Pop goes the tire (again).

Man. I guess there's something with me and Mondays and excessive unfortunate circumstances.

As the temperature last night dipped to a nippy 6 degrees, I enjoyed the minty taste of not one, but two glasses of a friendly goldschlagger with my comrade in our old college stomping grounds. When we realized all of the chairs and barstools around us were on tables and the bartender was giving us a not-altogether-subtle "go hither" look, I checked the clock and realized it was time to bundle up our woolens and hit that cold air face first as we trudged to the car.

We skipped out the door, merrily holding hands and singing to whatever Britney Spears song last unfortunately graced our ears. We brushed off the car with our bare hands, seemingly impervious to the pangs of deeply thrusting your hands into ice-cold snow. The car started like a champ, and I turned onto the street that would eventually lead us to the highway that would eventually lead us to our warm beds.

Except...my steering wheel was strangely and relentlessly pulling to the right.

We pulled over, my comrade jumped out, and said three words. "Flat. So. Flat." Whereas my back left tire was flat last week, this was the right front tire. And it was cashed. We're talking it was so out of air that the bottom of the tire was inverted, as if a giant of behemoth strength kicked it straight from underneath with all of the might he could muster.

My buddy painstakingly cranked the car up with a screwdriver (since I apparently don't have a crank tool that fits in the actual crank) and as we were sliding the spare on, the crank tipped backwards and my car crashed down. This forced us to have to close the crank all the way, shimmy it under the car, and start cranking the car upward again from zero - with nothing but that damn screwdriver.

Then we dropped the car off at the auto shop because frankly, I did not want to even look at the thing anymore much less ride in it. As I shoved a bottle of wine into my friend's mittened hands, hardly a fair reward for the unexpected surprise he had to deal with that night, my mind was split into two emotions: 1. bursting with gratitude for my unbelievably kind friend who has now changed two of my tires in one week in the frigid, painful cold and 2. bursting with the understanding that I really am going to have to learn how to change a tire if I keep insisting on driving during these blasted Minnesota winters.

I officially have a couple crush.

It started with Everything is Illuminated. Then it became Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Now, it is firmly imprinted in reading The History of Love.

It's official.

I have a couple crush on Jonathan Safran Foer and Nicole Krauss. Plus, I mean, they're not too hard on the eyes either...


Maybe they will adopt me and I can be like their cool friend/daughter that sits in front of fire places with them and reads their books. Of course, I wouldn't just live there for free, I would help them with grammar and spelling. If they tire of writing I would tell them jokes. And I would whip up all of the mac and cheese they could possibly want.

It's ok if I sleep in a separate bedroom because, obviously, they want their alone time. That is to be expected. But in general we would do everything together, like go to the park and the zoo to find inspiration for their stories, and we would rotate whose parents' house to go to for holidays. We'd be like a writing/editing/hanging out trio. Inseparable - like the three musketeers!

*I'm not a stalker.

MPR News: Winter Bike Commuting

What a way to start the week.

Monday morning I rolled out of bed elated with the realization that for the first time in 9 days, I felt ok. I wasn't coughing my lungs up, I wasn't dripping with sickness. I wasn't great...but I could finally go to work. I jumped in the shower, threw on a nice outfit, and gingerly put on my coat, hat, mittens, scarf, and boots. I chuckled to myself as I walked to my car thinking -4 degrees doesn't even feel cold. Take this "winter".

Oops! What's that? I need some gas? No problem. I'm running early! A stop at the gas station is totally doable. I drive 8 blocks to the gas station, hop out of my car, and realize that my little gas door is frozen shut. Oh silly gas door. You're no match for me. I go back to the car and grab my window scraper to pry the door open. Except there's this thickly-accented guy yelling something through the loudspeaker from inside of the station. And he KEEPS SHOUTING "Something, something, lady, something! HEY LADY something something something!" Why is he yelling on this brisk, beautiful Monday?

Turns out, my tire was flat. So unbelievably flat.

I started calling boys. Finally, one answered and said he would come to my rescue, taking his comrade along to assist. While I waited, contemplating what to do and whether to move the car, not one, but two buttons popped off my coat, leaving one measly button the incredibly important task of holding closed my coat on the coldest day of the year. And that "lightly brisk" air that wasn't bothering me before quickly started producing a piercing, burning cold numbing my entire body. The men did their job, and they did it well, but we soon realized the spare they put on my car was very low on air. We went to not one, but two air pumps before we realized they are all frozen. It was too cold...for even a pump...to pump air.

They led me to the nearest mechanic, and as I was shakily driving my car there the windows started to fill with a heavy, thick fog. This never happens to me because obviously I have the heat/defrost going every time I drive in the cold. But of course...for the first time in my life...the heat wasn't working. Nothing. Not even a mere puff of air. Phenomenal!

This meant the guys at the shop wanted to keep the car for the day, in order to fix the first tire and the spare, put the old tire back on, check out the heat, and perform a maintenance test. I was expecting to be able to drive to work on the spare, so as I left the shop dumbfounded with my luck and intimidated by the 9 block walk I had to even get back to my house, the waterworks started flowing. Facing -4 degree weather, no car, and feet so numb I was convinced I had no feet, I cried.

In an ultimate display of altruism, my friends brought me back to their house and gave me coffee and company while I mashed my body up against their kitchen heater, practically seizuring from the cold. And then my friend drove me to work. The mechanics later called to tell me the tires were fixed and the heater was working fine - it was just too cold that morning to work. They also caught a taillight that was out and fixed that too, not even charging me that much for it, even though they could have (because what do I know about stupid cars?). And finally, all was well.

I would like to dedicate this tale to anyone who knows how to change a tire. You are the true heroes, my friends. You...are...just...so...........yes!

Is my neice or nephew going to love me?

I just found out my sister has caught the preggers disease. And by disease I mean...the best thing that's ever happened to me! I happen to think I was born to be an aunt, and I'm under the impression that the thing is going to love me because, let's face it, I'm everything it could ever hope for in a future aunt.

Think about it. I'm young, relatively hip (and by relatively I mean hipper than the little blob of goo is right now), energetic, I have a gaggle of knock knock jokes just waiting to be shared, I always have a fresh supply of candy, I know CPR, I will give it toys, and I like crawling around on the floor. I mean c'mon!

I was bragging about the little tyke (who is currently cooking in the oven, where he/she will remain for the next 6+ months) to my coworker, and he advised me to explore caution in my anticipation and to try to keep my hopes for my relationship with the thing at a limit (because frankly those hopes are soaring right now -- SOARING).

He said:

Careful. I was really excited about the arrival of my first nephew. Let's be real, I was born to be an Uncle. I'm mischievous, cool and I already had twenty some years experience battling his mother so advocating on his behalf would be a cinch. The problem? For like 8 years we totally didn't like each other. Frankly, he was a bit of a prick and that didn't sit well with me. Also, he's a bit of a braggart. I'm not sure what happened though, last summer we were both in Croatia and we kind of got along.

Is my future niece or nephew going to be a bragging prick for the next 8.5 years? Possibly. Perhaps even likely. I hadn't thought of this. Plus, what if it voms on me? What if it sits on my glasses? What if it slaps the dog? What if it steals my sister away for forever and I'm not her favorite* anymore?! Oh god.

*self-proclaimed

Know what word I hate?

yesteryear.

(Even if The New York Times insists on using the blasted word in a headline on their front page.)


