I need a companion monkey

Very soon I'm going to run out of embarrassing stories that I'm actually willing to tell to the internets, but until then, enjoy. And go to LiLu's blog and read all the ones that are better than mine. Assuming you haven't eaten lunch yet, that is.

So, this little story also takes place a few years back when we lived in Chicago and I had a real job and a condo and a dog and a car and a kid (where did I leave that kid? Oops...) and before the market went all crashy and people were buying up condos in rehabbed buildings all over Hyde Park and then walking their dogs around and talking to one another about how awesome it was being homeowners and how the renters were bringing our resale prices down and they didn't know that they were going to really hope those renters were around in a couple of years and wanted to pay way too much for a place because it has marble countertops, because it's a well-known fact that renters care about marble.

Anyway, we had these neighbors who lived in the building next door and turned condo right after ours and they had these little matching pugs that they walked around and they wanted to talk to us all the time about things like how awesome gentrification is because they were unpleasant and it was made worse because their fat little dogs were unpleasant too, and they liked to dig their noses really deeply inside my dog's butt, and she was a dog and all so she got the whole sniffing thing, but even she thought these dogs were a little touchy feely, and it turns out she was right because they gave her the fleas.

Now, maybe you don't have pets, but the fleas are the worst. The tiny little dog with kind of matted hair is one thing. You throw her in a tub with medicated shampoo and she shivers and looks pathetic and maybe eats some of the lather so you have to make up a song called "Don't eat the soap" that you sing to her every time you bathe her which will be about 10 more times over the next week, because the other thing is that the bugs lay eggs in your carpet and then hatch and then jump onto your cats, and the Neurotic Cat who was declawed before you got him is just sad and pathetic when all wet, but the Fat Cat who is still very very sharp causes infected wounds all over as he tries to claw his way up your face to safety.

And then you buy that spray for your carpet and wash everything you own, and coat yourself in Neosporin and head to work because all that stuff costs money and the pets still aren't contributing in any way besides bitchery, and you get to work and take off your coat and sit down in your cubicle and maybe reach up to scratch the back of your neck and find a flea in your hair.

And this might have been back when I had long luxurious hippie hair, not the sweet punk rock look I'm sporting now. So I might have had to send an e-mail to my boss claiming to not feel well because I had to go home and soak myself and everything I owned in bleach.

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I have red hair gel

Let's say for the sake of argument that it's the Wednesday before Halloween and I haven't bought any candy or made a costume or RSVP'd to the local awesome party that I'm sure is happening at one of the rock clubs but probably starts after 9pm and so I wouldn't make it anyway after I fall into a sugar coma from all that candy I haven't bought yet and drool down the front of my nonexistent costume. But anyway, you obviously can't help me with the candy or the staying up past sunset issues, but maybe if I give you a list of things in my closet you can design me an awesome costume?

In my Box o' Halloween Crap I have: red hair gel, one of those square things of white and green and black makeup, some spiderwebs and a princess hat. Possibly costume-related items in my closet include: turquoise boots, a cowboy shirt, black jeans with weird zippers, a graduation gown, red and white striped socks, one of those Chinese shirts, blue pleather pants and a flare orange hat with a flashlight on it.

Go!

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Stata, my nizzles

I can say nizzles, right? We can pretend it's just a totally made up word and not based on any other word that I would never ever say, even when singing along with Ol' Dirty Bastard on car trips because yelling is a good way to not fall asleep while driving or being driven through Wisconsin. Well, if not, consider this my apology.

Anyway, today I got my new Stata 11 disc, which is awesome because it's the third data analysis programming language I've learned which makes me trilingual in Nerdland I think, but also means that I don't have to go into my office every weekend to do my Practicum assignments which are really really important and all, but I have this thing about putting on pants and walking a mile and a half to sit in a windowless room and explore publicly available datasets when I could be doing it from home. It's not every day you can pick up a pizza on the way and watch the Twins, particularly since they did the honorable thing and bowed out of this sham of a playoffs.

So, I'm wishing right now that I had come up with some much more better and interestinger topic for a blog because there's just really nothing interesting about downloading a program from a cd onto your laptop, no matter how you spin it unless you spin it like remember floppy discs when they were still floppy and it took twelve of them to download solitaire onto your desktop computer which was beige colored?

My laptop is black.

