Big Tour: Tired (It's a Pun. Read This and You'll See Why.)

Well Blog, I've done it. I've escaped the humdrum desk job life that once consumed me and am wrapping up day one of what has become known as "big tour". We had plans for Rockford, Illinois tonight, but a suddenly-leaky tire held us up in the appropriately-named Hixon, Wisconsin. I was hoping it was a slow leak, but alas Blog, I could hear the air hissing out of the tire immediately after filling it up. In moments, our pressure was at a sad zero pounds per square inch, and we were stuck amongst truckers and Sconnies alike in a quiet cafe that serves GIANT chocolate malts.

Here's where I wish I had skills, Blog. I should know how to change a tire, but I don't. It is a basic process, but the last time I attempted to remove a lug nut, it was rusted on so tight not even my super strong and manly boyfriend at the time was unable to loosen it. In the end, it ended up stripped and swearing ensued.

Of course I'm going to assume removing a tire from a 1992 Mercury Topaz is a bit of a different experience than removing one from a brand new Toyota Camry, but I wasn't about to dive in to find out for myself. Not in my tired and hungover state (turns out my last night in Minneapolis was a friend/bar hopping extravaganza... totally worth it). Plus we're traveling for business, so this sort of a thing is taken care of for us.

Here's the part where I would post the sad picture I took of the deflated tire, but you're not having it for some reason, Blog. Are you not feeling up to uploading images this evening? I've never run into this problem with you before. Then again, I've never really run into having a low tire in the middle of Wisconsin, or missing the exit to our hotel in the middle of Wisconsin, or having faulty hotel keys once we finally checked in to the hotel that is in the middle of Wisconsin. Maybe it's not you, Blog. Maybe all of this has something to do with the middle of Wisconsin.

I still don't feel like I'm gone from home for the next two months. Probably because I'm only about 50 miles away from Winona right now. Yup. Winona. We didn't even make it to the actual middle of Wisconsin.

Still I love that my job has turned into finagling websites to find tire places that are open on a Saturday morning. I also love that my current job makes small children laugh and squeal with joy. Children are amazing, Blog. I had no idea. I could go on, but I'll save it for another day.

Here's to hoping we actually make it to Chicago tomorrow to see the one Goblirsch Jr. wow us with his Macbeth skills. I like to think I'm getting all the hairy stuff out of the way with this touring thing on my first day.

This Is a First

Blog, a right of passage happened today. I got into my very first car accident that didn't involve severely injuring or killing a wild animal. No! I instead legitimately hit a car. No, not even hit. I think the correct term is "t-boned". I t-boned the drivers side of a car at a pretty nifty speed, if you don't mind me saying so myself. It was exhilerating and terrifying all at the same time. I feel pretty good about it for the following reasons:

1. This dude (yup, I got a good enough look at him to know he was a white male who is probably around the same age as myself) literally drove his car in front of mine as I was going down a main drag in good ole Minneapolis. There was no light and no notice that I was about to completely smash the front end of my 1997 Sable into  the side of some ambiguous silver four-door sedan.

2. As everyone (or most people) knows, when you hit a deer, you hit it because it runs out in front of your car at an interval that allows nothing but a gasp and a tap of the brakes to take place. That is exactly what happened to me this evening. Ironically, t-boning a silver four-door sedan at roughly 20 miles per hour caused less visible damage to my car than that one time I knocked out a headlight by hitting the ass of a deer back in North Dakota. I didn't even kill the deer. It ran away from my as I emerged from my car to yell at it in anger and frustration. Tonight's incident just left me surprised and shocked. Yes, a deer will run away from you. But a dude who just allowed his car to be totally fucked up by mine? I'm surprised.

3. I used my horn. This means nothing in the police report. This means nothing to the guy I hit. This means nothing to my insurance company. But the fact that one of my first reactions was to honk my horn comforts me for some reason. It makes me feel like I was the first one who responded to the whole situation. I got to take advantage of what little control I had over the situation by alerting anyone and everyone around me that some shit was about to go down. I got to let everyone hear the precursor to the actual accident. You're welcome, gawkers. I'd like to think I drew more witnesses in with my supersweet horn honking abilities.

So I called 911 for the first time. I filed a police report for the first time. I schmoozed with some very sweet and nice witnesses for the first time. And I missed my burlesque class for the first time. I was really looking forward to working my triceps this week too. No lie.

