two dolla

decorating differences

This afternoon, The General and I joined my hometown friend Angie in her first ever shopping trip at IKEA. She was in town for some type of leadership conference involving some of her high school students and I was very excited to see her and go shopping at my absolute favorite store of all time. If there’s one thing I can tell IKEA virgins, it’s that you’ll either love the store or you’ll hate it. I’ve never met someone that kinda only likes it a little bit.

As we were browsing through everything in their inventory (oh, you crazy Swedes), it became very apparent once again that The General and I have completely opposing tastes in pretty much everything when it comes to home decor. I’m more a fan of the bold colors and defined shapes; The General prefers things to be more fluid and subtle. Blues and greens and reds are perfect for me while The General would rather have our house decorated completely in neutral or muted tones.

I’m all for really deep stainless steel kitchen sinks, especially the ones they have at MR Direct. Holy selections!  The General? Probably more of a fan of the porcelain vessel-type sink. Those scares me because when I do dishes, I tend to forget I have large, sharp knifes in the sink and I don’t think those knives would have any effect on the inside of a stainless steel sink. Porcelain, on the other hand, makes me think I might crack it from top to bottom. Much like we did a porcelain-type bowl the other night when I poured hot bacon grease in it. Oops.

It’s a good thing we do a good job of compromising, otherwise this whole relationship could have very well ended right in the bedding section of IKEA today.

i’m writing all over the place

I’ve apparently missed it. Not only have I updated this site TWO WHOLE DAYS in a row, but I’ve also started contributing (once again) to  Minneapolis Metblogs. While it’s be nice if you wanted to subscribe to the entire site’s RSS feed, you can also just apparently read my stuff if you click on this link. I’m supposed to post 1-3 times a week, so it shouldn’t get as overhwelming as my RSS feeds do when I don’t read LifeHacker, Deadspin, and PerezHilton more than once a day.

in my neighborhood

Or at least the last five hours in my neighborhood.

I rode The General’s bike home from work. She’s ridden it there and then drove back some furniture, art, and flower pots that I’d taken home from the Furniture Free For All we had on the 3rd floor of our building today. (Long story.) First off, when did this helmet craze start? The last time I rode a bike I was 15 and had to get to Vermont Park to play some basketball. I didn’t have time to strap on a helmet and if I did, I would have been the nerdiest baller there and never would have been able to call next. Second off, there are some weird dudes (and ladies) that ride their bikes in my neighborhood. Although, the dude that pedaled out of the yard ofd the halfway house a few blocks over was super friendly!

At about mile 2.1 of my ~2.2 mile ride, I noticed I was riding parallel to a girl that was either carrying a basketball under her shirt or a good 7 months pregnant. I watched her as she pulled into the yard of the light blue house about three houses down and across the street from our place. I don’t meet neighbors, so I couldn’t tell you anything about them. I just know that their neighbors in the pink house tend to use a charcoal grill in their upstairs bedroom. YES, I SAID BEDROOM.

By the time I got home and pulled the bike through out yard, I’d noticed the pregnant lady was having a very heated conversation with a dude wearing a short-sleeved flannel shirt and some JAMS. And by heated, I mean he was yelling at her and she was yelling “Nuh huh!” right back at him. Fast forward a few minutes later while I’m standing in my front yard and I notice her riding the bike down the street carrying a 3rd bicycle tire. She came back about 15 minutes later and then apparently all hell broke loose.

JAMS R. McGee started yelling at her about losing something, then yanks the bike away from her. Next thing I know, he’s throwing the bike across the sidewalk at her. Please keep in mind she’s very pregnant. When a mode of transportation gets thrown at someone, especially if they’re with child, I have to get involved. And by get involved, I mean call the police. I’m always a fan of CSI: Minneapolis!

The 911 dispatcher was crabby with me because I didn’t know the exact address of the house where all of this was going on and because I didn’t know if the house was East or West of me. DUDE. I’M NOT FUCKING TOMTOM. BACK OFF. The dispatched asked me what race the people were and I was about two seconds from going all “WHY THE HELL DOES IT MATTER?!” but then I realized they’d need to identify then should there end up being bodies.