I think my hatred of this word hails from when I had to take Mr. Menard's 7th grade "Bits of Yesteryear" antique appreciation class at my Catholic grade school.

Yep, that has to be it.

may god you always.

I just got this auto-reply in my email from someone I don't know. I think we have some spelling and/or error of omission details to ponder here.

------------------------------------

I am uable to answer your email at this time but I will get back to you as soon as possible.

May God you always.

------------------------------------

Hate mail.

An open letter to the jerk who yelled at me at the YWCA yesterday:

Dear jerk face,

I realize that water aerobics is not the most glamorous of sports. And I realize when my class is taking up half the pool, it may generate some animosity from the more "serious" swimmers like you in the other lanes of the pool. But you know what? I'm a serious swimmer too. And I'm probably even faster than you.

Your "the ladder is over there" comment that you said to me as I was crossing through your lane to get to another lane after class ended was totally unfounded. Did you really think I don't know where the ladder is? Here's the thing. You were resting on the side of the pool. You were standing there, slowly putting your hand paddles on (probably because you want to build up muscles because you would care about a think like having big pipes), and you were nowhere near ready to start swimming again. In fact, your goggles weren't even on yet!

When you told me to my face that I was being rude by crossing your lane, I had to disagree. When you sassily explained to me that I "could have hit" you, you were wrong. Why? Because of what I just explained to you...you WEREN'T SWIMMING. Then when you told me I "could have hit" the dude in the next lane, did you realize that he was pushing off the other wall 25 yards away? That's 25 yards amount of time that I had to cross one lane. So no, there is absolutely no way I could have possibly hit anyone.

But I might hit you. On purpose. In the face. With my water bottle!

Love,

Anna

MPR News: Peddling through the Economy

The new Victory Ship cd

It's so good it made my face fall off.

It's so good I almost had to pull over.

It's so good it hurts to listen to.

It's so good it forces you to smile.

It's so good I almost vom'd in my mouth.

It's so good that it couldn't be better.

It's so good that I should have pledged $30 for it.

It's so good that it's dangerous to listen to.

It's so good that it constantly baffles me.

It's so good it's like a flawless victory.

It's so good it's like a warm chocolate muffin.

It's so good it makes me want to dance.

It's so good every American should have one.

It's so good it's ridic.

It's so good that it was probably born in the wild.

It's so good that good isn't a good enough word for it.

It's so good I think Jesus had a hand in it.

It's so good that it's like crackling fireplace on Christmas morn.

It's so good it's like a hug for your ears.

It's so good I want a tattoo of it.

It's so good it promotes cartwheels.

It's so good people are going to freak.

It's so good p. diddy will ask to cover it.

It's so good I want to close my eyes when I listen to it.

It's so good that you have to be carf.

It's so good that I want to listen to it all day.

It's so good that flowers are going to sprout from the jewel case.

It's so good that it's the new smells like teen spirit.

It's so good it should have its own restaurant.

It's so good people will sing along to every word.

It's so good it's been worth the wait.

Enjoy.

Election Day Videos

My colleague and I spent the entire Election Day (spilling into the next day) making these five videos for our news organization. The highlight for me was when I got to Dot's house (from the third video) and realized my camera bag was not currently housing my camera and had to go back to work to get it. Kind of important to have a camera when you want to shoot footage. I'm just saying.

Please enjoy. Happy election week!

A walk gone wrong. So, so wrong.

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

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

Well.

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

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

Batmouth!

I made him.

On netflix surprises.

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

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

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

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

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

Lessons learned at a wedding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Get off my ass, Grandpa!

I need to tell you a story about bikes.

Deep breath.

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

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

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

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

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

Undecided voters are crazy.

At my news station we are organizing debate-watching parties during all four of the presidential/VP debates this fall. I am in charge of recruiting undecided voters to come to these parties so we can pick their brains after the debates about whether their minds have changed, what they’re looking for, etc.

The thing is…these people are crazy! I just invited one undecided voter who said that he cannot come because he has five classes and must study many hours a day. He then proceeded to recite to me every grade in every class that he’s taken over the past two years, and then he told me what place he got in his school’s liberal arts fair this year and what his project was.

Really? Is that necessary? I felt like I was stroking the ego of a 5-year-old who had just made a ceramic hand print.

Masks look freakily real these days.

Best falls from the weekend.

The events of 9/18/08.

Spotted 8:25 am: Two roommates presenting third roommate with a birthday suprise sausage, egg and cheese McMuffin with a lit candle stuck in the top. Third roommate is quoted as saying "I can't think of anything I would rather stick a birthday candle in".

A lunch-inspired love email

Lesson Learned: Showing your coworker a new lunch spot goes a long way. Observe the following email I received after doing such a thing.

Subject: Dear, oh darling, dear

Dearest Anna,

I cannot express the amount of gratitude I owe to you on this day, the day you lead my virgin hand deep in to the skyway. The twists and turns to Eddington's were new and could have served a frightful purpose - Minnesotans and small chain restaurants hovering at every turn, waiting to surprise and misguide me. On another day (a day without You) I would have easily fallen to the tricks and ploys of D’Amico, or even a sub sandwich place. But you, (yes You!) dear Anna, (oh Anna!) was there to show me how.

Eddington's has brought such proper spoils, and it is to You I owe my early lunchtime happiness. The chicken tortilla soup, although I know, dearest, is not your soup of choice (the choices overwhelming and abundant!), provides the delicate zest of a chipotle burrito, and the hearty composure of a thick, warm blanket in the bitterest of Minnesota winters.

And that’s a damn load of breadsticks. Oi. I’m too stuffed already.

-w

Coming on a little strong for the doc.

I was so excited about meeting my new doctor today. I’ve always wanted a real doctor of my own because I’ve had random doctors for random things before, but I never had an answer when a form would ask me to name “my doctor”.

The arm rash I went in for was, if you ask me, particularly unimpressive so I feared she thought of me as a hypochondriac. To show her I wasn’t one and that I wasn’t dissatisfied with her diagnosis of “it’s pretty benign, how about you just put a hot compress on it”, I thought I would try to throw a little humor her way.

She asked me when my last yearly pap was and I told her it was this May. She looked confused and double-checked the chart, so I decided to gallantly throw in there “but don’t worry! I’m all yours next year.”

Instead of reacting with a mouthful of laughter and glee, she continued to look puzzled at her chart. She probably just didn’t hear me…right? You would have to be a crazy person not to laugh at that.

Bless this child.

Old lady legs.

Today I got back on the bike after a couple weeks of driving. It felt good to go 13 miles to work by the sheer power of my own tree trunks. Without doing it regularly, however, I was dragging a little. So naturally I wasn't too surprised when a 75-year-old biking grandma hard-core passed me. What did surprise me, however, was that sprouting from her waist was a pair of legs not dissimilar to these:

My week at the RNC.

I'm safe! I walked away from my four days of shooting and editing RNC video coverage with but a mere whiff of tear gas, slightly bloody ankles from my rubbing shoesies, a pesky tum tum ache, and the exhaustion of a professional elephant lifter. But it was worth it! Because here are my babies.
-
1. Hockey parents reacting to Sarah Palin's speech. Watch out for the most adorable hockey grandma you have ever and will ever see in your life.


-
2. Bike cops part one. Watch for the lady cop who gets cold easily.


-
3. Bike cops part two. Although my teammate got a sweet shot of a falcon devouring a pigeon in a tree, we decided we had enough b-roll to suffice.