In a way I'm glad it happened. I suspect the damage to my car is minimal (I'm hoping anyway). I got a nice lesson in car accident ettiquette (note: don't drive away if you are t-boned!). And I ended up spending a nice evening with my roommates, wine, and tealights (turns out I'm all about ambiance after recovering from the initial shock of a traffic accident). Though I'm anticipating next Tuesday when I can once again spread my legs and snake my body in a classy stripper fashion.Yes, I was on my way to the burlesque class I've been taking when this all went down. And I plan on continuing to learn the art. Don't judge, Blog. You know you'd want to drop a shoulder strap to this song if ever you had the chance:

The Notes of Strangers

I had a first today, Blog. Of of all my years of living in Uptown and parking on its narrow and cramped streets, this morning I finally got my first passive/aggressive note that indicated frustration at the lack of parking skill I had displayed last night when I positioned my lengthy Mercury Sable adjacent to a driveway.

Speaks for itself.

They are right on two counts: I don't have a compact car (see: Mercury Sable) and I am kind of a jackass for positioning the butt of it next to a driveway. But I don't want to be seen that way by a stranger. I get that there is always going to be someone who isn't happy with what you do in this world, no matter how well-meaning you are (the reason I am notorious for putting the butt of my car up against driveway openings is so there is enough room for other cars to park down the street), but I couldn't help but feel a little hurt that such a blatant generalization had been made in regard to my character; based on the shitty positioning of a shitty 1997 Mercury Sable, no less.

I mulled it over today and returned my car to the streets of Uptown this afternoon. I tucked it away on the side of the street where there was ample parking space for my non-compact car to jack-assedly take up. I turned over the torn fragment of paper and attempted to take what harsh criticism I could, and use the rest of my despair over the situation towards killing my disgruntled mystery person with slightly snarky kindness:

I'm banking on my decent penmanship to carry me through this one.

I have no idea if anyone will come across it and take the time to read it. I have no idea if the person who left the inital note is someone who lives in my building or down the street. But I figure that there is a chance that they will see me get into or out of my car, and therefore will associate me with being that "Jackass who puts their giant car wherever the hell they want" without me even realizing it. The best I can do is acknowledge that I am indeed a jackass and will be more mindful in the future of where I position my car on the testy streets of the Whittier neighborhood, because in the end the last thing I want to be doing is pissing off strangers.

The Back Stairwell of Doom and Adventure

You know what I don't do enough, Blog? Tell you stories of the shit that happens to me. So here is one for you before I forget.

A couple weeks ago I got back from my trip to the Azores and Boston and, like always, had a bunch of dirty clothes. Laundry is a tricky thing to do when traveling after all. I came back to Minneapolis with a renewed sense of purpose that lasted about five hours. But during those five hours I made a point to revamp my day to day living with a run around the lake, a trip to the grocery store that ended with vegetables, and the purchase of two, count 'em, two pairs of sunglasses since I'm totally one of those people who goes through about 15 pairs a summer due to my carelessness towards protective eye-wear. It's bad.

Because of my new found motivation and productivity, I was in and out of my apartment building by use of the back stairwell that leads right out into the alleyway; half a block from Hennepin Avenue where everything that is good and holy in Minneapolis lies. This is also the stairwell I use to access the laundry room that is in the basement of my building. After the exercise and the shopping and the general life clean-up that I had so dutifully taken joy in doing over the course of the afternoon and evening, I piled my clothes into a basket and headed down to the laundry room to do even more awesomeness that is known as keeping my shit together.

Things were going great as I made my way down the first flight of stairs. I had a sense of productivity. I was happy to be home. I had just eaten some vegetables. Life was great! I hit the landing and turned to make my way down towards the firsts floor, eager to keep this momentum going. That's when I saw something fall out of the corner of my eye. It was obvious enough to make me stop for a moment and assess the situation. It could have just been part of the building. It's an old building after all. Things fall in old buildings right? But there was something in my gut that was telling me it wasn't inanimate; that it was alive. I didn't have to wait long for the proof because just as I was about to take another productive step forward, it silently flew out at me. A bat! It was a bat Blog! It was a bat that for some reason fell from its little vampire hangy place next to the door on the first floor and freaked its shit out at me.

