So this past weekend brought yet another trip to the Cities, which I feel as if I blogged about not so long ago. Then again, the last year feels like the blurriest of blurs, so what can you do?

My week leading up to Minneapolis began in the shittiest of forms. During the weekend I’d learned that my lung-cancer ridden grandfather had run out of treatment options and had begun hospice, so a detour to my hometown was planned…..just in case. Monday through Wednesday included double shifts–work from 8 a.m. till 10 p.m at both jobs, all the while feeling like crying. Thursday I finished work at 4 and got to experience two cities worth of rush hour plus getting pulled over for going 76 mph in a 65 mph zone (though thankfully it only resulted in a warning–my third, but who’s counting??) and arriving at my parent’s house half an hour later than I should have. A night of gin and shots with my best friend from high school cured the first of the week, but going to have a goodbye breakfast with my grandparents the next morning was still no picnic.

Cut to Friday evening: I have a pleasant drive up to Minneapolis, singing wildly to tunes from Mamma Mia!, Chicago, and Across the Universe, and greeting the welcoming St. Paul skyline through the glare of the setting autumn sun. However, once I arrive, I realize that my bestie Xenia has gotten her car towed due to pesky street-cleaning procedures. On our way to the impound lot, I run over a giant block of wood or some such thing while going 55 or so on 394…..a highway it turns out we didn’t need to be on in the first place, thanks to faulty Google directions. I see my hubcap fly off, and we quickly pull over to check for a flat and bend my front plastic mudflap back into place. All seems well, and we continue to the impound lot where Xenia is then slapped with a $42 parking ticket IN ADDITION to her $140 impound fee.

With FOL (f our lives?) echoing in our brains, we head out for a nice dinner and more than a few glasses of Skyy Melon + Cherry 7-Up, which raises our spirits in so many ways. Now cut to Saturday morning: I walk out the door to find my rear driver’s side tire completely and utterly deflated. With no time for repairs due to the Gopher vs. Illini game (fuck the FIBs!), we slug a couple Fat Tires, and head over to the newly built TCF Bank stadium. But OH HAI, apparently I need my old UMN id card to get in with my student ticket. After being shot down by scalpers for a regular non-student ticket, we end up spending $50 on a general ticket that will let me sit in any section anyhow. Copious amounts of coconut Malibu fix this issue, and we have a superb time at the game, followed by buffalo wings, chicken tenders, and the Fire Pit burger at Applebee’s which all makes my mouth water just thinking about it.

Later on in the afternoon I call around to local garages who all tell me they are closed for the day or the weekend period.com, so Xenia and I roll up our sleeves, bust out the jack, and change us a fucking flat tire. About five men pass on the street wanting to know if we need help, and we deny it every time. By the time the grease has soaked into my unbroken press-on French nails, and the little spare donut of a tire is fixed securely to my chassis, Xenia and I feel strangely empowered and independently feminine, and celebrate this with Chipotle, pajamas, and vodka.

Fast forward to 9 a.m. on Sunday. The Tires Plus near Xenia’s apartment doesn’t have any openings until 1 p.m. despite my pleas about this being an emergency and how I don’t even live in the city and need to be home by that evening. Luckily with some perseverence and a bit of Googling by Forth, I find a Tires Plus in my old neighborhood of Falcon Heights/Roseville that gladly take me and I’m on the road with a newly plugged tire by 11.

Around 11:07 a.m. my Dad says he’s proud that I know how to change a flat and at 11:47 I’m getting gas in Baldwin, WI and suddenly the pump decides not to stop and gas begins to guzzle over my poor, gimpy, hubcapless Lola, soaking my black studded Madden Girl flats, but these things do happen.

So, the moral of the story, kids? Drink. It can solve any problem–especially when you’re supposed to be having a stellar, stress-free girls’ weekend in the city you should have finished college in.

**Back.

In case you thought drug abuse was the problem of someone else: 78% of drug addicts in America are white.

Instead of spending an hour watching Survivor or Desperate Housewives this week, spend a few minutes watching this.

~Forth

I have a feeling that Forth would like to blog about something because he is pressuring me to publicize an encounter that I had with one of my students today, so……here ‘goes.

I retrieved my 2nd grader for a tutoring session this morning and while she had messy hair and was drowning in an oversized sweater, I noticed she was being particularly antsy as well. Though when she was struggling to turn the pages of “Poggy the Frog Eats Flies,” by licking her fingertips and pinching the page corners in vain, I was particularly surprised when she threw the book down on the table and exclaimed,

“Who makes these things anyway??”

That sentence was like a burst of heat to the ice of my customer-service hardened heart and in addition made me yearn for  a simpler time when maybe you didn’t graduate college and suddenly have no idea what you want to do or be or where you want to live and what you’re supposed to think about life. But at the end of the day my adorable, hilarious, little 2nd grader forgets her frustration and gets on the number 308 bus home and I know at least I’ve married the perfect man and might make some kids’ lives a little bit better, at least from 8:00-2:30 p.m. so, win…….and win.

