Sort of like when the power goes out

Driving
That's a weird noise.
Um..that doesn't sound good.
Yeah, probably not.
No, it sounds like a flat tire.
No way.
Megan, it's a flat tire.
Fine, I'll pull over and look.
Pull over, look.
It's a flat tire.
No way.

Nobody has been witness to as many blatant problems with my car as Lisa has. She got out of the back seat once, shut the door, and a unknown metal piece of significant size gave up on her driveway. And after walking her to her house a few blocks from where Front Righty ceased today, I took a moment to appreciate growing up in The Bubble*, because at any given point, you are probably within walking distance of a house you recognize. And because the Rod's live very near where you are stranded and will take you out of the sun into their beautiful home and feed you brownies and coffee until the AAA man comes.
Flat tires should happen more often.

*I added three b's to the middle of this word when I typed it. Why don't any words have three letters in a row?

Beatles, Day Two

I will tell you, Ringo, George, John and ThatOtherOneIAlwaysWantToCallRon- where all the lonely people come from.
They come from towns where they are the last to launch for college.
That's where we come from.

Na Na Na Nananana....

If there were an award to be granted to the most rad woman over 55, it would go to my mother's friend Jude. She is in visiting from L.A., but reigns from New York. When my mother was in her twenties, after she'd met Pop, and she figured she'd been working for her parents a bit too long, they went on a whim to NYC and pitched camp there for almost ten years. Basically living what I imagine many people consider throughout their twenties.
Jude is one of the characters they collected on the way. These characters tend to resurface now that us kids are grown and can distinguish the syllables from their thick accents and know when to stop laughing at their inappropriate jokes. Jude wears black Chuck Taylors and Ray-Bans, carries a vintage duffel bag, and brings each end of a sentence up as if it were a question.
The result of someone who has spent a significant amount of time living in both L.A. and New York City is they pretend to care about stuff for the first five minutes of anything, and eventually result in unadulterated questions like "I don't care what we see or do or anything. Well, maybe that Mary Tyler Moore thing" or trying to get the dog to stop barking- "Tiillla! Tiilla! Shhh!" [Continual Barking] "SHUT UP!".
Or some of the general responses. Just insert a conversational topic to any of the following examples:

1. "Those tomatoes are FAB-U-LESS!!!",
2. "Oh God, Chicago. Wonderful, wonderful",
3. "Kentucky- God. Wake. Me. Up. When. It's. Over",
4. "People in L.A. love their ranch dressing. I just don't get it. L.A. isn't even a city. New York- there's a city."

Some call it asocial, I call it independent

True, I was granted my request to live alone next year.
True, I am excited for this.
Also true, is the main reason I am avoiding the roommate situation- because I just like quiet and random roommate matching generally flirts with the chance of getting a roommate like Betty's who is passionate about Disney princesses, or any of the other classic bad roommate lotteries (see: musical-lovers, Ozzy-lovers, life-haters, snorers, sleep-through-alarmers, breathers...).
So my solution was to get my own roommate, one that I hand select. And I decided on the smallest beta fish you ever saw who resides in a coffee jar. Although he doesn't snore, I do suspect he may have a festering love for Ozzy.
However, all of this is null if I take a house/teenager sitting job and am away for five days before I remember I have a fish*.

*He lived, so I should probably name him.
Names which I am considering: Bean, Bean II, French Roast, Coffee Cup, Ham, Steve Perry. Votes and suggestions taken via comments.

Me? Another metaphysical change? Wha?

Nothing says "thank you for letting me stay in your pretty home and eat your yummy food" like doing a mega hair chop in the kitchen.
Next week? Flying lessons.

Someone else's house, not snooping.

Fun Is:

1. Wi-Fi internet. I find that you can appreciate this so much more when you don't have it available to you all the time. Sort of like Tahitian Treat.
2. Making a verbal comment every time Eric should have a blog.
3. Keeping Eric around to talk to The Greg about Porches, linebackers, mass distribution in shooting ammunition into microwaves, and video game graphic improvements.
   
4. Going to the car dealership with Dan to milk the lifetime of free oil changes for all they're worth. Even though I question the point that it's worth it to drive 25 minutes in a new car that "only takes premium gas". Which is apparently the really, really expensive kind. The kind I don't believe in.
1. At the car dealership, sitting in cars indoors. Because how often do you get to do that without feeling obligated to at least pretend you're interested in buying? Not. That. Often.
   

(Piercing stare of car sales man in ugly tie)
Oh, I know what you're thinking. I've been sitting in this fancy car for 20 minutes and my feet are on the nice, expensive dash and I'M NOT EVEN CONSIDERING BUYING IT!!! Because you know what? I* already bought one. A brand new, shiny gray one. Think twice before you offer me* bill-free trips to your dealership. No, I'm not wearing shoes. Yes, yes I am an ass.


*See: Dan's mom.

Hhhhsssssstttttt

Okay, there is absolutely no way this is funny.
Right?
First ring of Hell, you say?
Right then.

Aimless

What's that? You want to know how I celebrated my last day at the Bad Place?
Oh, yes. Funny you should ask because I stole boxes, ate baked ziti and finally realized why Americans love their credit. It's because you can have it now, and pay later. I know, I know. That's what everyone says. But of course they reprint my long awaited Threadless shirt at a time when I'm waiting on my last pay check, surely to be sold out before next Friday.
So while the bank pays for my t-shirt for the next couple weeks, I'm busy brainstorming things to talk to 15 year old boys about, as I have one in my care this coming weekend.
N64? Is that still cool? When I was 15 I spent my time losing to my brothers in Beetle Adventure Racing. Short pants? Would Greg like to talk about short pants? Oh wait, those weren't cool when I was 15 either. Surely he has something to say about 3/4 length sleeves. Those were totally da' bomb when I was 15. The exact reason I loathe them with every fiber of my being.
Puberty is rough on everyone.