-
4. Bushville. Watch for the puppy!


-
5. Peace Team. Notice how all the guys are tall, bald and bearded.

Biking flamingos spotted outside MN State Fair.

Additionally...

Our organization has a Republican National Convention detailed preparedness plan in case of the following:

(I'm not kidding)

• Gridlock
• Security breach
• High-profile guest in building
• Blocked traffic
• Overnight attack
• Broken glass
• Arrested employees
• No parking
• Stalkers
• Medical emergencies
• Bad behavior
• Loss of power
• Loss of Internet
• Technical breakdown
• Loss of cell phone service
• Loss of water service
• Out of control protesting
• Bomb threat
• Fire
• Tear gas
• Terrorist attack

It's going to be an interesting few days...

Good to know, boss.

I'm one of eight videographers on a "street team" for my news organization during next week's Republican National Convention. Two of our managing editors gathered us together for a meeting this week, and here's how they started it.

"We just wanted to let you know... you will likely get arrested."

They quickly assured us it's not necessarily because we'll be doing something wrong, but rather because police often mass arrest people on the streets during times of protest and riot.

"Whatever you do, cooperate," they said. "And don't worry, we have a budget for bail."

Giddy up!

Blind dates are for two.

The thing about setting your friends up on a blind date is…you probably shouldn’t go with.

I have this newly-single, wonderful guy friend. I also have a single and fabulously awesome girl friend. They are both starting to peek their heads into the dating world, but aren’t the type of people that are going to try to pick someone up in a bar. So I decided to throw a pizza party.

And by pizza party I mean the three of us went on a date. Those two, some pizza, a restaurant, and me. Looking back, I shudder at the awkwardness.

The guy and I got there first and I was disappointed to find that the only open table inside of the place shot high-powered beams of sunlight straight into the faces of those facing the window. Unfortunately, the guy decided to sit with his back facing the sun, so that left the poor girl with the decision of whether to wear sunglasses during the dinner, or sweat and squint profusely. She chose the latter.

I sat next to her and started the date off talking about a hilariously entertaining scavenger hunt I had gone on that weekend. We laughed, we ate, there were smiles all around.

But after a few conversation misunderstandings and a clear divide over favored parts of the country, it began to be pretty apparent that the pizza and I had more chemistry than the two of them did. Man was that good pizza.

Many people told me not to go along. But I though it would be less pressure on both of them if it was more of a friend thing. I didn’t realize that my presence there would turn me more into a talk show host than anything else. “So, did you know that Suzie is really into [blank]?” “Well, that’s so funny because Mark was just telling me [blank] the other day…”

It doesn’t help. It does not help to have you there. In no way does it help. I repeat…It did not help to have me there. Don’t do it! Don’t! Resist! Leave them be! Leave the awkward to them!

They can handle it.

It wasn't my tarp!

The three days I went to work last week (as I had Monday and Tuesday off), I chose to ride my bike. In that time, I happened to forget how incredibly treacherous driving to work can be.

Today I was gingerly driving down I-94 in Minneapolis in the kind of traffic I would describe as "manageable", when all of a sudden a large, gray tarp barreled toward my car. I was only about 10 feet behind a car, there was another car right behind me and the lanes to my right and left were not open, so I had no choice but to steer the car directly over the tarp. So I took a deep breath and rolled right over the thing. I felt it underneath my car but when I looked in my rear view mirror, there was NO TARP BEHIND ME. Where was it?!

Soon after, cars behind me started changing lanes. Were they possibly avoiding me? I didn't know how a huge tarp could attach itself to the underside of my car, but when I changed lanes to go in front of a car and then it immediately changed lanes to avoid being behind me, I knew it was unmistakable. Something was going on here.

A couple minutes later this guy drives up next to me and starts yelling something out of his car window. I look backward, and the tarp went flying off the back of my car toward another car. "THERE IS A TARP ATTACHED TO YOUR CAR!!" he was yelling at me. "ARE YOU SURE?!" I said. I motioned for him to look at the back of my car as I drove forward. He gave me the thumbs up, noting that it was gone. "I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THAT WAS!" I screamed at him. "IT WAS A TARP!!" he yelled.

Slowly, people attempted to drive behind me again. Mortified and worried that people would think it was MY tarp, I slunk over to the right lane where I stayed until I sheepishly exited at my stop.

Though on my bike I've been yelled at, hit on, sprayed, rained on, hurled over the handlebars onto rough pavement (twice) and pelted with a swarm of gnats flying directly into my eyeballs, I have to tell you...this would have never happened on my bike.

Coworker email exchange gone wild.

I'm going to be out of town for the next couple of days. So instead of sending the normal "blah blah out of town" email to my coworkers, I decided to spice it up a little. Then this email exchange ensued.

Anna email:
I am off to the cabin I say
To reunite with family and play
I'll come back on tues
Then take a short snooze
Then come to work on wednesday

Coworker email:
The meter's a little bit off...

Anna email:
YOUR METER IS A LOT A BIT OFF!

Other coworker email:
And to all a good night!!

I almost died of Lyme Disease tonight.

My name is Anna. I have a red, itchy, uncharacteristically warm arm that houses something akin to a bull's-eye rash. The rash has produced one large streak that travels from my elbow up to my shoulder. The pain isn't just topical; it has infiltrated my ligaments as well.

After talking with my mom (a nurse) and dad (a doc) about the condition of my arm I called the nurse's hot line of my old student health services. A nurse advised me to go to urgent care tomorrow, and here's what she said when I told her I couldn't go in tomorrow because of a work conflict: "Fine. Then you absolutely have to go tonight." So I did.

As it turns out, my rash that exactly resembles the rash of those suffering from Lyme Disease, is likely not from an insect bite but rather from some bacteria that mysteriously entered my arm. And the streak leading up to my shoulder is the bacteria trying as hard as it can to reach the lymph nodes, which fight off the bacteria.

So don't worry. Although I almost became Irene* from Real World Seattle, I dodged the bullet in the end. Stephen will not be slapping me!**



*Irene's experiences a relapse of Lyme Disease. She eventually moved out of the house, ostensibly over health concerns over the disease, but years later, during a reunion show for the various casts of The Real World, she appeared in a video in which she aired her criticisms of the show and her bitterness regarding her time on it.

**In one of the most dramatic and controversial moments in Real World history, Irene McGee's housemate, Stephen Williams, having been insulted by McGee as she was moving out, stopped her car as she was leaving, opened the passenger side door, and slapped her. Williams was ordered by producers to attend a series of anger management classes, which he is then shown to complete successfully.

Owie.

I fell off my bike.

And by fell off, I mean I was hurled many feet in the air when my back brake graciously decided to stick against the wheel, forcing me over the handlebars and onto the pavement where I proceeded to roll and skid with my bike somehow on top of me, bruising the frick out of my legs.

Here is a gross visual.

Regardless of what it looks like, Wolverine did not in fact have his way with my leg. I'm guessing those four scratches were somehow from the pedal?

I wish I could tell you this was the first time I fell off my bike. But I guess when your pimp ride is a 12-year-old Diamondback Outback, aka The Steel Behemoth, aka piece of crap bike, this kind of stuff happens more often than the average biker would like.
I need a new bike.

I could kill T-mobile.

My phone hasn't rung for months. But you know what? I loved my little pebl. He was cuter than most phones. And you could hold him so easily in your palm. He also snapped open on a hinge, and he would occasionally attract my metal earnings because he had magnets in him. It would be so cute when I had to yank my earring away from his powerful magnetic skills.

