A walk gone wrong. So, so wrong.

One of my roommates takes a walk every day during work. She said it's the one thing during her work day she looks most forward to. She pops in those headphones, clears her head, breathes the fresh fall air, and serenely takes in her surroundings. To me, that sounds so serene, like it would be a welcome and refreshing treat in the midst of the never-changing daily grind. So I decided to try it.

It's Monday afternoon. I've had a fairly productive morning, a quick lunch at my desk, and another good solid two hours of work. I'm ready for a lovely walk to the river and back - maybe 25 minutes, tops. I put on my coat, slide my key card and my iPod into my pocket, and a little knowing smirk appears on my face because the serenity I am about to experience is going to change my whole day. Look at those suckers typing away in their cubicles. If only they could have ideas as good as mine!

Well.

I walked down the stairs and flung the front doors open. I got halfway down the block and took a deep breath in......and smelled one of the most rank, atrocious rotten-egg smells ever to grace a metro area. The sewer smell accompanied me, hanging right underneath my nose, for the duration of the miserably-scented walk. And what I envisioned to be a beautiful, nippy fall day turned out to be much more nip than beauty. My hair violently whipped around my head, slapping my face and eyes that were already weeping bitter tears from the cold air that was attempting to freeze my eye sockets into painful slits hosting two frozen ice balls. My ears felt like they were cryogenically frozen and then slowly chipped away at by a rusty, jagged pick. There was no life in sight except for one unmoving homeless man and an albino, fleshy pigeon with diseased, bulbous claws. By the time I actually reached the river, the city stench and the unforgiving temperature was so unbearable that I started sprinting back to the office, scowling at people in their warm, cozy cars and dreaming of the day I would be reunited with my little cubicle.

As my sprint neared its end, I thrust my body into the building and stood there for a moment, letting my skin thaw and heart rate slow down. As I ascended the round staircase that would lead me toward my little newsroom cubby hole, my ears reached that point in the thawing process where they feel like they're on fire: not Icy Hot style, burning flesh style. It was good to be home.

There's puppies, and then there's mellow lovely older gentlemen

The only pet I've ever had was a sad little rabbit named Charcoal who lived for an abnormally long time in my parents' computer room. Sometimes he sneezed, but that was about it. I think there was something magic with my house; I neglected several goldfish through my childhood and they managed to hang on for months. But that's neither here nor there.

I want a new best friend to keep me company in these troubling economic times.

I would like the following qualities in a pet:
-Endlessly adorable
-Small enough to cuddle on my lap
-Big enough I won't kill it if I accidentally sit on it
-Hilarious
-Doesn't need to be walked
-Poops in the same place every time
-Isn't noisy
-Elicits joy and jealousy in others
-Isn't a rodent or robot (no birds!)

So, basically, I want a cat. Only one problem: I'm deathly allergic. Back to the critter drawing board.

Last week I went to a work event with a woman from the Humane Society. She brought along a Jack Russell terrier mix named Ethel who manage to break my heart on our 20-minute ride to our destination. She sat in my lap and let me pet her soft fur with nary a whimper or growl, despite being a rescue dog. She reminded me of Wishbone, but with a slight snarl (I think her mama was a pitbull. Or a chihuahua.). I didn't even care that she left short white hairs all over my threads. I was all set to sign the adoption papers right then and there, but when the car ride ended Ethel revealed her true yappity nature. No dice.

But the experience got me to thinking that I should allow Humane Society to end my petlessness. I was browsing their website yesterday and fell in love all over again. His name is Fred and he looks like a lion, but the ad insists he's a mellow dude. In fact, he's exactly my kind of "mellow, lovely older gentleman":

"I am easy going and friendly and may look like a lion, but I am as sweet as a lamb. I'm a couch potato: a relaxed, laid back kind of dog who enjoys long naps, watching movies, curling up on laps and walking very short distances from the couch to the food bowl and back."

Now just look at him:


That squishy feeling in your chest is your heart melting.

Porque mi casa?

I heard a rapid succession of knocks at precisely 10:30 on this Saturday morning. Assuming it was just the punks on the other side of our bedroom wall nailing yet more things to their soon-to-be tattoo parlor, I ignored it. After all, they had been sanding, banging, clanging and presumably hurling things at our paper-thin shared wall until quite late last night. Maybe they had slept there and decided on an encore immediately upon waking.

But then I heard it again.

I slipped out of bed and tiptoed stealthily to the door for a peep out of the eyehole. I spied a blond woman in a burgundy suit. Perhaps it was my landlord, coming to evict us for leaving my ugly flip flops--a vestige of my frenzied Wednesday of mopping and scouring surfaces--on the porch one day too long. Giving up, the lady stuck something in the door and left. I waited until I could no longer see her, counted to five and unlocked the door to see what present she left us.

