Jujyfruit81's Xanga

Saturday, March 22, 2008

Sat, 22 Mar 2008 04:10:54 GMT

Last night I went to happy hour for Allison’s birthday with some friends and co-workers. Being a birthday celebration and all, it turned into one of our party-all-night and hate-yourself-the-next-day happy hours. I didn’t get home till after midnight, and I’m pretty sure that I stared at my own reflection in the bus window the entire ride home like a crackhead. But that’s beside the point. I realized a long time ago that I hate having a hangover at work. HATE. The headache, the queasiness, the fact that I have to say hello to the director of marketing in the kitchen without puking on his shoes. But yet, at least once a month, I put myself in a situation which results in the Work Hangover. To allow you to get a feel for what the Work Hangover is like for me, I’ve outlined the phases below.

6:00 a.m.: Awakening

I’m jolted into consciousness by the combination of my alarm clock going off and some sort of alcohol-caffeine-adrenaline rush. I’m confused, disoriented: I can’t figure out what I dreamed and what actually happened last night while I was drunk. Reality and hallucination combine into a big convoluted mess.

6:02 a.m.: Realization

Shit. I have to go to work. Why didn’t I think of that last night? Why? WHY?

8:00 a.m.: Preparation

I arrive at work and decide that in order to stay conscious, coffee is necessary. Obtain 1 medium nonfat latte. Try not to move around too much in order for stomach to stay settled.

9:00 a.m.: Production

After morning meeting and coffee run, I settle in at my desk and am able to maintain sub-par level of output…for an hour.

12:00 p.m.: Destruction

Am suddenly ravenously hungry and only for things containing high levels of grease and fat. Drag sorry ass to Jimmy John’s for not entirely unhealthy lunch, avoiding urge to run straight to Ginelli’s Pizza or that greasy burger place in the skyway.

2:00 p.m.: Dissolution

It’s over. No amount of water consumption or eating of salt and vinegar chips is going to save me now. I can no longer interact with people, and blatantly ignore them when they come to my desk. I delete every email that arrives in my inbox. I throw important documents into my recycling bin, and curse the world, and vodka.

3:45 p.m.: Surrender

I’m lying horizontally in my chair. My hands are on the keyboard but nothing coherent is appearing on the screen. People are asking me if I’m ok. I decide to leave early.

4:30 p.m.: Relief

I’m home now. But instead of going to the gym or making a healthy dinner, I lay down on the couch, pop a Will & Grace DVD into the machine, and fall asleep to the sweet gay sounds of Jack making cracks about Will’s thighs and large vocabulary. I promise to never do this to myself again.

3 weeks later: Memory Block

The co-workers want to go out to Rossi’s again, and I happily agree. We’re there at 4:00 ordering our first drink. Like Pavlov’s dogs, you can shock me repeatedly, but I’ll still go back for more. Maybe I’ll be smarter in my 30’s?

Deep Thoughts with Julie

Fri, 22 Feb 2008 04:33:55 GMT

I’ve never claimed to be an angel, but I believe that I do have a few virtues. For one, I don’t really lie (anymore). I stopped needing to after high school – the days of “no, Mom, I would never smoke a cigarette!” and “Mr. Morrissette, of course I didn’t skip enough classes to get expelled two weeks before graduation. Those teachers just overlooked me during attendance…a lot” are long gone. These days I don’t have any reason to lie.

I’m also not a very envious person. Somehow over the years I subconsciously decided that being me is a pretty good gig, and it’s not worth wishing I had other people’s lives or other people’s things. I’m nice to people, I’m grateful for what I’ve been given, and I’m generally a lover, not a hater. But one quality that I never quite got a handle on is the ability to feel happy for others.

A great man once said, “I’m not really happy for them. I mean, I’m glad they’re happy, but frankly it doesn’t do anything for me.” (Seinfeld, Season 4, Episode 22). This pretty much describes how I usually feel when something great happens to a friend. Um…no offense, friends J. I guess I just never learned how to genuinely feel excited for another person. But that doesn’t stop me from frequently saying things like, “I’m so excited for you!” …which – if what I’m saying is true – I guess would qualify as a lie, come to think of it. Oops. And sometimes I’m even less happy for people if their happiness negatively impacts my happiness. Like when my single friends get married and I don’t see them as much, or when I talk 3 of my co-workers into dropping their grad school classes so they’ll have more time for happy hour. That last example is strictly hypothetical, of course.