But phones need to ring. Vibration doesn’t always cut it. For example, if you’re dead asleep and your fan is on high, you aren’t going to hear that little fricker vibrate, oh no. So it was time for me to get a new one.

I sauntered into my local T-mobile store yesterday to procure my next lil’ buddy. I picked the Motorola W490. The employee who was helping me was excited to get to his golf game, though I secretly rolled my eyes because I had felt the 99 degree weather outside and I knew he would suffer. Little did I realize, I was the one that would soon be suffering.

“Here, let me make sure all of your numbers are on your SIM card,” he said. I told him all the ones that were supposed to be on the card were on there. “Let me just make sure,” he said.

What happened? Well, I’ll tell you. He deleted ALL OF MY PHONE NUMBERS. Gone. No discount. No apology. He just awkwardly told me the (obscene) amount that I owed him for the new phone.

Then I was forced to make a Facebook event inviting everyone I’ve ever known to re-give me their digits, like I’m some sort of incompetent telephone basket case. Let me tell you this. Not having phone numbers that you have always, always had makes you feel completely cut off from the world. And what’s worse…not knowing who is calling you and being forced to say “who is this?” and then endure your callers giggling and saying “guess whoooooo?” all day long.

I burned my butt.

Look. I am in sunny California, and it is beautiful. I went to the waterpark, the ocean, the pool, etc. and enjoyed every moment of it. What has this trip given me, however, besides a slightly worse cold (from all the vino intake) and triple the amount of freckles I started out with?

Answer. One massively defined bikini butt line. We're talking white on red contrast here. As soon as the suit sides end, the red starts. Does anyone have any recommendations for ways to travel via airplane that do not involve sitting?

A numerical look at the 4th of July

Enjoyed over the holiday weekend

• Approximately 20-30 malt beverages
• 3 Chipotle feasts
  
• 2 rooftops; one with a small yet sufficient pool, the other with charming patio furniture
• A 7-person cuddlefest during downtown Minneapolis fireworks
• 3 days of tanning without sunburning (literally a first)
• 4 games of pool

Dealt with over the holiday weekend

• Insufferable 95-degree Sunday heat
• A non-air-conditioned apartment during insufferable 95-degree Sunday heat
• 1 supremely awkward male encounter
• A 6-hour traditional and very religious wedding in which I only knew my date
• A 3-hour wait time for dinner at this wedding
• 1 slow realization that our "singles table" was served dead last at this wedding

No I did not "make" my skirt.

Today a coworker told me my skirt was cute. Then, he asked if I "made" it. Did I make it? No! I purchased it! At a real store thank you! My g.

I've never been this verbally abused in my life.

It's Sunday late afternoon. I'm driving over to Rainbow from my friend's house in order to purchase a delicious supper of frozen pizza rolls. I pull into the parking lot and select a spot that is a bit of a squeeze, but not too bad. Plus, I was only going to be in the grocery store for a few minutes.

Four minutes later, I walk back to my car and stand next to it for a moment in order to complete a text message. Then, I hear someone within five feet of me scream:

"Hey BITCH, is that your f*cking car?!"

I slowly close my phone and look to the right. There is a mid-20's white male, sitting in his car beside mine, waiting for me. He is staring at me with all of the rage that one person could possibly cram into a face. His girlfriend sits beside him, mute. "Excuse me?" I say.

"Is that your F*CKING CAR parked next to MY F*ING CAR?!?!?!?!" he screams.

I tell him that yes, it is my car and that it is in between the alloted yellow lines.

"No, you BITCH, it is NOT! I had to climb through my F*ING passenger door to GET IN!" he screamed louder than most humans are even able to expel noise.

I tell him there's no reason to get upset, that we were both leaving anyway.

"Shut up you F*CKING BITCH WHORE!!!!" he shrieked.

Then he peeled out of his spot, sliding his car alongside the side of mine intentionally. Then, once his car was behind mine, he started THROWING THINGS out of his his car, as hard is he could, at my back window! Then, as I stared at him completely dumbfounded, he peeled out of the row STRAIGHT INTO ANOTHER CAR. He sat there, frozen for a second, then peeled out of the parking lot!

Then I texted myself his license plate and reported a reckless and insane driver to 911.

Hot dog of death.

So many people who know me have heard this story. But I've avoided writing about it because it's that disgusting.

Well the time is nigh.

You probably remember Subaruby. Turns out, she came with a present. The car - reeked. I mean reeked. And it seemed like I was the only one that was truly offended by the funk. My parents, who sold me the car, claimed they really couldn't smell anything. But after a few weeks, I bucked up and peered into the open moon roof.

The "present" that was giving off the stench of death was deeply embedded into the mechanics and grooves of the moon roof. And it was at least six months old.

A hot dog. Simple, harmless, right? WRONG! When hot dogs get old, they mold, then decay, then turn into a liquidy, revolting, mass of foul substance. I attempted to fork the frank and bring it out of the moon roof but instead, the utensil simply mashed it up a little, bringing only a mere morsel up to the surface. The fresh smell of rot was enough to make me vom.

Over a period of an hour, I knifed it, I spooned it, I paper toweled it, I 409'd it, I smaller knifed it, I penciled it, I yelled at it. Yet, remnants remained, so I covered the rest with baking soda because word on the street is it covers up smell. And don't even ask me how the damn meat stick got there because I simply cannot provide you with any sort of answer.

Here is an actual photo of the actual hot dog wedged in my actual sun roof, prior to my attack.

Banged and bemused.

I've been meaning to tell you something for a while now, but I couldn't find the words to tell you.

I've been banged against my will.

I sauntered in to my regular hair salon on Saturday, May 17. It was an unusually warm day. I was mentally and physically preparing myself for my first ever work trip. It was to be a week-long training in the sunny state of Florida. But you've heard me talk about that.

Basically, I trust this crazy lady. She's been chopping my hair into beautiful pieces of artwork for nearly two years. But when I sat down in her chair that day, I had no idea she would bang me without permission. And that's exactly what happened. She quietly murmured, "You had bangs, right? Man they're getting long." Of course, I did not have bangs before, and of course, she was asking me this AS she was gingerly chopping off the front half of my head of thick hair.

People like me cannot have bangs. Our hair is too thick and we have cowlicks that will not be tamed by any man or beast. I tried explaining this to her, and she looked at me like I was demented. There was nothing I could do except nervously try to accept it and tip well because I'm a chicken when it comes to being honest with someone's artwork (even if it's attached to my head).

So I'm stuck with this for a long time, as my hair grows excruciatingly slow. Notice the four points of varying bang lengths she graciously left me with.

Breaking up frickin stickin sucks.

Why? Because you have to constantly relive that shit over and over.

Case: family reunion. Last week I caught the tail end of a gigantic week-long family reunion. This happens once a year, the same time every year, and I haven't gone to the last couple. My family on that side is huge. We're talking something like 40 cousins, 20 aunts and uncles, and a load of other people that are somehow related to me. And every single one wants to know "the scoop".

What is my scoop? I have a new, great job. I graduated college. I had two internships at national publications on either side of the country. I purchased my first car. I have a nice apartment. But do they want to hear about that? No. They want to know who is my boyfriend, what happened to him, why I am single, who the next person I'm going to date is, and how long it's going to take until I date him.

