy boots with skinny jeans, whimsical scarves draped casually around their shoulders. Her drummer was wearing a v-neck sweater over a button-up oxford. A V-NECK SWEATER, people. On a drummer. He looked so clean-cut it was almost unsettling.

I realize it is unfair to be annoyed by someone simply because she can pull off a jaunty tweed hat without looking ridiculous, but it doesn't matter, as I got over it fairly quickly. It turns out Ingrid Michaelson is actually more than a bit of a nut. She's not just a pretty girl with a pretty voice; she's also warped and hilarious and I recommend you see her live the next chance you get, too.

This story is not in keeping with my NaBlo theme, of course, as it doesn't involve a date (unless you consider my coworker my date for this evening, which I don't). I do feel like I was on the date with the couple directly in front of me, however, since their heads were fused together like the conjoined twins I saw in Philadelphia's Mutter Museum last year for nearly the duration of the show (separated only when they instead decided to make out 12 inches away from me or simply stare longingly into each other's eyes). Ahem. Dear hoodie guy and hoodie girl directly in front of me in the balcony: I'm happy you've found love with a similarly homeless-looking person. Really I am. But if you could keep your hands and faces out of each other's greasy hair for the duration of the show, I'd sleep a little easier tonight. It's not just me; I think there's a health code violation to consider here. Thank you.

All right then. I have about 30 seconds to hit "Publish Post" on this before I inadvertently disqualify myself from this post-every-day nonsense, and since it's 30 seconds to midnight, that means it's entirely past my bedtime as well. Tomorrow, more tales from my own sad dating past and not the gleeful dating present of that frumpy and disheveled couple at Pantages. Yippee.

Great. Now I'll be hearing the Scorpions in my head all day.

Can I just join the collective excitement and sigh of relief racing through the Internet today by adding my own great big "WHOO HOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!" to the mix?

Thanks. That felt good. Barack Obama is my new president. That feels good, too.

I am tired but ecstatic today and so caught up in the ecstatic part that I almost don't even care about the tired part. The less than five hours of sleep I got last night wasn't sufficient to help me make it through the day, so I'm relying on adrenaline to remain upright with eyes open at this point. It was totally worth a day of bloodshot eyes to witness history the way we did last night, though.

My friends and I started the evening with an Election Night dinner party. As per usual, I brought the baked goods. Witness my "Yes We Can" cake. Looks full of delicious hope, doesn't it? Mmmm. Tasty democracy.



Then we headed to downtown St. Paul for the official Minnesota DFL Victory Party. I can think of no better way to have spent last night than with thousands of people just as excited and passionate about this year's race as we were. When the giant screen projecting CNN coverage flashed the message, "Obama Elected President," the whole room erupted in cheers and applause. A tiny, well-dressed Somali man turned to me and shouted, "I need to hug you!!" and I threw my arms around him and cried, "I WILL HUG YOU!!!" Another stranger nearby pulled out a giant bottle of champagne and started passing it around to anyone who would grab it. I refuse to drink out of the communal cup of wine at my parents' church, and yet I took a swig off that without even thinking twice about it. So did my friend Carrie.





So in all, it was a fantastic night. When we walked out of the party, it was still an unseasonably warm November night, but the wind had picked up significantly, and as a gust of it twirled my hair in front of my face, I said, "Look guys! It's the winds of change!!" Let's hope so.

I'm in the middle of a NaBloPoMo theme, as you know, and yet I sort of don't feel like telling a date story today. Instead, then, I'll ask you a question. I received a Facebook friend request today from the guy who plagiarized my "I'm just not that into you" e-mail. You know--the semicolon-stealer? In all honesty, I have nothing against this man. I mean, sure, he did conveniently forget his wallet on our first date, but he sent flowers to make up for it. And he did steal my words to blow off a good friend of mine, but maybe that means he thought I said it better than he could himself? In any case, all of this was years ago. Again, I have no lingering qualms against this man. But are we friends? No. Were we ever friends? Not particularly. It's OK to click the "Ignore" button on this one, isn't it?