The thing is, I can still recognize that something is good and it makes my friend happy. And I do want my friends to be happy; it just doesn’t make me happy. I really only get happier if something good happens that affects me directly, like getting a raise, or reaching my fiber intake for the day. Then the feelings of joy are overwhelming.

So the real question is: am I a bad person for not being happy for others? Or am I just the only honest person who is willing to admit it? And the next question logically then would be: should I be being this honest in an unrestricted blog that my future employer is probably reading right now? (Closed circuit to my future employer: I’m really a good person, I swear). And the final question is, of course: do I care? And the answer to that is, as always, no.

The Holidays: Volume 2007

Thu, 03 Jan 2008 04:00:28 GMT

Remember the old days when I used to write blog entries while I was supposed to be working? Well, due to the incremental maturity that comes with age, I put a stop to that. But that was before I had thirteen solid days of vacation (and subsequently forgot I even had a job), after which it is only fair that you’re allowed at least 48 hours to get back into the habit of actually doing work. So today, instead of responding to emails from internal clients, or reviewing copy that’s been sitting in my inbox for 2 weeks, I’m going to write all about my life as Girl Without Job.

It all started the Thursday before last when I thought it only appropriate to invite out my co-workers and a few friends to down some drinks at The Local. The thing about not having to work is that it leads to excessive drinking (see paragraphs 3 and 4).

There were a few pre-planned events happening over “Christmas Break,” as I call it, because I like to pretend I’m still in high school. One was 80’s Night at the Shouthouse the Wednesday after Christmas. Friends and coworkers showed up to sing along to Bon Jovi and WHAM! while drinking $1 red bull and vodkas. I was fine after sleeping till 10 and eating cookies for breakfast; my coworkers who arrived at work promptly at 8 Thursday morning – not so much.

Friday night we got together at the uptown VFW. More good times were had with lots of friends and lots of cute boys (little known fact: the VFW, whose reputation is based on alcoholic vets drinking scotch at the bar while muttering profanities under their breath is actually a really good place to meet young single men). The evening was a great time, until I realized the next morning that

my car was towed from in front of Dan’s apartment building. Yeah, AGAIN. Kind of like last summer, except for even more full of suck because it was winter and freezing and Lisa doesn’t have a car anymore so we had to wait at Dan’s apartment until he could come home and drive us to the impound lot. Whew…I think that sentence was four lines long. That’s gotta be a record.

Besides drinking, I did spend some quality time with family over the most festive of Christian holidays: Jesus’ Birthday.

For Christmas this year my mom bought me Seinfeld Season 9 and labeled it, “From: Grandma.” I was fairly certain my grandmother, a disabled 81-year-old who lives in a nursing home in MiddleOfNowhere USA, hadn’t jacked the Good Samaritan Center van to drive to the nearest Best Buy 200 miles away and pick up the last season of my favorite sitcom. But, you never know. Whatever the case, I’ve already watched every episode twice (welcome to not having cable), which has resulted in my incessant quoting of or interjecting phrases from Seinfeld into every conversation I have. This is bad, because it’s one of those situations where you know you’re just about to start annoying the shit out of everyone, yet you can’t stop yourself.

I also received the following gifts for Christmas:

· A little toy Bobcat forklift. Here’s the thing. My uncle works at the Bobcat factory in Gwinner, North Dakota. You know, the one you didn’t know existed. Apparently Bobcat just opened a gift store featuring hundreds of miniature Bobcat toys, and my uncle thought that this would make the perfect gift for his 26-year-old niece. Couldn’t agree more.

· A pizza cutter with a Bobcat logo on it (see bullet 1).

· A metal tree decoration made out of recycled oil cans and a reusable grocery bag which can also be used for other purposes (Lisa recently discovered her inner hippie).

· Three rolls of quarters. My mother is nothing if not practical. She gave the gift of not having to run to the bank in my pajamas minutes before closing next time I get the late-night laundry impulse.

· Some money to put in my I’m-getting-more-nose-surgery fund. Oops, I wasn’t going to bring that up. Too late. I decided to have an actual plastic surgeon remove the residual bumps that are still on my nose that show up in pictures and occasionally in the mirror. No one else can see this except for me, and some may argue that I’m being too picky (the surgeon included). But it’s my nose and I’ll screw with it some more if I want. Go on…judge me. Just don’t come talking to me when you decide on lipo for your 40^th birthday present.

Don’t get me wrong – I am more than grateful for the generous gifts from my family. But sometimes you just gotta laugh at a toy forklift.