Five minutes later (nice work, MPD!) a cop car drove down our street. Two cops were inside. One the size of Barbie’s niece Skipper and the other the size of the mom from that damn midget show on TLC. Now, wait just a tic. If JAMS R. McGee wasn’t too shy about throwing large objects at his pregnant girlfriend, what in God’s name makes these tiny little police women think that he’s not going to be afraid to punch them right in their necks? It sure isn’t the fluorescent yellow vests they were wearing when they went to knock on his door.

The dude never answered. No, surprise. And the girl had already walked about four blocks by the time Minneapolis’ finest got there. It took all of about five minutes for me to turn from Concerned Citizen to Let Me Release My Fury at the Cops on all of Minneapolis. Luckily, The General knows me well enough to tell me to go inside and we ordered pizza and now I don’t care anymore. It’s off the street; there’s nothing much I can do about it.

But then I went to the gas station to get some delicious 99 cent cans of Arizona Sweet Tea that I cannot stop drinking. And My Friend (that’s what I call my favorite cashier at the SA on Broadway and University) and The Girl That Hates Everyone were giggling about something when I got up to the cash register. Turns out My Friend had to bust some dude that was trying to steal condoms. From a gas station. This poses two questions:

• What is going on in your life right that very second that causes you to try to steal a ONE PACK of condoms from a gas station? Do you have a hot date in the car? Are you picking up a hooker? Is your baby mama coming home later tonight from the bar and you’re thinking that Lemondrop Martini is going to get her just buzzed enough so you can get some play?
• How does one stop a patron that’s trying to burgle some condoms? Because had I been working there, I probably would have just let it slide. If you have to steal a damn condom, you clearly need it really, really bad. Never mind that there’s a machine in the women’s bathroom (and I’m assuming men’s!) that sells them for 75 cents.

I really do love this neighborhood.

you should be a foster

You know the only time I ever post is if I have new pictures or I need something, right? Well, good, because this is no exception.

For the past few months, we’ve been working with Pet Project Rescue, fostering animals that have come from less than crappy situations and finding them really awesome homes where they don’t have to wonder where their next meal is coming from.

First, there was Peeka, the one-eyed Pekignese that we had for a very short time before she found the most absolute perfect family after coming from a home where we’re pretty sure she was fed table scraps all the time and was given up because her owners “couldn’t afford her” anymore.

A few days after we delivered Peeka to her new home, we were introduced to the next members of our family – Fletcher and Colby, two very tiny kittens that probably weren’t old enough to be away from their mom. They were adopted out to the same home and found a family with two kids that are incredibly excited to have new kittens in the house.

And, now there’s Ruby. While I haven’t properly introduced her (and I should!), she’s a 4 year old chihuahua that came from a puppy mill in Iowa. As soon as we got her, it was clear that she’d done absolutely nothing in her life except for sit in a small cage and wait for someone to tell her it was time to have baby puppies. Fast forward a few weeks and right now she’s busy dragging the shirt I wore to work across the living room. She had her first trip to the dog park this weekend and, although she got tired by the time we headed home, she kept up with Riley and Kentucky like it was something she’d done all her life.

This whole pet-foster, animal rescue business? It’s been fantastic. More so then I ever thought it could be. And, now, our foster organization needs some help. One of Pet Project Rescue’s partner rescues was robbed and now they need to find homes for five puppies by the end of this month.

If you’d be interested in fostering a puppy or know someone that might be, please forward PPR’s URL along to them: http://www.petprojectrescue.com. The people that run the organization are fantastic. They provide you with all of the food, collars, leashes, kennels, kitty litter (when necessary!), and anything else you could possibly need. All you have to do is make sure the dog or cat you’re fostering gets some love.

if arsony wasn’t illegal…

Just a few minutes ago, I was sitting at my desk working on some freelance stuff. The General was out on the porch spending some quality time with the laptop and open windows. The Boy was trying to find a flashlight so he could find a book that was under his bed. Suddenly, it sounded like the 4th of fucking July in our backyard. The houses in Northeast Minneapolis are fairly close together. We couldn’t really see anything out the windows; we could just hear shit exploding relatively closeby. After reading this article today, I decided to investigate since I didn’t feel like finding a new place to live.