It was a two-page color pamphlet entirely in Spanish, entitled, "Le gustaria saber la verdad?" Based on my vast internal Spanish dictionary I would guess "gustaria" has something to do with liking (like "me gusta horchata"), "saber" means saber, and "verdad" means green. The liking of the green saber? Huh?

As I pondered this, a corpulent, mustascioed man in a three-piece suit moved in sight of my porch and spotted me. He motioned to his lady friend to come quickly, but I quickly closed and locked the door before they could speak to me. I scurried back to the bedroom to show my spoils to the boyf and attempt to translate the brochure.

"Hay alguna esperanza para los muertos?" could only mean, "Do you hope the dead eat hay?"

"Como encrontrar la felicidad?" must be a query about how I plan to encounter happy times.

"Jesucristo dijo en oracion a Dios: 'Tu palabra es la verdad'" I roughly translated to mean, "Jesus Christ said in an speech to God: 'You probably are the green.'"

In the midst of the fun translating game, I happened to catch sight of myself in the mirror. My hair had used last night's hairspray and my pillow to concoct a rooster-like pompadour. My eyes were rimmed in black due to my failure to wash my face off last night because I fell asleep immediately after guzzling a glass of red wine. My pink-and-white striped nightshirt was festooned with kitties, Eiffel towers and the phrase, "Oh, mon amour!"

I may not know what the brochure meant, but I can translate with confidence exactly what the look in that hombre's eye was saying when he glimpsed me: "Guapa mamacita!"

Batmouth!

I made him.

Some stories about knitting

This headless form is me, and the coverlet in which I'm ensconced has been my labor of love for the past month and change. It consumes all my non-work waking hours. Even when I'm not working on it, it glares at me from my purse and chides me for not being more industrious. As a result, I've had to renew my copy of The Feminine Mystique from the library no less than three times. I just don't have time to read anymore. When I'm on the train, I'm knitting and listening to a podcast. When I'm home, I'm watching yet another episode of Iron Chef America to occupy my brain whilst my fingers knit and purl themselves into a near-arthritic condition.

Here are some facts about my blanket:

• Its girth has increased so much that I can no longer schlep it around in my quite roomy purse. I had to buy a new tote bag bearing the visages of Portland's many bridges because my Nina Totin' Bag is, unfortunately somewhere back in my room in Minnesota.
• It's length has grown correspondingly with the decrease in temperature, so I can snuggle in it while I knit it and be quite cozy.
• Knitting=friends. People on the train and bus are always EVER so curious about what I'm making. Their first guess is usually a sweater, which I find kind of silly. Even obese giants would swim in the amount of fabric I've created. They are also often quite keen to tell me about how their mothers used to knit, they themselves never learned and now my generation is "bringing it back." Yes. That and sexy. It's what we're here for.
  
• My plan for the blanket was to have a big chunk of maroon, a band of teal and then an equally big chunk of maroon. I belatedly realized that I am a skein short of maroon, and I am in just a tizzy about what to do about it. I've done exhaustive Internet research and it appears there isn't a yarn shop within a hundred miles that sells the brand and color I need. Oh, for my Yarn Lady of old.

Well, the ol' woolly wench is staring at me again, urging me to finish the row I started so the above picture could be taken. I bid you adieu.

On netflix surprises.

My friend Joe and I were recently discussing the notion of "netflix suprises". It's fun every now and then to treat yourself to a surprise by not looking at your netflix queue and then getting a random movie in the mail. "How could this happen, because people make their own queues?" you may ask. Well, netflix makes recommendations for every choice you make, so you often end up throwing movies on your queue that you've never really heard of but look decent.

Thing is, they are most often the antithesis of decent.

Case in point: Last week "December Boys" came in the mail. It's a film starring one Mr. Daniel Radcliffe as an Australian orphan who has three orphan best friends who were all born in December. Due to a generous donation, the four boys get to go on a holiday by the sea. They soon find out that a neighbor couple is considering adopting one of them, and tension ensues. High point: Frequently, throughout the movie, they all join hands and yell "DECEMBER BOOOOOOOOYS!"

Case in point 2: Joe describes his latest netflix surprise. "My last netflix surprise was "wilderness," a tale of juvenile delinquents in Ireland who bully each other in the work house resulting in one's suicide -- then said delinquents are taken to an 'uninhabited' island where they are set upon by a psychotic archer with trained flesh eating dogs... a bloody, gory teenage romp ensues. Yay netflix."

I'm going to layoff my neflix surprises for a while.

Lessons learned at a wedding.

1. When you are the date of a bridesmaid and are not related to anyone there, it's probably going to make for an interesting night. Just accept that right at the beginning.

2. Being seated at the kids table as a 23-year-old single woman does not make you the coolest person in the room.

3. When complimenting an 8-year-old's fashion boots at your shared dinner table, be prepared for her to respond with a terse "yah".

4. Google map directions in addition to the wedding invitation directions.

5. For baby g's sake, put your dress on before you leave for the wedding. Putting your dress on in the church parking lot during the ceremony is not considered "ladylike".