And now it’s back to reality. The reality where I can’t afford to have a hangover every single day. The reality where people don’t give me presents all the time. And the reality where eating frosted sugar cookies for every meal just isn’t acceptable. How depressing. Good thing my birthday’s in a couple of weeks. More presents…and cookies.

Friday, August 17, 2007

Fri, 17 Aug 2007 12:48:08 GMT

Sometimes to get inspiration for blogging, I read my own blog. This next entry is the result of two hours worth of sifting through the past two years of my life as it appears on the internet. You can decide if it's working or if I should be getting my inspiration elsewhere…

I’ll never forget the day my mom and dad came into my bedroom, shut the door, and had a discussion with me about how they believed I had a “shopping addiction” which had become a “serious problem.” I was a freshman in college. I made $75 a week and didn’t own a credit card. Apparently they defined “addiction” as spending a third of my paycheck on couple of 2-for-$20 shirts I found on the clearance rack at The Gap. Serious problem? I thought not. But perhaps I shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss their concern as delusional paranoia, given what years of uninhibited shopping has done to my financial stability.

With each passing year, I become a little more successful. This results in career promotions, which in turn result in my own delusion that I can afford everything from $75 Lacoste polo shirts to $400 Coach bags. Online shopping is simultaneously the best and worst thing to ever happen to me. I remember when I used to flip through the pages of Victoria’s Secret catalogs to get ideas of similar things I could buy at cheaper venues. Now I just boot up, enter my credit card number and click “submit.” I remember when $150 for a pair of jeans seemed outrageous. And I remember when my entire shoe collection could fit in one closet. Ahhh, the good old days.

The truth is that I just really love clothes. They’re kind of like a hobby for me, or a pet. Instead of taking my dog for a walk, I spend Saturday afternoons carefully ironing a stack of dresses and button down shirts. Instead of taking my cat to be groomed, I bring my heels to the shoe guy at Macy’s.

But these are the choices every girl in her 20s makes. Do we spend our money on six pairs of this season’s BCBG heels, or do we put it toward a down payment on a house in the burbs? Do we satiate or need for immediate gratification, or do we steal away our salary for later use on that white picket fence we are supposed to be dreaming of? I don’t know about you gals, but I’m not the house kinda girl. For now my paychecks are rolling straight to Target National Bank, and I’m not making any apologies.

This is the kind of entry that makes me question my own intelligence

Fri, 17 Aug 2007 01:27:26 GMT

Today my coworker Brook came over to my cube and dropped a printout onto my desk. She proceeded to drop one on Mary’s desk and one on Ginger’s. I picked it up and read the first line aloud: “Award-Winning Chicken Rub Recipe.”

“What’s this for?” I inquired immediately.

“It’s a really good chicken rub recipe,” was her answer.

I got up from my desk and walked over to her and Ginger. “What do you want me to do with this?” I asked. Turns out, Brook was trying to be nice by offering up this fantastic recipe.

I’m sorry, have we met? Do you sit right next to me and listen to me blather on all day everyday about my life and everything related to me? Where from my incessant musings did you get “homemaker?” I mean in order to use chicken rub you’d need to make a chicken, I assume. My idea of dinner is a box of All Bran crackers and an episode of SVU. Sometimes I make a ham and cheese sandwich, and if I’m feeling really adventurous, I heat it up. But I don’t cook. I don’t bake. I don’t even feign interest in cooking or baking or doing anything with food that requires more than 6 minutes of my time.

I guess this is just the process of getting to know your coworkers. I learn that they puke whenever they see dog poop (yet for some reason still own a dog); they learn that I don’t cook – I just assemble.

So I decided that I’m going to start being more open to things that I currently hate, like dogs and Applebee’s and St. Paul. The other day my dad actually said that I’m a Minneapolis snob. This is entirely true. Whenever one of my friends moves to St. Paul, the question that immediately pops into my head is, WHY? I’ve never really understood why someone would want to live in a city that hardly has any nightlife and has streets that don’t go in numerical OR alphabetical order. I guess if you worked in St. Paul, maybe, but who works in St. Paul? Everyone I know who lives there works in Minneapolis or the suburbs, meaning they actually have to go out of their way to live in the more lame of the twin cities. Minneapolis, on the other hand, has loads more restaurants, bars, museums, theaters, coffeehouses, clubs and shops than St. Paul AND they all stay open past 5 p.m. But despite these blatantly valid reasons for disliking SP, I’m going to try not to hate on it anymore. I mean, I like a lot of people who live there, so that’s something. And there must be other good things about it. It’s our capital city. It’s got a lot of Irish bars. The Wild play there. And umm…Cossetta’s is a really good restaurant. Now Applebee’s and dogs, those are going to take some more work. But I’ll keep trying…cause I don’t want to be one of those people who hate stuff.