I went downstairs while the dogs were going ballistic, headed out the back door and noticed one of our downstairs neighbors was in the front yard. It wasn’t him and it sort of looked like he was doing the same thing as me – trying to figure out who the hell was about to burn the neighborhood down. About the time I was walking into the alley, the Giant Turd that lives next door comes flying out of his back door asking screaming at me to find out if I’m the one lighting fireworks. (Dude, I’m 31 fucking years old and it’s a work night. I have a 12 year old child upstairs. I foster animals for Pete’s sake. Do I fit the profile of shooting off hundreds of fireworks in the middle of the 10 o’clock news by myself with no audience to impress?)

As much as I would have loved to answer with a myriad of words The Boy isn’t allowed to say, I just answered with “No” and I’m just it was in a very unfriendly way. He responded back again in his sweet screaming tone: “Then quiet the fuck down!”

I’m sorry. Did you just tell me to quiet the fuck down, sir? I can’t remember what I said exactly, but I’m pretty sure it bordered on “Jesus Christ, you crazy fucker”. And then he went inside and slammed the door. This is the same guy that chased me out to my car within a month of us moving here to tell me I needed to “Clean the fucking shit out of the backyard” before he called the cops.

His house is for sale. It kinda makes me want to do things like shit on his sidewalk anytime there’s going to be an open house. I can make sure he doesn’t get the $299,900 he’s asking for his crappy house.

a good tuesday night

Got to head to the Timberwolves game with Suzi tonight right after work. It was a good way to end my day, even if they did lose by 2980 points or so. The only reason I miss Rashad is because there’s nobody we can pick on as much. And, I accidentally cheered for Mark Madsen and his Prop 8 supporting ways, but then I realized I just cheer in hopes of him revealing his special Mormon underpants in some fashion. (Note to self: Register mormonunderpants.com and rediret it to Mad Dog’s Blog. Or maybe MadDogsManPanties.com)

Headed out of the Target Center and onto the sidewalk along First Avenue, calling The General to share my general location. I hadn’t been out of the door six feet before I ran into a pack (is it a gaggle? a school? a flock? a litter?) of strippers handing out coupons for Rick’s Cabaret (NSFW!). I’m not going to lie. It scared me. I mean, c’mon, that much make up would scare the pee out of anyone. So, I say the first thing I could think of.

“Uh, honey, there are strippers here. They’re handing out coupons. For free pole dances.”

The General laughed.

The strippers did not. “What? Did she just call us strippers? OMG.” (That last part isn’t true, but it may as well have been.)

And then they chased me down the street. Luckily, I’d left my 5 inch heeled boots at the office and was able to escape. (Yeah, that’s not true either.)

they also cause impulsive destruction

I’ m a bit of a bar-goer. In this process, I’ve visited my fair share of bathrooms in the various Twin Cities bars I tend to frequent (or infrequent). That’s what happens after a couple of beers, vodka lemonades, or shots of a varied mixture. While spending a few seconds emptying out my bladder in the various bars’ often dirty bathrooms, I find myself reading the advertisements on the wall.

They’re usually horribly laid out ads cased by a frame labeled with Brite Media Indoor. As it turns out, they advertise on their website “Special Minneapolis Venues”, which includes a package called “NightMoves Network”.  The NightMoves Network encourages advertisers to “Hit the hard to reach active, on-the-go 21-34 year olds at their favorite clubs and nighttime hotspots”.

Do you know I don’t want to read about while I’m trying to concentrate on not falling off the toilet or forgetting to pull my pants back up after having a couple of drinks? It’s the advertising that the NightMoves Network manages to sell – abortions, being a foster parent, and volunteering for some non-profit organization.

I’m in constant awe of these Brite Media Indoor advertisements. Maybe that explains why I always want to steal them.

so happy with our new target

We’re at Target the other night, waiting for the pharmacy to fill a prescription for The General. We’d almost ran out of things to look at, when we walked past the perfume samples. I stopped. The General asked what I was doing. I simply replied with, “I want to know what Victoria Beckham smells like”. And then I tried to figure out the perfume samples that encourage you to squeeze them, but I was too scared Posh Spice juice was going to splash into my noise.

Amidst all of this, someone that was working in the Target makeup aisle (I have no idea either) came over and asked if she could help. I explained to her that all I was doing was seeing what Victoria Beckham smelled like.

She responded with, “Cigarettes and diet pills probably.”