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I had a social life for a minnit

It's been awhile since I've done a Movie of the Week, probably because it's been awhile since I've seen a movie that I don't already own and even then I usually fall asleep in the first twenty minutes and then replay it over and over during the night. That's normal, right?

Anyway, that's beside the point, which is that you should all go see Zombieland, and I don't even care if you hate horror movies or comedy or that kid from Rodger Dodger, and who hates him anyway, he's so adorably awkward and lovable, what kind of person are you, do you hate Michael Cera too? You shouldn't.

From the opening credit sequence, which builds a feeling of despair and destruction that you are sure you'll never shake, which you do though because it's a comedy after all and so there are hilarious broken ankle bones and vomiting of blood and your good friend Jesse Eisenberg running around and around and around a gas station parking lot, all the way to the almost completely zombie-less third act with a very special guest star and then on to the end that I can't tell you about, but I promise it completely follows zombie movie tradition right up until it doesn't and then it does again and then doesn't, and it's really awesome.

So go watch it, or I'll give you a much longer treatise on why I think that zombie movies are really "in" post-9/11 because we are afraid we've destroyed our civilization from the inside and we can trust no one and we spent so long just trying to survive through alienating everyone around us that we are starting to realize that if survival means cutting off our humanity that it's almost not even worth it any more so we're reaching out for human connection, even if it puts our very lives at risk because we've finally decided that the risk is worth it.

Also, Woody Harrelson and Emma Stone and Abigail Breslin are all really good too, and you can't possibly hate ALL of them because you're just not that awful of a person.


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Yet another way that I am crazy

I think I've made it fairly clear throughout my various stories here that I'm not what you'd call a "normal" person, and so maybe one more example of that doesn't really count as TMI for you all, but nonetheless, here it is. I talk to animals. And sometimes (often) they talk back to me.

I was a big fan of Dr. Doolittle when I was a kid, so this isn't new or anything:

That's me with my dog Inky in about 1985, and obviously I'm explaining something very important and complicated, hence the hand gestures.

Throughout high school and college and into adulthood, I did what I imagine many if not most pet owners do, which is say things like "Oh, you like that? Yeah, you really like when I scratch you right there! Mushgtyegithey!!" and "I'm just going to the kitchen, I'll be right back, you just stay sleeping right there like you are, boogieghtieiebum!" That's all fine and good.

Then, this happened:

I mean the dog there, not the kitten. Though it's worth noting that the kitten is now three times the size that dog ever was.

Anyway, that dog was special. She had expressive eyes. You'd talk to her, and damned if she didn't basically talk back. I'd be like "What's up, frog monkey?" And she'd be like "Get me some delicious chicken! Please and thank you." And, yes, maybe she'd say that in a voice that sounded a lot like my own voice, but really really high pitched. And maybe sometimes she said it in a really really high pitched version of Houseboy's voice. And maybe sometimes these conversations would go on for, oh say, awhile. And maybe the cats decided they were being left out and they also made us channel them and then even there were conversations between the pets that we weren't involved in.

Which really is all fine and good and a private matter, which no one needs to know about except that sometimes I forget that I'm crazy and that the things I do aren't normal, and so I start talking about them at the lunch table at work while Hedgehog is there and she thinks I'm funny and so when our boss's boss walks by she's all "Hey! Department Head Lady! Antelope has a funny story for you! Antelope, do the voice! Do the voice!" And so I have to do the high pitched voice my dog talks in for a person who has regular meetings with the guy who plays basketball with Obama.

So, yes. I still worked there for a couple more years, but then AFTER that I totally resigned in embarrassment.


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My foot hurts. Can I have the pass?

So, moving here was hard in the summer as I may have expressed because of all the heat and the sweaty and the sun and the heat and the fiery fiery devil from Hell and all that, but some time in the last few weeks it has actually cooled off at least moderately, and two weeks ago I had my longest running week in a long long time, and it was 30 miles, so those of you who don't run can gasp and say how awesome I am now and those of you who do run can keep your mouths shut because I'm enjoying my moment. Enjoying it more than I enjoyed last week, which was the week after that 30 mile week, when I came smack up against the fact that I am old and the park has paved paths and I'm out of shape and I'm old, so my foot hurted. Like this (I drew a picture!*):

But because I'm tough and awesome and stupid and all I kept running for awhile, just less and less and then I got in the shower and shivered because the water was cold and my foot hurt. Then I decided that people who are grownups and not elderly or disabled in any way shouldn't have feet that hurt when they shiver, so today I will not run. Which is totally fine and all, I'm just mad because I didn't run for weeks and months and years because I didn't feel like it, so it kind of sucks now to not run because my foot doesn't feel like it and I think maybe soon other body parts will start to rebel and maybe I won't be able to wear shirts because my torso doesn't feel like it or I won't be able to talk because my voicebox is on strike, or I won't be able to think because my brain... oh wait, that one already happened.