Is this a Catholic thing or is this just the plight of catching up with distant relatives? Is my life really not interesting enough that they brush past everything I say until I am forced to reveal my relationship status to them? And once I reveal it to them, is it really appropriate for them to seem visibly let down?

Thank the baby g this reunion only happens once a year.

Person #6: Sweet ol' grandma.

I dropped the "odd" on this one because she's a total classic grandma.

My roommate and I participated in a wedding this weekend. She performed the ceremony; I played piano and sang. After the wedding, a very old lady ambled up to me, took my arm, and said "Hello. I am the bride's grandmother. Your song was lovely. You perform very romantically." I said thank you and joked "well it's not working too well for me!"

Without smiling, she looked deeply into my eyes and very seriously said, "Would you like me to shop around a little for you?"

Oh grandma lady. So sweet. So good-natured.

Odd person #3: Oma.

Listen. I have to tell you about this guy.

I was sitting on an airplane, writing feverishly about a previous post topic, when the guy next to me starts chatting me up. Generally I like to keep to myself on airplanes, otherwise you're signing yourself up for a looooong three hours.

This man is middle aged, and from the Virgin Islands. He works construction. And he very adamantly wants me to consider visiting amtigua.com and learning about Sailing Week.

I am polite, make a few jokes, but I try not to engage in new trains of conversation much, as I am in the middle of writing something. So I'll say something, he'll laugh, then I'll turn straight back to my notebook and start writing. But that doesn't stop him.

Twice, he took my notebook from me! The first time he wrote down the website, then at the end of the flight he wrote down his NUMBER and name.

As the plane landed, he said "Are you going to be back in Atlanta soon?" I say, "Nope. Not ever. I don't have any plans to ever come back." He shrugs and tells me to call him if I change my mind.

No Oma! You are old! Just stop it!

Odd person #1: Throw out your gum.

Nuggs and I encounter a lot of weird people because of our jobs and because, well, we're alive. Herein starts our semi-weekly feature in which we point out said people to you.

Today I went to a kind, middle-aged woman's home to interview her for a story. I walked into her house, cooed over her cat, and started setting up my recording equipment when all of the sudden she blurts out, "I'm sorry but you have to spit out your gum right now." Startled, I said no problem and looked frantically for a trash can. As she handed me one she said, "I have PTSD and if you don't throw it away I'm going to completely freak out."

Huh! I should have spit it out beforehand anyway because it's not the most professional practice, but I forgot I had it in my mouth. I didn't mean for my gum chewing to bring up something that haunts her from her past! Oops.

Odd person #2: Yelling out of car windows.

I decided to try something new yesterday: biking to work. 12 miles each way. Windy, hilly, traffic-filled roads. Biking that stupid long ride is hard enough, without the "help" from people in cars.

Things people screamed at me out their windows yesterday:

• Farmer man in pickup truck: "Can't you read you g**d*mn mother f***ing IJUT!"
• Obese hairless young woman in soccer mom van: "C'mon! Bike faster!"
• Some losers I didn't look at: "Wooooooo yeah!"

Albeit I was going slow. But to the above and to the homeless man who walked along side me trying to engage me in conversation, please keep your comments to yourself.

At the very least, please have the decency to say out the word id-i-ot instead of abbreviating. It makes you sound like the idiot when you try to abbreviate it.

Whippersnapper vs. elder: An epic showdown.

I’m just now getting on a plane. As I said to my group after receiving my “graduation certificate”, this multimedia training has been one of the best experiences of my very short career thus far, and I feel like instead of it coming to an end, it’s really just beginning.

When I look back on the week, it has been exceedingly great. The people were supremely interesting and kind, the material was invigorating and attainable, and the venue was gorgeous. I’m so happy with the way it went.

Something happened though. And her name is Martha. Martha Lenn. Yeah. She happened in a big way. The organization apparently thinks it prudent to place each person with a partner on the first day, based on who is sitting next to you, then force you to essentially form a marriage with that person for the whole rest of the week, regardless of how well you work together, what the skill levels are, and how absolutely insane the match is.

Insane doesn’t begin to do it justice. Picture this if you can. 23-year-old whippersnapper is tech savvy, energetic, and excited about using multimedia to help repair a deflating industry. 120-year-old confoundingly ends up in this seminar, regardless of the fact that she loathes technology, the Internet, and most of all, young adults. Whippersnapper digests tech basics and new techniques at the speed of light. Geriatric still cannot discern between on/off functions after a full week of intense, hands-on instruction.

Thing is, of course we all have to work with people we don’t get along with. Sometimes we have to work with people we downright hate. But this was unlike any situation anyone in a workplace has ever faced, I can pretty much guarantee that. Martha lacked the capability to retain even the slightest semblance of technical information. The record button anecdote I shared with you was a perfect example of this. When operating the video camera, you move the dial to “camera”, which I would do for her because she couldn’t possibly maneuver the complicated hold-and-slide procedure, then all you had to do to record film was to hit one red button labeled “record”. This is the button closest to your thumb. Many times, her thumb would in fact be on the button, double-punching it and thus turning it on and off throughout the interview.

All right. So we’ve got an old lady who sucks at technology. Boo hoo, right? Wrong. Hear me out. A technologically-challenged elderly woman I can handle. But Martha. Is. Insane. Certifiably. Her bio said she was a veteran journalist of 25 years, yet she completely lacks any sense of news judgment, and gets extremely offended at the slightest gentle suggestion that maybe her ideas are not the best.

Example: We had to storyboard an anniversary piece about a boy who was paralyzed from a fallen speaker at a local shopping center. I suggested that for this hypothetical story, we should hypothetically include an interview from the boy’s parents. She said that was fine, but only if we single out one of the parents to talk to instead of them both. Why would we do that? I asked. Because it would be more moving, and better that way, she said. Then, we had to come up with one word that signifies the heart of this anniversary story. I suggested “unfortunate” or “unsafe”. She said those words aren’t bloody enough and that our word needs to be more dangerous. I gently suggested that tactic might be a little sensational. Then she suggested the word “mis-take”. Why the dash? I asked. Because it singles out ‘mis’, like he nearly missed his life, she said. I sighed.

Naturally, I talked to our seminar head about this. While he was sympathetic, he thought it was in my best interest to stick it out with Martha because “everyone has to deal with difficult people in newsrooms”. His solution to my conundrum was to have an impromptu session on the importance of teamwork. So this was an unscheduled, last-minute addition to our curriculum…all because of me. Our presenter asked us to face our partners and each ask the other what we can do to help him/her. Just one question – two minutes each – and we had to record and edit it. I told Martha I needed to not have to spend every moment of this training re-teaching her basic fundamentals of equipment handling (like how to press record), and which I honestly did 100 percent patiently at least twenty to thirty times. I told her if she is far behind, one of the instructors should specially work with her because I can’t afford the time or resources of this seminar teaching her.

When I asked her what she needed, she told me I’m just like all of her students who are rude, demanding, and self-centered. Then, she told me I look exactly like her daughter, and started crying! She said I need to learn to treat people like human beings, not computers. She said she has valuable aspects to bring to the table and that her type of journalism is being ruined by my generation. Then she said she can’t learn about equipment without reading the product manuals front to back. I suggested maybe she should read some of them at night in the hotel. She didn’t.