**Back.

For all of my friends who asked me what Twitter was 6 months ago and to all of the people who have whispered to me “What’s Twitter?” in the last 3 months, I found a 2 minute video explaining what Google Wave is, or at least what 3.5% of it is.  Yes, I have actually had several people ask me what Twitter was in low conspiratorial tones as if they were embarrassed to be outside of the loop.  I didn’t mind though because frankly it’s nice to be in the know and it is nice to help a friend.  I see this happening in the next six months with Google Wave so I’m here to head that off.

~Forth

I am about 40% happier in life right now. Why? Well because I don’t JUST serve coffee to douchebags anymore. Nope. I can proudly arch my thumb back towards my chest and say, “I teach little kids how to read.” It’s something worthwhile, fun, and makes me NOT want to jab a pencil through my eyeballs.

I now spend 20 hours a week as a tutor in the Americorps/Spark Literacy program through the Boys & Girls Clubs. Could any of you imagine me enjoying spending time with 7 & 8 year-olds? No. Neither could I….trust me. But after only a few meetings, the kids are excited to see me and eager to put forth their best effort during our half hour sessions. (Though probably just because I gave them fruit snacks and stickers.) It pays meagerly since it is technically a volunteer job with a “living stipend,” so I have to remain at my coffee shop job 2-3 times a week, but things have improved nonetheless.

Working with a largely Spanish-speaking underpriveliged public school population versus the uppity ignoramuses of the North Shore seems to balance my rage and I am now considerably more relaxed at the cafe (though Cup of Angst lives on!). Even better, the kids are adorable, and they make me laugh and smile so much that the inner core of my being is beginning to soften just a little bit. I mean, when you listen to a 2nd grader earnestly guess “swimming pool” while trying to read the word “easy” and interpret the word “lazy” to be “reindeer,” you can’t help but love them just a little bit…..especially when this little girl has a pet named Chopper the Wonder Dog. And when my 3rd grader who I’m certain is going to grow up to look just like Lucien from Le Fabuleux Destin d’Amélie Poulain does a ninja kick in the air and screams “YES!” every time he sees me, well…..that feels good.

But now that I dress like a real-adult human, have a real-adult job (sort of), and write lesson plans like a real-adult teacher, I really want a real-adult car instead of this.

But oh well. Whatever. Here’s our kitty being all, “Oh, when I’m NOT burying myself in Forth’s scrotum or sleeping in his underwear, I’m being a fatty with my chew toy.”

And then abstractly saying “OMG WTF.”:

**Back.

When Sen. Judd Gregg (R-NH), representative of the double consonant majority of New Hampshire, said the title of this blog he was speaking to history… not to the future.

But, and I’m sure it was a big one, BUT, he probably wasn’t planning on being in the minority any time soon.

I ask instead, when did Wal Mart gain the same rights as Walt Henry?  Why does Conoco deserve better treatment than Conner Lavery? I don’t know.  What I do know is that Wal Mart has more money than Walt and that Conoco more power than my cousin Conner.  I do know that in the waning hours of of stupidity and foolishness, there will no doubt be a few Cassandras – a few oracles of reason – a few Americans who question if Murrow was right.  If Murrow’s words still ring true.  If “Just because your voice reaches halfway around the world doesn’t mean you are wiser than when it reached only to the end of the bar.” still means something.

Unfortunately, I’m not sure.

~Forth

P.S. The health insurance industry is currently spending $1.4 million a day lobbying Congress. What’s in your wallet?

On August 9th, Forth and I brought home a new addition to the family: a happy, bouncing, bundle…..of fur. A gift of sorts from Viana_17 courtesy of her farm-dwelling friend, Viana got attached to the cat and offered to help pay for some of its necessities if Forth and I would take him. Since we’d been jonesing for a cat for some time and Viana will easily be able to visit the kitty when she comes to visit from UW-Madison….we accepted.

So meet Atticus Mandarb:

First name courtesy of myself and our literary tendencies, middle name courtesy of Viana and the Wheel of Time book series. Anyway, while he’s cute and all, I would absolutely suggest owning a baby animal of some kind before getting all retarded over babies. Because let me tell you–this thing is close enough to a real newborn human to make me absolutely confident that Forth and I will be the last to spawn of all the weddings we’ve been to in the last four years.

Sure he’s cute and all but the first night we brought him home it was a waiting game to see if he was going to poop or pee and if he was going to do it in the correct place. We placed him in the litterbox frequently to make sure he knew where to do his biz. Of course after that as we were trying to go to sleep I rocked him and scratched his belly until I thought he was out cold but of course he woke up and felt the need to yowl or jump around on the bed or paw at our faces each hour on the hour from 11 p.m. till 8 in the morning. Forth and I took turns placing him in the litterbox in the middle of the night, or bringing him to his food and water dishes to make sure he had the proper sustenance. Sure cleaning the litterbox isn’t quite like changing a diaper, but it’s as close as I’d like to come for now.