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* The red arrow is where the arrow hit me.

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I'm entertaining

So, we're back from Chicago, though in fact we were back Friday, but there was pizza to eat and homework to do and television to catch up on and the weekend just got away from me, but anyway the trip went fine; it was seven and a half hours of driving and a quick goodbye to the apartment and retrieval of the beer bottle cap coffee table and then a trip up to downtown to sit on chairs in a cubicle while other people signed papers for an hour and then all just walked away and we were like "So, did we sell it? Oh, neat."

But we also got to see Hedgehog and Partner and I discovered the secret to a good night's sleep is a hard mattress, an electric blanket and a down comforter because I slept like I was cocooned inside, like a cocoon or something, only less sticky. And on Friday we got to take Hedgehog out to lunch in our old neighborhood because as soon as we moved away she decided it was safe to take her dream job like a mile away from where we used to live and we could have been having lunch every day that I called in sick or drinks every Friday after work, but she wanted to avoid that so worked at a job she hated until the coast was clear. But when we drive all the way up from The South she can't avoid us because she's just nice like that.

The drive back was also seven and a half hours and it got dark and all because of something about the earth rotating that Houseboy explained but I didn't understand and mostly I think it actually had to do leaving the Midwest where everything is always light and beautiful, yes even in the winter. But because it was darkish and we had long to go we had to come up with interesting topics of conversation, like "Hey that cloud looks like a tiny duck wearing a giant beret!" or "If you faked your death, what would your funeral be like?" or "What if twelve?" I'm really a great road trip partner.

But so we're "home" now and since we turned over the keys and I closed my bank account we are officially Nashvillains, and did you notice how I spelled that because it's not an accident, it's Nash-villains, get it? Don't you want to drive cross country with me?


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Everyone loves a good poop story

So, here we go, my second ever attempt at grossing you out with Too Much Information, and it's inspired by our very fast approaching trip to Chicago. See, the thing is that we have cats. And the thing about our cats is that they were raised by dog lovers, who don't know about how to just ignore the cats and occasionally see if they want food or whatever, and instead gave them all kinds of overbearing attention and as a result gave them cat schizophrenia and made them more needy than most dogs.

And speaking of dogs, we used to have the absolute most amazing scruffy trash dog that ever lived and deserved all of our overbearing attention because she was 10 years old when we found her on the street covered in feces and skunk and with mats that extended over her eyes and down to the ground and when we got her shaved all she wanted in the world was to lie on my lap and NOT get antiseptic in her wounds.

Anyway, needless to say she was loved by all, including the cats. And when after four years of toothless happiness she passed away at the approximate age of 703, the cats were not happy. Of course, I didn't notice or care too much because I was not happy, and that's what matters. At least that's what mattered until a few weeks later I went to clean out the running closet and found every single pair of running shoes filled with urine and poop. Since the dog had not been the most well house trained adorable mutt ever, I started to cry because I thought I was cleaning up the last remaining evidence and I kind of wanted to put the poop in a scrapbook or something.

Until then a few months after that I went to move the ottoman in front of the chair we never use, and found that that was ALSO soaked in urine and covered in poop. Which, let me tell you, does great things for your wood floor. That's when we realized that our schizophrenic cats had decided to take out their grief on any dark corner of the apartment they could find, and ever since then if we leave them alone for more than two days, they find some new and awesome place to hide poop, like in a blanket on the couch so that when I lay down to watch tv I pull up over me an entire covering of cat turds.

So, here's hoping they've adjusted to Nashville and spend this weekend watching the neighbor cat out the back window and not pooping in some closet we forgot we had.