A day passes. We are in a session in which our seminar head read us the story of his adaptation and acceptance of technology into his work after years of print-only experience. Many older people in the group identify with him. It sparks a thoughtful conversation among the group and the instructors. Still, though, people (as I’m sure you’re experiencing at this point) weren’t really understanding what I was going through. Yes, our seminar had a crotchety old lady attending, but what was the big deal? She’s mostly harmless and can’t be all that bad, right? I don’t blame you for thinking this. I just thank the baby Jesus that what I’m about to tell you about actually happened.

A hand goes up. Martha, an infrequent contributor to discussions, stands up out of her chair, takes a step away from the table, and starts yelling – YELLING – about the “young people’s internet” and how journalism is ruined now because of it and that all of us “young people” only care about bells and whistles and not the fundamentals of journalism and that “our” industry is ruining “her” industry. Then, her rant culminates in one glorious sentence. Yelling about the Internet, she screams, “IF I HAVE TO SEE ONE MORE NIPPLE….”

People. Freak. Out! Nipples? Porn? Journalism isn’t porn! The Internet is not full of nipples! What pages is she going to anyway? And how is the Internet attributed solely to “young people”? Our seminar head necessarily calls a break and everyone walks out of the room, shaking with anger at her ignorant and offensive statements. We stand around a table in the kitchen. I joke, “When I’m lying in bed at night…I’m thinking…how can I get more nipples on the Internet? I mean, as a young person who invented the Internet, I just wish there could be way more nipples, you know?”

We return. Back to the discussion, Martha says, “Young people have no sense of decency. You only care about yourselves, and you don’t understand good journalism. But don’t worry. We still love you. We cherish you. You’re wonderful. We will always love you.”

I calmly jotted down a few sentences, which I knew would be the closing statement to this conversation. As her partner, as the obvious target of this conversation, and as the youngest person in the room, I raise my hand and simply, calmly say, “I find that condescending. We are your colleagues. Now, ‘bells and whistles’ and good journalism are not mutually exclusive, and there are phenomenal examples of this in the Internet. And we are all here to learn how to meld the two together. That’s why we’re here.” Hand goes down. People around the table are furiously nodding their heads in agreement. Discussion is over.

How did I feel about her rant? I’ll tell you. GREAT. Because finally, after days of enduring her attitude and long-winded, completely nonsensical speeches, finally, everyone understood. The quiet elderly lady is not just any old quiet participant. She is crazy. She is wrong. She is Martha.

Epilogue: Immediately after her rant, we were all reassigned partners. After enduring Martha for four days, my last two were spent with a snappy, sassy, great partner. The person who was reassigned to Martha spent two nights in her hotel room sobbing out of frustration.

lil' buddy

Florida!

Here are some slices of my training trip so far.

I was the first person to go through airport security early Sunday morning. Seriously! They had to open the doors for me. I stared at about 15 employees through the security doors and they stared at me, like we were both wondering something about the other, then they finally let me in. Then I got to my gate...and there was absolutely no one in sight. No airline agents, no other waiting passengers - only Larry King interviewing Baba Wawa on CNN.

This is what my hotel room looks like. It is very spacious.



This is Sunny and Andrea, walking to lunch in the rain.


Adam, doing the same.
And Meg, doing the same.


And these are my stupid horrible bangs that I did not ask for!

Today I was so bored I traced a banana.

Observe:

But it didn't stop there. You see, my work is in the midst of a week-long strategy session, thus resulting in invigorating, yet lengthy conversations of up to four straight hours in a row with no break. Today I will share with you the drawings I felt compelled to release onto my notepad.

(My program is a little complicated these days.)

(I saw Rogue Wave at the Fillmore in San Francisco this weekend)


(This was truly a low point.)


(I'm watching Enchanted tonight for the first time.)


(I'm biking to work this week.)


(She's not looking too good these days.)

Embarrassing anecdotes as of late.

1. This weekend I attended a dinner party hosted by a friend's friend whom I did not know very well. At the end of the night as I was putting on my coat/sweatshirt, she said to me "I really like your sweatshirt" and as she reached her hand toward the collar to point at my sweatshirt, I simultaneously moved my head down to look at the sweatshirt, thus accidentally forcing her thumb STRAIGHT INTO MY MOUTH. All the way to the back. "It's...it's...from Old Navy" I stammered (forgetting the words "H&M") and she replied softly "uh...sorry about that". Then I left, stupefied.

2. One of my colleagues recently received a prestigious journalism fellowship at Stanford. True to congratulatory fashion, a bunch of us gathered at a skyway lounge after work to toast to his success and bid him an early farewell. We do this every time someone leaves or something great happens, and every time my boss picks up the tab. So as everyone had finished their one drink, we stood up to leave and my boss grabbed for the check. "Thank you!" I said loudly to him. He replied, "I'm not paying for you - just for me." Everyone heard. So I said, "No I know, I'm just saying, thanks for paying first!" Then I left, stupefied.

Want to know when you're gonna die?

This organization called Blue Zones developed a test that tells you how long you're expected to be healthy and when you're probably going to die.

Anyway, I took it because how could you not? Here 'tis.

New keys!

Ok. I bought a new piano and it rocks. I want to show you how happy I am with it, but I must conceal my identity (as you understand). So here you go.


My next move will be to learn/start remembering how to play this puppy. Then I will write you a song, or perhaps learn your fav song and play it for you. Zoom!

Bootastic.

My car got hit by this.


*sigh.

I was driving down the highway one completely normal morning when all of a sudden a truck full of rocks driving next to me and slightly ahead of me hit a pothole and a gigantor boulder bounced out of it, smashed my fog light, then bounced around underneath my car.

Ok so the rock was more like the size of a large head.

But no I didn't get the license plate (I was driving for cripes sakes!) and no I didn't see the name of the company. It was just a huge truck with a (loose) tarp over the top.

I got an estimate, and they said it's $330 to replace. No thank you.

Current fog light count: 1/2

I would NEVER do this in real life.

My friend told me about a recent (really disturbing) dream she had and it made me realize that this is the third dream I have heard of in the last couple of weeks where someone violently cut someone else with a knife.

Observe.

#2. My recent dream:
Here's some context. In real life, I have been considering getting a cat because lately I have been feeling the intense urge to care for something small and alive. Also, I am constantly hearing stories about adorable little buddies that make people my age happy. So my roommate and I decided to visit the Humane Society last weekend, but we picked the smallest and dingiest one to go to. We brought a cat to a cell-like room to "play with", but mostly she just hesitantly stared at us as we hesitantly stared at her. Then we put her back in her cage and left.
Moving on, I had started to reconsider the whole cat thing, when I had a dream that really solidified this reconsideration. In my dream, there was a cat trying to crawl up my body in order to claw my face. At first I tried as hard as I could to just push it down, but it was fiercely persisting. So finally, I took a knife off the counter, and cut the cat in half. Right down the middle.

#2. My coworker's dream:
Here is some context. In real life, my friend is the sweetest most kind and adorable person ever. She never says or thinks anything mean and when you're around her you just want to pinch her cheek she's so cute. She also watches a lot of cop/investigator shows in her free time. Sometimes the disturbing stuff she watches morphs in her brain then enters her dreams.
Moving on, a couple weeks ago she had a dream that there was this really horrible guy that was kidnapping other guys. He wasn't just killing them, of course. No no. He was killing them, then cutting off...certain...parts, then slicing those parts up, cooking them, and eating them. For her to even tell us this story it took every single ounce of courage in her body. And I courageously repeat it to you today.