Wednesday, August 08, 2007

Wed, 08 Aug 2007 01:12:08 GMT

This past weekend I spent what I like to think of as roughing it. You know, enjoying the great outdoors. Becoming one with nature. Jenna and I headed up to Crosslake on Friday afternoon where we proceeded to spend the weekend laying around on the boat, watching Law & Order marathons, getting our nails done, and eating ice cream. My only stipulations to camping are that there must be a functional shower, a comfortable place to sleep, air conditioning, cable, and a nail salon within 20 miles.

So for me, last Tuesday was the day every parent dreams about for their children: My first court appearance. Being the punctual girl that I am, I arrived fifteen minutes early. I wouldn’t have done that had I known I’d be sitting in the courtroom for TWO AND A HALF HOURS – watching everyone who'd gotten there after me + their brother tell their sob stories to the judge. I thought her honor was being quite lenient with the other defendants – I listened as she threw out case after case involving driving with no license, driving with no insurance, speeding tickets and the like.

As the hours passed I became convinced that my case would be treated the same – after all, I didn't even run the stop sign – I paused at it. But when my name was finally called, I discovered that the only break I would get was $52 off my original ticket (leaving me with a fine of $90) and the assurance that as long as I don't get any more stop sign violations for the rest of the year, my record will be clear. Two words for that: Bull. Shit. I totally got the shaft. Not to mention the fact that I had to put up with getting hit on by the weirdo in the seat next to me wearing dirty white jeans. Ew. Somebody at Hennepin County owes me ninety bucks, two and a half hours of my life, and compensation yet to be determined for the dirty jeans guy.

But let’s not get too caught up in my piddly squabbles with that law when there is real tragedy in the world. You know. The bridge. It’s crazy to think that CNN, MSN, NPR, and every other news organization in the world focused days and now nearly a week of coverage on the 35W bridge collapse in Minneapolis. Someone from work is still missing in the wreckage. Darin’s roommate is still in the hospital. And Amy and many other people we know crossed it only minutes before it went down. So I’ll just say one thing about it and then I’ll get back to my mindless musings: I am so thankful to have all of you – my friends, family, and (this being the internet and all) strangers I’ve never met – in my life and that you are healthy and safe. Much love.

Alright I’m done. Night!

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

Tue, 17 Jul 2007 01:46:33 GMT

Ok, you be the judge on this one. After work today I walked my usual route to 8^th Street and Nicollet to catch the #25 bus. When I got there, I noticed amongst the many waiting bus riders just off their 9 to 5 shifts, a woman, her husband, and a very small child. Upon closer inspection, I noticed she was lifting up her shirt in preparation to breastfeed. And then she started, in the middle of the Nicollet Mall, on Monday afternoon, surrounded by 50+ yuppies in business attire. I’m sorry – did I miss the memo on this? When did it become acceptable to pull up your shirt and settle in for a feeding in downtown Minneapolis at quittin’ time? I’ll admit, I don’t have children (despite what Working Mother magazine seems to think), and I don’t understand the delicate intricacies of feeding times and whatever else the hell is involved with bearing children. But I’ve never seen this before, which indicates to me that many, many women around the Twin Cities manage to feed their babies in places other than the sidewalk in front of the US Bancorp building. Sorry, but I just can’t get on board with this.

Cut to this evening after running club. I was driving home, cruising past the usual homeless people who stand on the corners begging for money, when I noticed one particular beggar of note. This guy was young – couldn’t have been older than 22 – wearing long dreadlocks, a tie-dyed shirt and several facial piercings. He was holding a sign that read, “Traveling. Need money. Anything helps.” Ok what? You’re an able bodied young man – and a moderately cute one at that. What makes you think that I’m going to give you my hard earned money just because you are choosing to “travel” instead of getting a job like the rest of us? I’m as caring and giving as the next girl, but there’s a point at which I draw the line. The least he could have done was look downtrodden. I mean the dude actually walked up to my car and said, “Could you spare some change? I’m here from Arkansas.” Um yeah, that’s a selling point.

And then I got home and wondered, what has the world come to? And then I ate a ham sandwich. I’d better get some sleep so I’m mentally prepared for whatever appalling spectacles I might witness tomorrow. Good night!