Mid-week post of no import

So it looks like I'll be regaling you with even more dating stories come November. Thank you to everyone who voted in the poll. I thought perhaps those stories had grown tiresome, but it seems where my social awkwardness is concerned at least 26 of you are a tireless bunch. I may actually still do a more true-to-the-original take on that x365 idea at some point. Or, you know, I may forget all about it, just as I apparently did the last three letters of the Encyclopedia of Me. Time will tell.

Of course, I still haven't officially signed up for NaBloPoMo, which means I could still back out. (Changing mind, woman's prerogative and all that.) I have this possibly misguided and overly optimistic idea, however, that once I've decided to do it, I will DO it, despite my lax participation on the Internet of late. Then again, I decided to clean out my closet last weekend, and the unfinished remains of that project are still strewn about several rooms of my home, taunting me and my lack of stick-to-itiveness, so maybe I'm not so against abandoning my best intentions after all. I am inherently lazy(ish)... Hmm. Perhaps I should give this some more thought.

Speaking of laziness, I did manage to overcome that long enough to finally put in a few volunteer hours for the Obama campaign last night. Those of you in Minnesota, when you receive a flyer on your doorknob next week reminding you to vote, be aware that yours truly might have counted that very flyer out and bundled it in stacks to be delivered to your neighborhood. That's pretty exciting, I know. Almost makes you want to keep it forever, rather than recycle it Tuesday evening, right? What? If I told you that flyer was possibly touched not just by me, but by one of the regulars from "Crairie Pome Hompanion," THEN would you be more impressed? No? No crazed NPR nerds here? OK then. That said, "ue-Say ott-Scay" did spend her evening sorting and collating along with us common people last night, presumably of her own accord as a concerned and active Democrat, not just as a local celebrity. I'm sure the Homegrown Democrat she works for would be proud.

Let's see. What else? Well, I am both pleased and sad to report that there will be no more stories about my least favorite coworker, because as of last week she is no longer my coworker. Luckily, I can confidently say that her release had nothing to do with the big scary mess with the economy that we keep hearing about and had everything to do with her being an insufferable and near-useless drama queen. So yay for that, though boo to the fact that I'm now stuck doing about half of the work she previously did poorly.

Speaking of which, my Lean Cuisine tray is empty and my lunch break is just about up, so I'd best be getting back to that. What's new with all of you this fine Wednesday?

It's a wonder a corn grits beverage never caught on

So here I am on yet another Sunday night wondering where on earth my weekend went, wishing I had just another four hours or so to unwind and attend to the various things I didn't accomplish in the last 52. This happens every weekend, of course, and I'm finally starting to realize: Oh yeah. If I would simply get UP at a reasonable hour on Saturdays and Sundays, I would have an extra four hours in each weekend. Of course, if I did that, I'd just deem myself deserving of a nap by mid-afternoon, so let's just say that weekends are inherently too short and perhaps it has nothing whatsoever to do with my laziness or poor time management and leave it at that, OK?

In dating news, I have no news. I do have a question, however--you know, for those of you who are happily coupled off or have ever been happily coupled in the past. (You like those, don't you? Doesn't everyone like to help?) Tell me, if I have not seen either of the two men I'm not-so-scandalously dating since this past Monday and Tuesday, respectively, and if I have not given either of them more than an idle passing thought here and there since then, is that a sign that perhaps I'm not so into them, or does it just mean I am busy and popular and they are new and still foreign and relatively unimportant to me and perhaps I will warm to one of them and soon be genuinely excited to have him in my life? As I mentioned last week, I'm trying to do this thing where I actually keep an open mind and reserve judgment instead of saying, "Um, thanks but no thanks" after three dates. Mind you, I have had a good time with both of them. There's been nothing so odious or unpleasant as to warrant an obvious "I'm out" decision. But neither is making me say, "You! Yes, YOU! I want to date you and only you!" either. Three-to-five dates in, what do you think: is that portentous, or could it still go either way? I know no one else can really answer this for me, but it still annoys me that I can't figure this stuff out by now.