#3. Nugget's dream:
Here is some context. My poor friend is plagued by absolutely insane dreams. On occasion they are awesome. Most of the time they're downright wacky. But sometimes...they are terrifying.
Moving on, here is what she said about her latest nocturnal adventure. "Last night I had a really scary one where there were these killers chasing me. I finally caught one in a chokehold and wrestled a butcher's knife from his hand. I knew I had to kill him, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I made some test cuts on his arm and was so disgusted that I was hurting him that I couldn't slit his throat. I handed the knife to someone on my "side" who did it instead. I woke up hyperventilating and sweating."

What does this mean? Why are three good-natured, guiltless ladies being reduced to violent and bloody knife dreams during our slumber?

She needs a name. It's been 5 days already!

Guess who is not scrambling her stuff together and sprinting through the skyways, breathless, desperate to catch the bus home?

This gal.

As of today, you're not going to be reading any more horrific bus catastrophes from me. Uh uh sister thang. Say goodbye to the ol' bussin' me. And say hello to.........my new car!

Here she is, boldly crashing through icy waters.


I'm so excited! Help me name her. She is red. Here are some pending possibilities:

1. tuna tot
2. angela lansbury II
3. scary cherry
4. lady
5. honey balogna
6. rabbit ears
7. ears of corn
8. pops murphy
9. car-y
10. belle
11. carlotta
12. drivin' mcgee
13. cottage cheese head
14. squirly sue
15. the lovely maiden
16. subaruby
17. the jester
18. miss daisy (drivin')
19. sparky
    
20. starlight randibond

I love this website.

Found this linked on a friend's blog. You will love.

I learned another trick!

Go to The New York Times homepage. Click on a story. Once you've opened that story, click on any word in that story that isn't a link.

It's like I found gold.

I just invented something. Well, I stumbled across it. And you are going to LOVE it.

Are you sitting at a PC? Hit ctrl-alt-arrow down.

What happened?! Did it work for you?!

I think this is the coolest thing I have ever discovered in my entire life. Now spread the love.

Or, play tricks on your coworkers with it.

I love the bus.

To add to the ever-loving saga of my bus travails.

I'm running a little late to the bus this morning, so I decide to sprint the entire 6 blocks to the bus stop. Normally, I don't get too winded from running. Last night I went on a 45 minute run and was completely fine the entire time. But when I run for the bus, it's a different story. I do a sort of panic run, not unlike this. It makes me sweat profusely and I can barely breathe and/or hold down vom by the time I'm able to stop.

So I get to the bus stop just in time to see the bus lazily slip away from my grasp. Great. Then I decide to chase it down Hennepin, then Lake. I think it sees me, so it stops in the middle of the street (not at a light or stop sign). I run up to it, but at this point my sides are about to split in two, my legs have all but fallen off, and vom is slowly starting to creep up my throat. So I slow down to a quick trot, removing my wallet from my purse. I trot halfway up the side of the bus when all of the sudden, the bus pulls away. It pulls away from me! It wasn't picking up or dropping anyone else off! It left me, my arms outstretched in bewilderment, standing at the curb.

Then, of COURSE, the next express bus didn't come until a half an hour later, so I had to take the 1 hour 10 minute non-express bus. Frick.

I'm bored. And boring.

And I don't do anything interesting. Ever.

Nugget and I recently talked about this. You go through college in this blinding haze of activity and people can't believe the amount of things you can actually squeeze into your day. You barely sleep and you never mind. You do homework when you have an occasional five minutes to spare (that you really don't have to spare) but really you don't do it because you don't have time and your average individual of average intelligence should figure out by now how to cruise through college with good grades without doing homework.

Then you graduate. You take on a couple crazy adventures in crazy places that you've never been. You do some jobs at places that seem like god's gift to young journalists at the time but you really just do some stuff for them for a little while then they get some new cheap youngster to fill the spot. You meet some people that amaze you at the time (but you're going to forget them later). You get out of your comfort zone, you grow up a little, you become comfortable with being alone, you feel independent even though you're mostly just scared and lonely the whole time, it's a happy sobfest, etc.

Then you get a job. Like a real job. And it's pretty cool. But the 40-hour work week brings about an interesting quandary: What the hell do you do the entire rest of the time? The first couple months are awesome. You're settling into your apartment, you're enjoying having nights and weekends off, you're watching movies, you're reconnecting with friends, you're cooking new meals. Then you figure out how to cook pretty much everything you want to. You're friends are back in your life, but still in their own weekly grooves. And your nights and weekends drag on.

You realize, your life boils down to this: You need a fricking hobby.

I should put these here.

http://thegraduates.blogs.nytimes.com/

April 11, 2007, 6:16 pm

Not Following the Money

By Anna Weggel

I love my friends and family, but I’ve seriously considered sending this memo to every one of them:

Dear loved ones,
Thank you for the relentless concern you have shown over the past year for my well-being and my future prospects. You needn’t worry about me, as I am spending all of my free time and much of my non-free time applying for jobs. If you continue to pummel me with questions about my plan come graduation, you will now officially be greeted with a terse “I don’t know yet” and sent on your way.
XOXO,
Anna

It used to be, when I woke up, I would sleepily walk over to the computer to check my latest e-mails, or gaze upon the morning headlines while I waited for my eyes to adjust. I still go straight to my computer in the morning, but now it’s to load one of the Web sites I visit 10 times a day: JournalismJobs.com, MediaBistro.com, Monster.com and all the rest.

I’ve become addicted to the job hunt.

I want not just any job – I want one that’s going to make me feel like a worthwhile citizen, contributing to the betterment of society. I want a job that’s worth something. I want a job that’s going to pay me dirt and make me not mind.

It’s not so much the thrill of the hunt or the rush of applying that drives me, but the terrifying thought of how long I’ll have to flounder around until something falls in my lap. All around me, my friends are snapping up jobs like hotcakes.

Two of my best friends will be jetting off to New York and San Diego the moment they graduate to fulfill their journalistic dreams and are currently searching for apartments. My parents can barely speak to me for one minute without slipping in a “how’s the job hunt going?” — knowing full well I will tell them the moment I hear anything.

But all I have to do is just get that job — that first job. Then I can relax for a moment and revel in my new position before the reality of my measly, entry-level salary sinks in. I feel as if my whole life has been leading up to that moment I receive my first job, move, then realize I can afford nothing and am totally broke. It’s going to be awesome.

I’ve already come to terms with the fact that I’m making more money now as the editor of my college newspaper than I would at any of the jobs I’ve been applying for. But I’m all right with barely being able to live off my first salary. And here’s why:

1. I am perfectly fine living in sweltering heat. (Air conditioning is for the weak.) When my older sister left for college, she taught me a trick that’s just as great as any old air conditioner. All you have to do is take a freezing cold shower, not dry off, then go straight to bed sopping wet. You’ll be cold all night. Problem solved.

2. I haven’t yet developed taste buds. (Fancy food is for fancy people.) My favorite foods, largely due to their price (not their taste, substance or health value) include macaroni and cheese, SpaghettiOs, day-old bread, off-brand string cheese, canned soup and bananas. Lots of bananas.

3. I don’t have a car. I’ve never had one. And the bus is my friend. Living in Minneapolis, I’m lucky enough to be able to bike and bus most places I want to go, weather permitting. Ideally, wherever my career takes me (assuming I have a career), it will be in a big city so I can put off purchasing a vehicle as long as possible. I’m thinking my first car might make a nice 40th birthday present — you know, so I can cart the kids around and whatnot.