I'm not going to lie. I screamed. I screamed like I was being murdered because, oh my God, there was a bat flying around at me and I was on stairs and holding a heavy basket of clothes. I was completely defenseless! It clipped my hair flying up the stairs (CLIPPED MY HAIR) only to turn around and swoop back down at me on its way towards the basement. I don't know if you realize how cramped stairwells are Blog, but they are. And when you combine a bat, a basket of laundry, and me in the confines of one, things get crazy fast. All I could think of between my screams was the Jungle's artistic director Bain and how he met a vampire once (the story involved an encounter with a bat, naturally). He had a stick to defend himself, I had... clothes? It was fight or flight, but I had no way to fight, so I dropped my clothes on the landing and ran up to my floor, slamming the door behind me.

Silence. I stood at the door immediately regretting my uninhibited response to my potentially rabid neighbor. I had to go back in there. My laundry and a whopping three dollars in quarters was sitting on the landing. I cracked the door to eye the distance between me and my belongings and listened with my now heightened senses. I waited to hear both the bat and neighbors emerging from their apartments to wonder what the F all that screaming was about. Nothing. Nothing, but the soft echo of its wings hitting its body and the walls that surrounded it.

I finally worked up the courage to swing the door open and run down the stairs to grab my laundry. Who knew something so simple as scrambling down a few steps to retrieve a basket of clothes would be such a horrifying experience. Though when I arrived at the second floor unscathed, I managed to enjoy the adrenaline high that had just shot through my body. I had done it. I had just been attacked by a flying rodent had made it out with my dirty wardrobe and life intact. I was spent. It had been a day full of traveling halfway across the country, exercise, and healthy eating; not to mention the winged and potentially rabid wild animal that made its presence known, mainly in my hair. Sure it would make sense to call my landlord after such a thing, but I took a shower instead. Then I called my mom and left her a message because it was Mother's Day. Then I went to bed because, if you re-read this paragraph, you'll see it was a busy day.

There are a few things that unnerve me about this whole scenario. Obviously attack by bat is at the top of the list. But there is also the whole me-screaming-as-if-I-was-being-murdered thing. I wasn't allowing the air to escape my vocal chords in a pleasant feminine breath. I was top-of-my-lungs screaming. And it wasn't just one scream. It was a series of horrified and pitchy sounds that not only were loud, but also echoed throughout the entire stairway. And when I was waiting for the courage to take me back into the stairwell to retrieve my clothes I was also waiting for someone to come out of their apartment and say "what the hell is going on?". No one did.

Fine. No one wanted to investigate the screams coming from the stairwell. But I surely couldn't have been the only person who had been attacked by bat. I was going in and out of this stairwell all day long. Others must have been doing the same thing long before I had returned from my trip. Maybe my landlord already knew?

The next day at work, after it had finally sunk in that post-vacation productivity is extremely short-lived, I emailed my landlord with a subject line of "Bat" letting him know about the incident that had occurred not even 24 hours before. He responded with a phone call right away saying he'd have animal control over there within the hour to take care of it. I can't help but imagine that I was the only one who reported bat. Bat had gone undetected and potentially ignored for who knows how long and it took me being viciously attacked and almost losing my life to rabies to bring the whole thing to light. No pun intended, bat (bats hate puns).

F you puns!

Anyway, I will chalk this whole thing up to more experience with rodents. This was a short-lived one that I think I would take over the whole mice in my car debacle that happened a couple summers ago. Sure I almost had a heart attack, but it was only one and I wasn't barreling down the highway at 60 mph when it happened.

RIP bat. I know you are dead now because that's how animal control rolls. Unless you've turned into a vampire who I will inevitably fall in love with. I'd be down as long as I get a good entry for Blog going. Bring it on.

Cabin Fever Anyone?

Blog, I think winter has made me crazy.

First of all, I parked my car on the street today. Well, I park my car on the street whenever I park my car because that is the only place I have to put it around here. Street park, yo. Anyway, because it has been winter for a year and 9 months, there is of course a snow bank along the side of the street that has melted, frozen, accumulated and repeated that process since November. As we now know, the snowbank is that of frozen concrete that turns out to be a complete bitch to try and park your car up against. It also is a complete bitch for others who park on the street as well. I'm also kind of a complete bitch for eying a spot that I'm pretty sure was the exact length of the boat that is my car. But like any woman driver who has been slowly driven mad by old man winter, I thought I could accomplish the impossible. It didn't help that the bitch who parked her (his?) SUV ahead of this spot had done so a good 3 feet away from the snowbank of terror (and fucking old snow) and therefore made it extra tricky to maneuver my carboat into a position that fit within the space I had so stupidly chosen to park.