This all goes without mentioning the disciplinary actions that need to be taken with what went from a shy, timid kitty to a jumping, scratching, obnoxiously hyper juvenile cat. I prefer lifting him by the scruff and yelling when we discover he’s been messing with the candles on the windowsill, peeing in the giant potted palm, clawing at the doorjambs, scratching up the bedspread, knocking over glasses of water, chewing up unattended pieces of paper, and et cetera. However, Forth will merely lift him by the scruff and explain calmly to the kitty that he has done something wrong. It’s very obvious when you take a look at our two personalities, but those sort of mixed signals would seriously mess a real child up.

At least the thing sleeps for 16 hours of the day, we can leave Atticus alone with a giant bowl of food and water for a weekend (plus RocLobster enjoys catsitting), and my vagina is still in tact, so I’d say that a baby kitty >  newborn–at least for the next ten years or so.

**Back.

Watch it, you slacker.  The last half is the best.

~Forth

I read today that in the past decade the insurance companies have made a profit of 428%.  Is it me or does the industry’s woe is me routine seem a bit … I dunno, disingenuous? It sent me looking for a current Noam Chomsky talk on healthcare since I had posted one during the election season.

Chomsky contends that the American public has supported a modern healthcare system for decades but the business world has always been against it.  The recent years’ explosion of healthcare costs for manufacturing companies (see the car industry) has caused this industry to support a some sort of single-payer government healthcare plan.  In other words, when the people want it, meh.  When industry wants it… well that’s another matter.

My favorite part starts at the 6.25 mark where he talks about how the health industry’s complaints that the public plan will drive them out of business might as well be an admission that they are so inefficient that the government will do it better than they will.  I do not understand how the nationalized health care opponents can say the government doesn’t know what they are doing yet the healthcare industry says that it can not compete with the government.  Seems paradoxical.

~Forth

Holy crap–a real blog, you say? I know, I know. It’s astounding. But I thought I’d take the last little bit of downtime I have before embarking upon a weekend of agendas and craziness and purge my thoughts on this whole marriage thing. Essentially, I’ve given up food for coffee and all I’ve wanted to do all week is crawl in a very dark, quiet space and sit, breathing evenly until I absolutely have to emerge.

All week I’ve been psyching myself up for the worst possible things that can happen, which includes barfing at the alter, spilling pasta sauce on my dress, getting a migraine during the ceremony, ripping my dress at the reception, not having enough seating or food for everyone, the DJ not showing up…..you name it. It’s not marrying Forth that I fear, of course–it’s 173 sets of eyes boring into my being for an entire day. Simply put, this wedding weekend will espouse some of my least favorite things: being the center of attention, entertaining a large number of people, making decisions, and gatherings of ten or more. When all of this comes together, I’m afraid I’m going to freak. My mind will self-destruct and I’ll get some sort of a contained anxiety attack. I broke out in hives for the first time last semester while teaching a lesson in my fiction workshop for an hour. Let’s hope this whole ceremony thing won’t be so rashy. Perhaps this will be the first wedding in which the maid of honor holds a puke bucket as well as the bride’s bouquet? If only my mother was on Prozac….I could snag some from her and both our lives would be considerably easier.

Love these family and friends as I might–I can only take so much….eventfulness. The people to talk to, places to be, a schedule to follow, things to take care of, appearances to keep—I don’t handle this stuff well. The way I see it, I’ll be sort of like a grizzly bear encountered in the woods by unsuspecting hikers: don’t make any sudden movements, speak in calm, quiet tones, and back away slowly before I rip your face off. Or, as Forth put it, I’m the crazy dude with the shotgun ready to blow the heads off a group of innocent bystanders. Something like that.

I’m extremely socially retarded in the first place—I can’t imagine how awkward and maladjusted I’ll be as a bride.

Another extremely narcissistic fear I have is bad eyeshadow. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I’m going for the darker eye thing and whenever I do that, it usually all smudges and bleeds into the bags under my eyes and I look like I’m all trashy and strung out—-and that’s when I’m NOT drinking. As I’ve mentioned before, since I’m not feeling very intelligent these days, I make it a point to try and look good. So now that the day when I have to look THE BEST EVER is upon us, the pressure is on. Today I gave into my vanity and went to Sephora for a $38 smoky eye kit with supposedly smudge and crease resistant colors, a very detailed how-to manual, and professional tools. Plus it’s all compact enough to stash in my purse for touch-ups. We’ll see what happens though. Perhaps the professionally done hair and big white dress will help?

Wish us luck, and Forth and Back will get back to you soon as this shit is over…..as a married couple with absolutely no plans for children within the next 5-10 years.

**Back.