6. If you're going to try to sneak in the back of the church after the wedding procession has gone by, do not wear loud, clackety high heels.

7. When relatives on both sides of the wedding don't really know who you are, be prepared to be stared at.

8. If you need to dip into the bathroom to let a few tears slide down your cheeks out of the sheer awkwardness of not knowing anyone at a wedding, try not to burst in to the bathroom while the bride and 3 bridesmaids are in there fussing over her dress.

9. If you opt to go to the upstairs bathroom on a vacant floor instead, try not to stay in there too long because the maid will probably come in with her rolling cleaning lady cart.

10. When you are standing against a wall during the dance waiting for someone to come talk to you, probably on one is going to come talk to you. You've just got to buck up and go get your groove on.

11. Befriend the slightly duche-y but ultimately golden-hearted groomsmen and ushers that are old college buddies of the groom. You're going to need friends by the end of the night.

12. When your boob almost pops out during the YMCA, slide it back in and try to tone it down a little.

13. Listen to the aunts during "Baby Got Back". You'll hear such classic nuggets as "Shake that healthy butt? My butt IS healthy!" *spank* <-- as she spanks herself.

14. Make friends with the bartender. When he sees you enter the bar, he'll start to prepare your beverage and he'll hand it off with a knowing smile. He understands you.

15. But be forewarned that one of the beers might possibly be non-alcoholic. When, after 8, you do not feel the slightest buzz, try a different type of alcohol instead of drinking more and more of that.

16. If you're staying an extra day to attend the family's cabin family fest, stay near the food, stay out of the way, and if any member of the family starts crying for any reason, slowly back away and turn off your ears.

17. If you're going to sneak away into the woods to call your mom, be prepared to nervously watch the grandpa make a 20 minute trek, cane in hand, to the outhouse. Consider helping him.

18. Nothing tops off a 2-day wedding better than singing at the top of your lungs to deafeningly loud Disney songs in the car on the way home. And McDonald's.

19. It is beyond imperative that you stretch before and after a wedding dance. See #20 for the reason.

20. Pulling muscles in the backs of both of your calves makes for very awkward "are you limping?" Monday morning work conversations.

I Just Can't Help Believing

I got myself into trouble during my job interview, when I insisted to my soon-to-be boss that I'm most definitely a morning person. While it is the absolute truth that I'm an early to bed, early to rise kind of gal, that statement meant I was precluded from yawning or being bleary-eyed when I first arrived at the office. It also meant I would have to dispel of my ample morning rage before I reached the front doors every morning.

This morning, for example, I was livid at the following:

-The weird, powdery smell that emanates from my porch
-All the puddles I had to step around
-The tennis shoes in my backpack strategically poking me in my aching lumbar
-People on the train who use the adjacent seat to store their belongings
-The woman who swiped the seat I'd been eying for a good two stops
-The man whose earbuds were blaring thumping rap beats
-The clipboarder who approached me and asked me to sign his stinking petition. Some places should be sacred, people!

I exited the train only to be slapped in the nose with the dank smell of rained-on urine and began to mentally curse my maker. Then I saw this...



... and the King gave me a little religion.

Get off my ass, Grandpa!

I need to tell you a story about bikes.

Deep breath.

I was biking on the Greenway in Minneapolis this week and it was getting pretty late. The sun was starting to go down and the wind was getting very intense and I was pretty much alone with no bikers or cars in sight. Then all of the sudden I felt someone’s presence right behind me.

I am thinking “what the who?!” and I turn around and it’s a super old man on a bike DRAFTING off me. We’re talking his bike is so close to mine that my back tire and his front tire are practically parallel and we are squeezed into a tiny bike lane together with miles of nothing in front and behind us. I was not about to let this guy bike that close to me when we are completely alone on the Greenway and he has all the room in the world to spread out and get the frick away from me. So I slow down and move over into the other lane in order for him to pass me. Except he slows down with me and cheerfully says “no thanks!”

That was unacceptable. If he wasn’t going to pass me then I was going to bike too fast for him. I sped up considerably but he stayed right on my bum and it was starting to freak me out because, hello, I’m a lady and he’s a creepy old man (who was going freakishly fast for his age) and I couldn’t see him because he was behind me.

I started to get really frustrated and I kept looking back at him and visibly scowling to try to get him to pass me, but he wouldn’t. So finally, I put on the breaks, stopped my bike, and moved off to the side because we were nearing my exit and I was not about to let him follow me all the way home.

I stop. He passes me! While passing me he says in an again very cheery voice “have a great night!” But here’s the thing. He exited at my exit! And not only that, he continued to go the way I needed to too. So I slowed my bike practically to a crawl because I didn’t want him to know I was behind him, and thank the biking baby g that he did not turn onto my final street. I sped home the whole way, ready to feel his unwelcome presence behind me at any moment.