Long story short, I ended up feeling like that one scene from Austin Powers where he bombs it on the three point turn. Sadly, I wasn't skilled enough to get my car in such a position, so after bumping bitch SUV in front of me and old grandma car behind me for a few minutes, I managed to escape down the street to a space that was much more plausible. However, now I'm faced with the fear that Kerin has instilled in me when it comes to parking on the street in the winter. I'm very conscious of how much my rearview mirror on the passenger side sticks out onto the street for fear of it being clipped off by passing traffic. Because of this fear, and the ample space at hand, I get my car into such a position as to where it is sitting pretty much halfway up the side of the concrete snowbank that lines the street. Technically, it's still on the street despite this since I'm pretty sure that the "curb" is actually 5 feet out from the actual curb that has been buried since April of last year (or November, whatever). My car is the only one parked halfway up a snowbank right now and I don't even care. It looks ridiculous. I was madly laughing the entire time I was getting it into this position. I climbed out the drivers side and found myself balancing on the concrete snow, fumbling to lock my door, laughing maniacally and muttering how stupid winter is. Winter is so stupid. Ha! It is so fucking stupid everyone!!

So that was me getting home. Then I get into my apartment where I proceed to ready myself for the gym. During the process of changing out of my work clothes and into my gym clothes (which I'd like to add are getting increasingly more and more unattractive as the winter goes on because, well, I just don't give a shit anymore), I find myself violently whipping off my shirt and snapping it into my hamper. I'm dancing to stupid music on the radio. I'm stretching in the mirror. I'm giddy with gym excitement. I end up putting on three pairs of pants and two shirts (because it's still winter and fucking cold outside and I can't remember the last time it didn't take me 15 minutes to put on enough clothes to walk out the door, someone help me please). I put on a scarf that ends up making me look like I have a neck brace. I find myself jumping around my apartment, taking longer than necessary to gymify myself. Hair up, hair down, hair up, hair down. Before I know it I'm staring into my liquor cabinet. I catch myself doing this and realize I am looking for my hat and gloves. I'm looking for my hat and gloves in my empty liquor cabinet (sad that it's empty, huh). I think for a moment that my new found internet access can save me and then I decide running two miles on a treadmill is a better solution.

Shit. I only realize now that I forgot to put the incline up to .5 tonight. I'm angrier about this than I should be. Perhaps it's because now I feel like I didn't get an adequate workout. Perhaps it's because running outside doesn't require you to PUSH BUTTONS TO MAKE YOUR FEET GO. I don't know.

I hate everyone at the gym. Everyone is stupid and doesn't know anything. Everyone is obsessed with E! news and commercials. Everyone wants to have giant muscles and to be skinny. Everyone is wearing spandex and shorts that are too short. Everyone is walking around the gym trying to look like they work out all the time instead of actually working out. The girls are all wearing makeup like they're going out on the town or something. Who the fuck wears exorbitant amounts of eyeliner and eyeshadow and mascara to the gym? Seriously, your eyes look more made up than I did at my senior prom, and you're at the gym right now? Who are you? Stop it.

I take pride in the fact that everyone who sees me at the gym probably thinks I'm a big butch lesbian. I don't care. I really don't. You know why? Because I'm not a butch lesbian. I'm a straight girl and I can clean up nice people. And even if I were a butch lesbian, who cares? If I were a butch lesbian, I'd be one of those butch lesbians who looks like she's got a guy body, but really she's got a lady body. Because I'm really a girl just wearing baggy clothes and a sports bra. And if I were a butch lesbian, I'd be wearing baggy clothes and a sports bra because I want to because I'M A BUTCH LESBIAN.

I digress. Winter has made me slightly crazy. I refuse to wear a hat these days. You know why? Because I'm sick of hats. I'm sick of putting shit on my head to keep it warm. I also don't wear gloves or mittens. You know why? Because I lost them all. Yeah, I lost all the mates to my mittens and gloves for this year. It happens every year, I don't know why I'm surprised. I have no complete pairs of mittens or gloves so I've just boycotted them completely. My sick winter mind tells me it'll be warm soon enough to where I don't have to worry about frostbite taking my fingers. It keeps telling me that. I keep believing it. I'm waiting for the day I can comfortably keep my hands out in the air without them turning numb, like the Mormons are waiting for the day they get their own planet. It'll happen. It'll totally happen and it'll happen soon enough.