As I said, however, I haven't gone on a date since Tuesday, so I can't even blame my so-called player lifestyle for my absence from the Internet of late. I would say I've been busy with many other things, but in reality, I think several time warps were involved. This evening, however, I did have plans. I went to see David Sedaris read at a theater downtown, and naturally, rather than leaving feeling inspired to write something myself, I left realizing I will never craft witty sentences anywhere near as artfully and hence, I should not even pretend to try. Instead, then, how about some pictures?

Pictures of pumpkins...



And apples...



And my friend Amy with a mutant gourd...



And me and several friends outside an antique store...



Bearing treasures untold inside...









And I guess that about covers the highlights of my weekend... How was yours?

I guess I could go my usual route and type "Mannibal Morpse"...

So who here (aside from those of us in the Twin Cities) remembers this? It was big news all over the country a little over a year ago, but I suspect it's slipped off your radar since then. Not me. Nope. I'm still detouring every time I leave my house to go anywhere other than work, and consistently dealing with excess traffic on previously sparse city streets that now serve as alternates. Not for long, though. Whoo! The new bridge is scheduled to open on THURSDAY. As in, three days from now. THREE DAYS. Whee!

Frankly, I cannot decide how to celebrate. Drive back and forth from here to Midtown just for fun, simply because I can do so in only ten stoplights instead of seemingly 110? Drive to Uptown a logical and semi-direct way, rather than Mapquesting three different routes and making a wild guess as to which is least convoluted and ridiculous? Oh! I know! Date a guy in the southwest metro, just because he's no longer so geographically inconvenient! Yes!

OK, I am kidding on that last one. Or, on all of them. And I'm well aware this is big news to no more than five of you. Still, I am excited, and it is my blog, so there you go.

Sadly, that is about the most exciting news I have for you at the moment. It rained all weekend; hence, my garage is still unpainted. I did have an excellent time at the They Might Be Giants show that nearly everyone I know mocked me for wanting to attend, but other than that, I was mostly a nonproductive homebody the past two days. Oddly, my feedreader still has 108 unread posts in it, and I still can't remove Christopher Moore's Lamb from my "What I'm Reading" box. What did I do this weekend? Obviously there was a time warp involved.

On a brighter note, that fifty bucks I spent on this latest online date-finding venture is totally panning out for me. I mean, just this evening I got a message excitedly telling me that "Bob" is interested in me! Bob! As in, the Bob whose profile I viewed the other night and decided that even though we'd be an excellent couch-sharing pair on one of those "We Can Solve It" commercials, I just don't really think he is my type. Actually, I'm not convinced I even have a "type," but I'm still pretty sure that under the umbrella of men who might be my type, you won't find a burly, heavily tattooed, bald man with a piercing through the bridge of his nose and a t-shirt that says, um, that says, "Flesh-eating dead body." Call me closed minded, but I am a little scared. (Incidentally, the shirt does not actually say "Flesh-eating dead body." It says two words that I do not want to type, because I am pretty sure that together those words form a band name, but it's a band I know nothing about and one whose fans I'd rather not start Googling their way here. So just imagine a black shirt with red letters meant to look like they're written in dripping blood, spelling out a word that starts with "C" that describes what that Hannibal Lecter guy was, followed by another word that starts with "C" and rhymes with "Forpse." Fun. Am I still in these parentheses? I guess I am. Whoops. Let's remedy that.)

So anyway, "Bob" is interested in me, and you can imagine how excited I am about that. I mean, maybe he'd take me someplace really nice on our first date! Someplace where leather vests are mandatory and you get a free cocktail if you bite off a rat's head! Sorry. I'm unfairly judging Bob by his cover. He may be my soul mate, after all. Let's hope not.