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Weight problems

Yesterday in my practicum we discussed our potential weight problems and how to use a jack knife to fix them, then on the way home I almost got hit by a car because a woman talking on her cell phone stopped at the stop sign and then started going again as soon as I walked in front of her car and then the project manager of a project I'm on called me and said that she thought that now was a good time to talk about how things are going with my duties, since she was "just driving" and also I had a stats test and does anyone know if there are 172 equally spaced observations in a sample, spaced at a distance of K apart, what is the standard deviation of the sample? It's not K squared, don't be stupid.

On the other hand, we got an offer on the Chicago condo, so it's a-traipsing up North we go, which is like a little mini vacation for me because I get to do all my reading and writing and arithmetic in the car instead of on the couch. But really though, I get to go visit with Hedgehog and maybe eat at one or ten of my favorite restaurants in Hyde Park and maybe go for a run at Washington Park where they have dirt paths and Jamaicans instead of paved paths and EMTs on break.

So, anyway, wish me luck as I go cut the very last cord and try flying in Nashville without a net. Or some kind of metaphor that makes more sense.


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Happy Birthday, Dad!

So, today is my Dad's birthday, and since I now live like a million miles away, I will not be eating cake and ice cream with him, and also I have a birthday card next to me that I haven't mailed, and I realize that it's much less fun to get a birthday card a week after your birthday, so I decided to make today's blog a birthday card. So, on that note, I hereby dedicate this post to the guy I owe half my genetic material to, who gave me a nickname (against my mom's wishes) and took me to baseball games even though he hated sports. He taught me to make Hollandaise and bookshelves, and even though I don't do either of those things anymore, I DID make a really delicious apple pie (including the crust!) the other day, and I can only assume that the success was the direct result of latent genes and/or training, so thanks Dad for making me a sleeper agent, I mean pie maker:

He's the reason I knew what a grit was before I got down here, that I'm not afraid of the doctor and that I know how to ride a bike (though my mom had a hand in that too... that one took a lot of work. What? That's normal!) He's why anytime anyone makes a pun I go "Ohhhh! Nice Dad joke! You'll make a great father," and I'm not even being sarcastic, mostly, and he's also why I know that being a feminist doesn't mean hating men, it just means making them do the dishes.

So, happy birthday to a great cook and carpenter, and a smart, funny, incredible person who's at least half of who I am today.

And tomorrow I promise to be back to my usual insane and curmudgeonly blogself, maybe with a post entitled: F$&#ing Cellphones Almost Killt Me.


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Goodbye Metrodome

Yes, it's another baseball post. Yes, I know it infuriates you because you feel lost and confused and you wish I'd talk more about how I woke up yesterday with grime under my fingernails and a cut on my hand and I don't know why, so I'm just waiting to see which thing in my house I disassembled and reassembled in my sleep, but that's just too bad because the Twins played their last game in the Metrodome last night, on account of losing to the Yankees in game three of the first round of the playoffs, so they had to shuffle out without the big celebration the Hefty Bag deserves. Or at least I think that's what happened, since we were watching it on TBS with the sound off and they kept showing the stupid Yankees players with their halfhearted celebration, rather than focusing on Joe Nathan stealing dirt from the mound in the background and a couple groundskeepers trying to pull up home plate with crowbars. I can only assume that Michael Cuddyer also cut some material from the baggie, Delmon Young nabbed a piece of turf and Alexi Casilla tried to fit second base in his back pocket.

There was also a distinct lack of nostalgia for the Dome in our local bar, even though the day manager is from Minnesota and there were other Twins fans in the bar even, because the Tennessee Titans were busy losing very badly and also a paranoid schizophrenic came in and sat down next to us and started accusing the bartender of being in the CIA and then got tossed, but was allowed to bring his tacos with him, which he seemed to be grateful for and only a little put out that they didn't have Louisiana Hot Sauce for him to take with him.

For some reason that got more attention than the game for awhile.

Anyway, a tearful farewell to the place I learned to love baseball and hate the outdoors, to where Kirby made catches and hit homeruns over plexiglass, where Tori rattled his brains against an unpadded outfield fence, where Doug Mientkiewicz did the splits at first and Joe Mauer just wouldn't stop growing behind home plate and where Johann Santana threw seventeen strikeouts in a game and Big Papi got his start and Terry Tiffee sold some jeans, where Paul Molitor got a lot of his 3,000 hits and Cristian Guzman got accused of loafing at shortstop and Eddie Guardado did deep knee bends and rearranged his junk at least four times per batter. Not even to mention the hall of famers that have Minneapolis streets named after them and the ones that undoubtedly one day will (Morneau Avenue, anyone?) and the Canadians and Venezuelans who were almost as plentiful as the Minnesotans and Alabamans and the balls lost in the roof and the ones that bounced off the infield turf and turned into doubles and 60,000 screaming fans who made it almost impossible to hear:

There is NO SMOKING in the METRODOME!!!