Our Own Little Swiss Miss(ter)

Last night I took a vacation from my element and saw the midnight showing of Superbad, only to realize that I'd already seen it. Except I saw it when it was called "American Pie". The only difference is that generation is way too cool for jocks. In fact, this generation is so cool that they're uncool. Striped old man Penguin brand shirts, plaid slacks and bowling shoes are in. Smart kids in sweaters are the new cool, and the more plastic that is on your glasses, the better. I found this shirt the other day that seems to epitomize this generation.
Anywho. After the movie, at a 2:30 lull, we all pulled ourselves together to say good bye to Pascal who is venturing home to the Land of Really, Really Good Chocolate. Or Switzerland if you want to be an ass about it. I went in for the hug and said something awkward like "Aw, see you later man..." and he replied, in complete discomfort and that glorious accent, "Aw, see you later....girl."

Small Terrier Strikes Again (Or reason #503945 why I shouldn't have dogs)

Tess thinks that all pets are like their humans.
And I didn't believe her until Tela was laying against my leg the other day and I went to pat her on the head like a normal dog-human relationship. She glared at me as if to say "Seriously? Did you just..? God." then stood up, and went to lay on the other couch. She spent the next few minutes killing me with her eyes for putting her 19-hours-a-day sleep schedule in jeopardy.
Wouldn't it be my luck that I get the only dog in the history of the world that doesn't like to be petted?

In Search of Horizontal Surfaces

In a post-Gatsby comatose, I ran away to the cabin for people and standing detox. The party was a grand success- a Grand Great Gatsby Gala success- if you will (there’s a little shout out to everyone who loves alliteration as much as I do). The only casualties were a mascara-cornea-jutting incident*, a small foot cut which I accept as it is due punishment for walking barefoot on mulch all night. But what can I say? Jordan Baker didn’t wear Tevas and neither will I.
And of course, the twenty-something bobby pins it took Alexandra and I to get that damned hat to stay on my head, which I’m confident would stay on for twelve cartwheels.

We cooked**, ate, celebrated, drank, Charelstoned (That’s right), admired Robert Redford, and when it got to be a little too much, sat by the lumineers and green light to listen to Tim Robbins read to us. By the end of the night there was carnage everywhere- pearls, duck wine foil, fringe from homemade dresses, golf hats and twelve different kinds of empty skewers.


*I can count the number of times I’ve worn mascara in the last six months on one hand, and I firmly believe that a video of me attempting this would get many hits on YouTube.
**Tess cooked, I opened containers but otherwise maintained a 2-3 foot radius from all food products and their associates at all times.

And Here You Thought I Was Being Sarcastic. Silly You.

This is mighty close to the 300th post, and after seriously considering naming collegiate bear Leonitis, I decided on Alan. Because last night on Friends, in a very typical Phoebe moment, she names a bear wind up toy to Alan. And if this were Toy Story, collegiate bear would have peeked out from the drawer in response to his name.
On another note, I'm actively trying to be positive about not living in Chicago next year. Who wants Dunkin' Donuts everyday anyways (Me. I do.) ? But can I just tell you something? Can I? Can I just tell you how much it blows that I'm missing this?

While I'm Here Losing Sleep

In parting ways with home in a couple weeks for my new adventure in St. Paul, I have devised a personal form of trickery to make the transition a bit easier. It mostly consists of a series of trial and error that fits a basic if-then format.
Examples:

1. If I buy a mini rice cooker, I can have warm soup and next year won't be so scary.
2. If I go to Build-A-Bear and make a new collegiate teddy, I will have a new friend and next year won't be so scary.
3. If I find the perfect tapestry for my wall, I will be surrounded by pretty things and next year won't be so scary.
   
4. Red. If I buy more red, next year can't possibly be so scary.
   

You can find me on the fourth floor next year. I'm the whack-o in red eating steamed food with a teddy bear who needs a name. Suggestions taken via comments and Morse code.

Will Blog From Safety

There's no time!
We're packing our bags and leaving behind whatever we can. Only what we can carry on our backs, Pop says. We'll leave food out for Small Terrier and come back for her in a few days. He said we can pick a temporary incognito name. I'm thinking Violet O'McDonald de Gretzky.
Because this household has gotten it's first warning for violating the sprinkler ordinance. We've been watering on an odd day as an even household.

Wear and Tear

You don't have to tell anybody around here about the magnitude of the 35W bridge. Asking someone in this neck of the woods how often they crossed the bridge that fell forty feet on Wednesday will yield similar results to asking them how many cups of coffee they've had that day, or how many times they've pooped in the last twenty four hours.
And if Anderson Cooper reports on it? It's a pretty big deal.
But leave it to Minnesota to have phone lines at every blood donation center tied up. Actually, to not be able to get phone calls through to the two area codes in the Twin Cities because the lines are tied up in effort to get a hold of friends and family. For locals to take their boats down the Mississippi with their friends with scuba gear to see if they can help.
Some call that human nature, but I live here so I call it Minnesota Nice.

If one in six hundred thousand bridges collapse every twenty years, and the one this decade hits quite close to home, I think it takes a pretty dimwitted government and transportation department to not test bridges that hundreds of thousands of people cross every day. And I don't doubt that they do test them. After all, only four states have higher quality bridges than ours. Unless, you know, within just over a month, the most widely used bridge in the state digressed forty five spots.