Saturday, July 14, 2007

Sat, 14 Jul 2007 02:19:05 GMT

So today when I got home from work, there was an envelope with my name on it sitting on the kitchen table. I opened it up to discover it was a check from Grandpa John, our landlord, for $80. Why, you may ask, is my landlord writing me a check? Well, the answer is this: remember a few weeks ago when my car got towed from in front of my house for parking too close to a fire hydrant? Yeah, let’s relive that again real quick. Whoa boy that sucks.

Well, Grandpa John had warned us that we could potentially be towed for parking too close to the fire hydrant, but that no one in the history of him had ever been towed before. So somehow, Grandpa John feels partially responsible for my tow and ticket. He told me that he would pay for part of my fines and that I could take a portion out of July rent to cover it. Gee that’s nice, I told him, but honestly I couldn’t take the money. He had no responsibility whatsoever for Lisa and my decision to park where we parked. I paid full rent. And then today this check shows up. It’d be great to have the money and all, but there’s this little part of me that wants to write an extra 80 bucks into my August rent check. I mean, that’d show him.

Today was Track Suit Day at work. One of the benefits of working in marketing is that, unlike in many other departments such as accounting or records management, people are fun. Since I joined our marketing team five months ago, we’ve had make-a-crazy-hat-day, stuff-your-pie-hole day, amazing race day, and multiple conference room dodgeball tournaments. I wore my turquoise and white track suit with pride today, except for on my way to work, on my way home from work, over lunch, and whenever I left the building – then I changed into jeans. I can’t be roaming around downtown in a track suit, I’ve got a reputation to uphold.

Tomorrow I’m getting up at 6 a.m., running 13 miles with the club and then racing over to Nokomis to watch Lisa and Bryan participate in the LTF Triathlon. I’d better get to bed.

Thursday, July 12, 2007

Thu, 12 Jul 2007 02:33:09 GMT

My Glamour magazine arrived in the mail today – you know, the one I never subscribed to but comes every month anyway. I was eating the last of the vanilla Hagen Daaz Paul left in my freezer and flipping through the pages when I saw this:

Covet -- a new fragrance by Sarah Jessica Parker

I got really excited about that, but then I saw this:

“People born after 1982 are the most narcissistic in recent history, according to Jean Twenge, Ph.D., author of Generation Me.”

Well no shit. I could have written that article in two minutes. I was born slightly before the population mentioned in the quote, but I know all about self-obsession. The piece went on to identify the symptoms of self-obsession:

Looking at yourself in your reflection every time you pass a mirror. I can do better than that. I walk by like 15 glass buildings on the way from my bus to the office downtown everyday, and I don’t make it past a single one without giving myself at least a sideways glance, if not a longing stare.
Talking about yourself constantly. Hello – blog! This little webpage is my ticket to ramble on and on about myself with reckless abandon. Uh, hope you don’t mind.
Snatching the digital camera away after someone takes a picture of you to see if you look ok. One word: Obviously. Why wouldn’t you do this? That’s the whole point of digital cameras – to eliminate pictures of you with food on your chin, hair in your face, or your eyes closed floating around in your friends’ photo albums.

I’ll openly admit to a reasonable self-obsession. But I think it’s healthy. I mean, I’d rather be obsessed with myself than with someone else – like a movie star or my married co-worker. At least I’m available!

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Wed, 11 Jul 2007 02:28:54 GMT

Wow. It’s been a long time. Does anyone still read this thing? Well, if you do, here’s a bunch of blog.

I used to think I had good luck. I mean hey, I was born into a loving family, I have all ten fingers, and I was blessed with naturally blond hair. But with time I started to realize that my luck was more like average. I never seemed to win at that cake walk on carnival night in elementary school, and I broke my ankle sledding senior year. But only recently did I discover that I, in fact, have HORRIBLE luck.

A few weeks ago I was heading across Franklin Ave. on my way to catch the 6 when I got picked up for jaywalking. Yeah, that’s right. Jaywalking. Technically it wasn’t jaywalking since I was in a crosswalk, but apparently entering an intersection before the little white walk signal illuminates is a major crime – worthy of a $112 ticket. I immediately headed to the Government Center to contest it and got them to reduce the fine to $90 – but COME ON.