Goodbye and we will miss you.


Sniffle.



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The Apocalypse

On my walk home from class tonight as I was on the pedestrian bridge minding my own business and not listening to my iPod because I have an iPod from 1983 whose batteries as a result don't last that long anymore but anyway that's important because I hear something over the loudspeakers. "Loudspeakers?" you say, "I thought you were on a pedestrian bridge, shouldn't that be outdoors?" Well, I would respond, yes, I was outdoors, which is why this is a story worth telling and not just a story about the time I was at the airport and the voice in the air started talking to me about bag security and it really rocked my world. Anyway, the loudspeakers. They're coming from possibly the nearby high school, possibly the parking garage, possibly nowhere in particular, and I can't make out what they're saying, but it sounds like a series of commands being barked in an Eastern European language and asking me to stand up straight and resist the infidels. Yes, Eastern Europeans care about the infidels too, don't be so racist.

So, that was the first sign, and knowing me as you do, you probably know that I instantly questioned not just what was going on, but the very history of the world as I know it and my place in it and my high school history class that distinctly informed me that the reality I'm living in is not ruled by a global collective headed by a fascist dictator. But you know high school education these days. Badoom ching.

As I walked away and the loudspeaker faded in the background I stopped worrying about the state of reality and started wondering if there would be bok choy in the stir fry Houseboy's making tonight, because I love writing "bok choy" and of course I was going to blog about it*. But then I got within two blocks of our house and all of a sudden there was a massive freak out by the cicadas who seemed to be mobilizing for a takeover of their own, and then I came around the corner and saw the weird fenced-in area with the tanks and the pipes and all that weird stuff, and it's being weirder than usual and spitting steam out from every different direction and making a squealing noise, and just as that reaches its highest pitch, car alarms all around the block start going off.

I'm just warning you all. The revolution has begun and your city is next.



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* The answer is yes, there is bok choy. Whee!

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Gobble gobble glurk

So I'm actually on my way between stats class and transcribing interviews and when I told the project manager that my class is scheduled to end at 12:15 and usually goes a little late so there was no way I was making a noon interview, but I'd transcribe the 1pm, 2pm and 3pm ones, she was all "oh, ok so you'll be there around 12:20 or so?" And I go "Not unless you want angry Antelope who will eat your arm off, because I also woke up late this morning and so went for a run but had no breakfast, so that P,B and J and banana and granola bar are the only things standing between me and a total freak out" and I think she understood, so I'm here in my office wolfing that down and preparing to type like a furious bunny for the next three hours.

Preparing by typing nonsense here about how really and truly and amazingly awesome last night was, what with the Twins taking a tie game into the 12th inning, resulting in double high fives and chest bumps in public, at least between Houseboy and me, but also resulting in a playoff game against the Yankees on less than 20 hours rest and also my laptop bag reeking of cigarette smoke because we don't have cable and Nashville doesn't have a smoking ban. And all of this awesomeness persists despite the most ragingly sexist person I've ever sat next to in a bar, who first asked who we were rooting for and then asked when the Twins were last in the playoffs and when they were last in a World Series, all of which I answered despite the fact that he directed the questions at Houseboy behind me and then went off about Chili Davis, which raise your hand if you're not a baseball fan and have ever heard of Chili Davis, but I have because yes I DID watch every game of the 1991 season that was on tv and remember a thing or two about even the less well-known players, but anyway, I was all ready to reminisce about Chili Davis and Greg Gagne and whoever, but he kept starting sentences and then trying to lean around me to talk to Houseboy and even insisted at one point that I get Houseboy's attention so that he could ask about the Jack Morris shutout in Game 7 as if I couldn't possibly relate to that level of in depth analysis which was that it was "awesome."

But I'm not bitter. Because my team is in the playoffs. And he's still a Cubs fan.