4. I wait to buy new things until the very life is sucked out of the old. This applies to clothes, shoes, soap, milk, winter coats, toilet paper and any type of edible grocery item. My two favorite pairs of shoes are so worn out, they might as well be socks. I’ve been using the exact same bottle of Neutrogena Oil-Free Acne Wash since I came to college. I’m still using the same box of instant mashed potatoes that I started sophomore year with, and I’m almost positive it’s still fresh enough.

For some, the equation is simple: graduate, get a job, move, do the job. I could easily do that if I didn’t care what job I got. But I do care. And if that means starting in a small position at a tiny newspaper and receiving something that can barely be called a salary, so be it. If it means sweating in a studio apartment, existing off simple carbs and relying on public transportation, I’ll do it.

When I said earlier that my measly salary was going to be awesome, I wasn’t kidding, because I love what it stands for: a beginning. I’ll make ends meet. I’ll live for the work. And in the end, it will be worth it.

April 16, 2007, 6:12 pm

Too Quick to Judge

By Anna Weggel

My roommate Nick recently had the unfortunate experience of graduating a semester before the rest of his roommates.

Oh, how we judged him.

Before graduating, he secured a position as an assistant speech coach at his old high school, a job that paid an annual stipend of $1,300, to be distributed to him at the end of the speech season. In order to save money on the commute to his hometown, he temporarily moved in with his parents. Yet he continued to pay the rent for his room in our house.

And thank God.

As the person slated to pay the landlord and collect the rent from the rest of my roommates, I would panic at the end of each month that Nick was gone. When there’s money involved in a friendship, it can get a little awkward, but my concern went beyond that. I wanted to know what he was doing, how he was feeling and what jobs he was applying for.

It looked to us as if Nick might be aimless, and unaware that he didn’t have a real job. (Moving back home with parents is often viewed as a classic sign of failure in a recent graduate.) We didn’t understand why he couldn’t just get his act together.

But we were wrong, and it turned out we didn’t know as much as we thought we did about postgraduate life.

Mainly, we underestimated the importance of that little speech gig Nick had.

In high school, Nick had auditioned for the speech team on a fluke when a friend needed him to fill in last-minute as his audition partner. That accidental audition turned into one of the most momentous events of his life, as he went on to become a full-fledged member of the speech team. Today, he calls being on that team an amazing experience that exposed him to some of the best people he’s met in his life.

At the team’s end-of-the-year banquet, one of Nick’s coaches gave him the most valuable piece of advice he’s ever received: “Figure out what you want to do in life and do that. And to hell with what everyone else says.” This advice rang true for Nick when he changed his major in college from chemical engineering to communication studies, knowing that the latter suited him better and would lead him to what he truly wanted to do.

After graduating, Nick was able to fulfill one of his dreams by giving back to the team that had meant everything to him when he was growing up. Making sacrifices and being stretched thin financially didn’t matter to him.

So here we are. It’s April. I’m applying for what feels like a job a day, and nothing is biting. One of my roommates is doing the same. Another won’t even graduate for a while.

And then there’s Nick. While working on his part-time speech job, he landed a temp-to-hire position at a logistics company where he’d like to stay for a few years. This cozy full-time job allows him to pay the bills. Because of his financial security, he is able to devote evenings and weekends to the speech team and to the kids he cares so much about. He’s stable and satisfied.

It’s crazy to believe that the perfect job is going to fall into your lap the moment you graduate, and that doing what you love will necessarily be what supports you financially.

The best we can do is to identify that thing we’re passionate about, that gets us out of bed every day. Nick, I’m sorry we judged you. But I learned something from you, and I’ll be keeping your story in the back of my mind as I try to find the thing that makes me as proud, uplifted and fulfilled as you are.

April 24, 2007, 6:03 pm

What I'll Miss About College

By Anna Weggel

I can’t believe I’m almost done with college. I don’t know how to feel about it, and it’s truly overwhelming.

When I was growing up, my mom would tell me I was “made for college.” I had no idea what she meant. I would say, “But Mom, I love high school,” and she would reply, “I know. But just wait.”

I chose the University of Minnesota because it is far enough from home to provide delicious independence from my family, but close enough that an hour-and-a-half drive will shoot me straight into my parents’ house to stock up on Mom-hugs, Dad-advice and bags full of groceries.

My university is vibrant, humongous and diverse. Its leaders are working to make it a top-ranked research institution, and its location in the Twin Cities offers endless opportunities to experience artistic culture. Most important to me, there is a daily student newspaper that is independent of the university. The only downside is that to wade through a bureaucracy this thick, you really need to be self-motivated. Over the years, that has made me grow up.

These are the things I’ll miss most about college.

• My professors. On the first day of class this semester, one of my professors gave us his cell phone number “in case we ever need to get bailed out of jail.” He was serious. Some of my favorite professors have been adjunct faculty, who wake up in time to teach 8 a.m. class twice a week and then spend the rest of their days reporting for their respective newspapers. The university pays them so little that it might as well be called volunteering, but they don’t do it for the money.

• My house. My bedroom has purple walls, and our three house futons are so worn from hosting friends that there is a permanent sleeping-person form molded into them. Although the floors are so dirty I have to wear sandals in the kitchen, my roommates have become a strong, supportive family. I’m afraid to see what it will be like to live without people who cheer when I walk in the door at the end of a rough day.

• My student newspaper. The Minnesota Daily has taught me more about journalism, people, ethics, doing well, messing up, being a boss, having a boss, meeting deadlines, having too much to do, completing projects, managing stress and living life than I’ve learned in all of the jobs and classes I’ve had combined.

• Never having free time. Yep, I said that correctly. What is having a job like when you don’t have endless amounts of homework on top of it? Working 40 hours a week, then going home at the end of the day to just hang out sounds foreign to me. I guess you could say I haven’t learned how to appreciate downtime.

• Walking. At an urban campus like mine, we walk everywhere. I’m hardly in one building for more than an hour before I have to leave to walk elsewhere. What if I get a job where I sit at a desk all day? Plenty of people have such jobs, and I’m sure I’ll have one someday too. If I do, I suppose I’ll take my lunch outdoors in silent protest. Ha.

I hadn’t started to lament the ending of my college experience until a former neighbor sent me an e-mail message that included job advice and ideas. At the end of her note, she wrote, “Make sure you have fun your last few months of college. And it’s O.K. if you cry when you leave.”

That one line made me realize I grew up in college. I am a completely different person than the acne-ridden, wisdom-tooth-less 18-year-old who stumbled into Pioneer Hall four years ago, nervous about meeting her roommates. I’m certainly not saying that after four years I know it all. In fact, I would guess that I know little to nothing about anything.

A few weeks ago, I was exchanging e-mail messages with my dad about some of the more critical comments on my first column on this site. “People thought my idealism and hopefulness were naïveté,” I wrote. “Do you think that?” Dad, in his wisdom, said, “I think all 22-year-olds are naïve. You’ve experienced a lot, but still not in the real-world sense; you were still protected some by the university umbrella. There’s nothing wrong with being naïve, though, it’s part of the maturation process. It’s cool.”

That was Dad’s gentle way of saying that yes, I am naïve — really naïve. But at least I realize that now, and can embrace it. I think it would be nice to hold onto my idealism, no matter how naïve it makes me, for at least a little while.