And you’d have thought that was it for the week. But that evening on my way to meet Amy for dinner, I was driving on Lake of the Isles Parkway and to my horror, when I glanced in the rear view mirror I saw a cop on a motorcycle pulling me over! 142 bucks for “pausing” at a stop sign and not coming to a complete stop. Of course the first thing I did when I got home was look up “pause” in Webster’s online – it means to “stop temporarily.” Bastard police force and their inability to understand simple vocabulary.

On Thursday my co-workers started a legal defense fund (read: change jar) in my honor, featuring a picture of Paris Hilton (who looks strikingly similar to me from the back) getting hauled away by the police. I think there’s like two bucks in there now. But the story doesn’t end there.

Friday (two days later) I got off the bus in front of my house after work and immediately noticed my car NOT sitting in front of my house where I’d left it. Confused, I called Lisa to ask if she had any idea what might have happened to Little Red. She was also puzzled but, feeling bad for me, offered to call the impound lot and find out if it had been towed. Five minutes later I learned that my car was parked too close to a fire hydrant. 138 bucks to get it out of impound, plus $34 for the ticket. And the kicker is, I hadn’t even parked the car myself – the evening before, me and a few of my co-workers went for happy hour and out of sheer paranoia that I would be pulled over after having two glasses of wine and thrown in jail for DUI, I made Lisa come over and drive my car home.

Many have heard that story already, so if you have – forgive me. I’m just not quite over it yet.

Cut to the 4^th of July. As tradition would have it, my friends and I floated down the Cannon River and drank two large coolers worth of cheap light beer. Obnoxious antics followed, including but not limited to loud singing of the Spongebob Squarepants theme song, blaming of “them damn terrorists!” for anything and everything, and many many attempts to stand vertically on our tubes mid-river. The crowd was silenced after Derek busted out a 1-liter bottle of what, at the time, we deemed the World’s Most Perfect Margarita (which promptly turned into the World’s Most Shittiest Margarita). After passing it around for 20 minutes, Paul, Dan Lisa and I simultaneously passed out in our tubes for the remainder of the trip. We managed to make it home (thanks to bottled water and designated drivers), but once my margarita-induced haze began to lift, I started to realize that my SPF 30 had done me wrong.

Too much to drink + sitting on/in water for 4 hours = Sunscreen reapplication VITAL

Guess who couldn’t solve that equation. I guess I forgot I’m the whitest person in the world save for albinos. Enter: The Worst Sunburn EVER. The entire front sides of both of my legs were crimson and burning. I couldn’t sleep, or move, or do anything other than wish for death for 3 days. My skin began to blister around day 4 and still hasn’t healed (a whole week later). Of course it might not have helped that I ran 13 miles in the sun on Saturday and biked 12 miles and swam laps in Lake Nokomis Sunday morning. But mark my words: I will NEVER leave my house without being armed with a bottle of 45 again. Or at least, not until this heals.

Other than that string of bad luck-slash-stupidity, things have been swell. A few tidbits, courtesy of our old friend, the bulleted list:

Marathon training is going well and I’ve even made some new friends out of the deal via my running club.
I saw Jonny Lang at the Basilica Block Party last Saturday night, and he proved to be as beautiful and talented as I always suspected.
A few of my co-workers have started this thing called The Julie Voice. It’s really high pitched and sounds nothing like me, and it says stuff like, “Umm and then I got picked up for jaywalking” or “Look at my sunburn!” I can’t decide if I love or hate these people.
I finally got my dad to haul my pink bike that says “hot” in Spanish up to my house. After 13 years of sitting in my parents’ garage, I thought it was time to dust off the old contraption and bring sexy back. I took it down to The Alt, our neighborhood alternative cycle shop where all the employees smell like weed and look like white Bob Marley, for a tune-up. The guy on duty that day helped me pick out matching pink handlebar tape and had my bike in tip-tip condition in two days. I souped it up with a gel seat cover, a water bottle holder, and a pink bike helmet – and you better believe I’m riding around town in style now. In fact, I took it for a 20-mile spin tonight.
Erin sent me some forward today informing me of this makeup website that’s clearing out its entire online inventory and everything costs only $1. Of course I had to check it out, and now I’m expecting like 13 different kinds of lip gloss in the mail any day. Thanks, Erin.
Summer is an amazing, fantastic thing. You can run, bike and swim whenever you want, it stays light all evening, rooftop bars and café patios are open city-wide, and everyone is just a little bit happier. This must be why we brave the hideous 10-month long Minnesota winter.

And that pretty much does it. I’ve made a mid-year resolution to start updating this thing regularly again, so visit early and often. Signing off for now.