I'm going to bed. It's time. It's time to push through another winter evening into a new winter day. But that new winter day is one day closer to it not being winter anymore. That being said, who wants to take bets with me that there's still going to be snow on the ground in May? I'm 99% sure this is going to happen people, but God help me if I'm wearing a hat when we find out...

Things That Are and Aren't the Bees Knees

You know this apple cinnamon variety of instant oatmeal is really hitting the spot for me this Tuesday morning. It's all hot and gooey with little bursts of apples surprising me here and there. Just puts a smile on my face if you ask me. A smile on my face and satisfaction in my bellly. Mmm mmm mmm. Instant oatmeal, you really are the bees knees.

You know what is not the bees knees? My car breaking down on the side of the road on Saturday night--err should I say Sunday morning. I knew something was amiss before I even left Maple Grove as my battery light was on. No. It wasn't just on. It was flickering. Obviously it was just a weird short in my car, since the light flickered with every pothole and bump my car ran over. Sure the only other time I've seen my battery light on was that one time my serpentine belt broke with T-Gro in tow on the way back from Bemidji a few years back, but that problem has been fixed. If it's not the serpentine belt, then it's nothing. It is easy to ignore things like this. You're supposed to watch the road when you're driving anyway.

But then the sun set and I noticed that my lit up dash looked not as lit up as it had in the past. I thought perhaps instead of my car failing me, it was just my eyes. I am in need of new contacts anyway. Obviously my eyes are worse off than my 1997 Mercury Sable with 175000 miles on it. Obviously the orbs I rely on for sight day in and day out are more likely to fail me than the hunk of steel I bought three years ago for $1000. Obviously that battery light and seemingly dimmer dash mean nothing is wrong with my car at all.

And as I found out on the way home after a night of karoaking with Kerin, it was obvious that my ABS system was having trouble, my gas was low (even though I had filled up earlier that day), and that my spedometer was having issues that are described as telling me that I was going about 0 miles and hour as I sped down the highway. Obviously all these things were not warning signs that my car was indeed failing right before my failing eyes. I refused to believe that I was about to stall on the side of the highway at 3:30 in the morning. As I suddenly felt myself slowing down, as I suddenly lost my power steering (which breifly brought me back to my '92 Topaz days in college) I pulled, no, cranked over to the side of the road a mere four miles away from home. My drunk passenger, aka boyfriend, awoke from his slumber confused at the situation at hand. I breathed hard and started crying, because as a girl, that is all I know how to do in this sort of a situation.

After some drunk frustation and an attempt of coaxing me down from my panic attack, my boyfriend suggested I try starting my car. I turned the key and it "roared" to life. I made it up the exit ramp and around the corner only to crank my slowing car over to the side of the road. 3 miles from home, but at least no longer on the highway. I'd like to continue this story with intervals of my car dying, and then me successfully restarting it for every mile of the trip we had left. What a clever and cute and happy ending we'd all have if that had actually happened. But here's the thing: Outside of the brilliance of apple cinnamon oatmeal, life is never quaint and clever like that. My car was dead on the side of the road. The culprit, a bad alternator. And here I thought my car ran on gas. Hilarious.

After 45 minutes of frantic phone calls, Ryan had signed up for a new AAA membership and we were being towed home by a very high tech truck complete with a camera that allowed the mildly retarded driver to hook my car up with ease and agility. He took the corners fast on the way home and all I could hope for was that the bottle of wine in my back seat would end up in one piece. It did. That was about the happiest of endings I could have wished for.

So anyway, I'm out of a car. I can't really afford a new alternator at this point in time and there are things called mass transit and bikes that get me around just fine for now. I'm not going to sweat it. Although what I am going to do is listen to the Savage Love podcast on my ipod because it is brilliant and raunchy and passes the time at my currently boring job. It is also the bees knees.

Oh and One More Thing

I've given up on trying to import my Livejournal to you Blog... for now. I'll just write in you both separately and hope for the best. Surely it can't be as bad as the shape my car is in right now. Brakes and all...