And now I have a new favorite Target.

pass

Favorite Co-Worker #1 emailed me this morning to say this: “Be prepared – it’s painful out there.” I was like, “Oh, sure, it’s painful, just let me look at weather dot com and… WHAT THE HELL?”:

I think I’ll pass on today all together.

boo for joe’s garage

A month or so ago, I’d purchased a $25 gift certificate from restaurants.com for Joe’s Garage. A few years ago, Joe’s Garage used to be a weekly stomping ground of mine when I worked my call center job at Best Buy. We’d drink our customer service blues away and have a good time. Since I quit working at Best Buy, I’ve been four times, including what will be my last visit in quite some time tonight.

The General, The Boy, and I decided to go out for dinner. We’d both had really good days and decided just have a nice night out. We got there around 7:45 and it looked like the Happy Hour crowd was just heading out. We stood at the podium, where one would think there would be a host/hostess, for about ten minutes. Normally, I would have seated myself, but in all the times I’d been there, someone’s always seated me. I didn’t figure it’d be any different

After comparing everything in the restaurant to a game of Diner Dash, we were seated in the backroom and given menus.  Another ten minutes rolled by before our server, whose will remain anonymous since I’m nice, dropped off our waters. She came back to take our drink orders (two Cokes, one Sprite) and as she brought them to our table, some other employee came bounding down the stairs, slamming right into her. Carbonated drinks went everywhere and it took another 5-10 minutes to refill them and bring them out to us. By this time, we were more than ready to order.

The host that eventually seated ended up bringing our our appetizer round – a basket of fries for The Boy and I, a starter salad for The General. The food? Pretty amazing, as usual. They use sea salt and fresh cracked pepper on their fries, making them so good that I kinda didn’t want to stop eating them.

An ample amount of time passed before the same host brought out our burgers.  The General had ordered fries, but instead wound up with mashed potatoes. The Boy and I were set with our burgers and garlic mashed potatoes. As the host was getting us situated, the server came over and The General pointed out the incorrect side dish that was brought out. Instead of, you know, apologizing or saying “my bad”, the server says “I thought you said fries” and walked off. We assumed she was getting more fries, so didn’t think too much about it.

(Fries. Garlic mashed potatoes. Just wanted to double check and make sure they didn’t sound the same.)

Eventually, The General’s fries came out and we were pretty much set on stuffing our faces with as much food as possible. The burgers? Holy Lord, they were good. We’d all opted for bacon cheeseburgers and were kind of in love with dinner.

It took a while for the server to come back, but she eventually, after we were all sitting in completely over-stuffed mode, asked if we needed dessert or coffee. We said no, and I handed her our gift certificate. When she brought the tab back, it had the original dollar amount on it with her handwritten “-$25″ underneath the total. No big shake, I thought, and handed her my debit card.

She ran it and came back with the receipt for me to sign. I looked at it and noticed she’d charged me the complete total of $61.28. I waited for her to come back, thinking it was an honest mistake, but as soon as she saw me looking at her, she came over. The only word I could get out of my mouth was “hey” before she responded with, “Oh, did I put the whole amount on your card?” She grabbed the card and receipt before I could really say anything and walked off to fix it.

I got a completely uneasy vibe off of it and so did The General. It was almost as if she’d done it time and time again, just to see if she could get away with it. We’d specifically discussed it with her when I handed the certificate over to her, making sure she knew what it was. When she originally handed the receipt back to me, she said she took the $25 off. It was just an incredibly weird vibe; I just got a funny feeling from it all and not in a good way.

And the more I’ve thought about it in the 45 minutes we’ve been home, the more pissed off I keeping getting. Sure, it could have been an honest mistake, but I just didn’t buy that with the server. It seemed way too rehearsed when she brought the amended receipt back and said, “Both charges will show up on your statement as pending, but this first one will eventually fall off”. That’s nice and all, lady, but now I’m sitting here with $100 worth of pending charges, meaning that’s a lot of money I don’t have access to, because you’re either A) a world class scammer or B) completely retarded and inattentive to what you’re doing with customers’ credit cards.

Whatever the case is, Joe’s Garage has me feeling really icky right now. I love them and can’t imagine it being a restaurant-mandated rule of trying to fuck over local patrons. I’m probably overreacting, but I’m just super angry at their server’s unethical actions.