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There are at least 30 minutes left in the season

Probably more like 3 hours and 30 minutes because I guess they can't play the actual 163rd game of the baseball season in negative five minutes, but the point remains the same, which is that playing a one-game playoff for the division for the SECOND YEAR IN A ROW is.... awesome? I guess? I mean, I kinda wish that instead they had just not sucked any number of the times that they sucked and we could have run away with the division, but at least they stopped sucking in just enough time to make it painful for the Tigers.

I'm talking about baseball by the way. The Minnesota Twins. You can avert your eyes if you're one of my apocryphal friends who "doesn't like baseball." Actually, you all can go look up the word apocryphal probably. It will be like a little exercise in existentialism to see if my apocryphal friends can find the definition of apocryphal. God, that's a fun word to type. Also, I like the way it tastes.

What was I saying? Oh, right... I was so excited last night for the game that I went wandering around the house in my sleep, and I had a very good explanation for what I was doing when asked: "Standing up, walking out to this room and walking here. Now I have to go to the bathroom." I hope Houseboy appreciates that I'm becoming more detail-oriented while sleeping at least.

Go TWINS!

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No candy here, buddy

I got my first phone call in my office the other day while eating pizza, watching the Twins tie up the division and creating a program in R to calculate A union B minus C complement, which I imagine will come in handy some day and also made me happy that my office mate apparently is actually the Easter Bunny so she wasn't going to be walking in on that hot mess.

Anyway, what was first most surprising about this phone call was that there is a phone in my office. It makes a noise something like one of those Alexander Graham Bell box and crank jobbies, but actually looks like an 80's switchboard phone, with the lights that light up for different lines and all, which I discovered after I stood up on my desk chair and hauled it down off the top shelf. I picked up the line and said, "Corporate Accounts Payable, Nina speaking"* and the guy on the other end says to me "Hi, I have a question about my candy order..."

So, I go "Ummmmm. Yeah. Wrong number buddy," only nicer. All of a sudden he sounds really sad and says, "This isn't WebCandy?" And I go "That's a thing? No, this is... Vanderbilt sort of." Even sadder, he says "Ohhhhh. I guess I must have mixed up the numbers," and then he hangs up.

And even pizza and a Twins win couldn't cheer me up from the poor fellow's candy depression.

On the other hand, knowing that I work in a surrealist Norman Rockwell painting helped.




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* Or, you know, just my name in a kind of confused voice.


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I've never done this before

It's called TMI Thursday and you're supposed to share a story that is Too Much Information. I figure every day on my blog is too much information just by virtue of being a blog by a nonfamous person with a totally uninteresting life (see the last 190 posts, approximately), but I guess this kind of TMI has to do with telling stories about your naughty bits, which I may have mentioned yesterday I don't do, but I figured since today I'm going to talk about my armpits, maybe it actually qualifies as a traditional TMI in that not everybody wants to read about my armpits.

Anyway, today is one of those days where I actually don't have meetings or class in the morning and although I have about 20 articles on social promotion and graduation requirements to read, I'm just not doing it, even though they're sitting right next to me, instead I watched The Price Is Right and then put on a dress for today and was thinking of wearing my cute boots because it's not 123 degrees outside, but then I realized that what I'm wearing is sleeveless, and although I shaved yesterday apparently that's not quite good enough anymore. Once upon a time I could shave and not worry about it again for a day or two and then still not shave for a day or two after that because I wore something with sleeves. And then also I use this stuff called "Nads" that's like wax and is supposed to last longer than shaving, but lately it isn't really lasting that long and since the doctor always feels your lymph nodes during the yearly physical I decided to shave yesterday to be polite to her, not that she really cares but I imagine a situation in which she goes to feel my lymph nodes and goes "How can I even find them in all of this?? You'll have to come back after you've learned to care for yourself properly and by the way you DO get graded for this, and you're getting an F."

But I guess what I'm saying is that I'm wearing a sleeveless dress on a sleeved-up lifestyle, if you know what I mean. If you don't know what I mean, ask Craig Finn, he can explain it to you in between drinking and yelling to himself. I actually think it means something about heroin, which only applies in the sense that people who use a lot of heroin probably shouldn't wear sleeveless dresses and neither should people who aren't willing to groom, like me.

Anyway, I've got a cardigan and a distaste for changing my clothes, so I'm off to class.


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