We live in a pretty tall high-rise, so the elevator rides can get rather long. No one talks around mixed company in the elevator — all conversations quickly end if anyone else enters.
Kids are the exception. They always talk, and it’s usually hilarious.
I work from home three days a week, which means I get to overhear the bus stop conversations of the middle schoolers.
Today two of them got into it. We’ll call them Wendy and Rachael.
In my bedroom…
It is unrealistic to expect the tenants in my building to suit up to walk their dogs in the middle of the night. What happens is that people let their dogs out in the back lot and watch from the door. Sure there’s the whole “unleashed dog” and “pick up after them” issue, but those are not convincing concerns at 3am with a -20 wind chill.
So every few days I take the shovel to the back lot to pluck the frozen dog-cakes from the snow.
I’m towards the end of a Lake Calhoun dog walk and run into a man who stares me down. I avoid eye contact, but to no avail:
Creeper: “Nice dogs!”
Me: “Thanks.”
I keep walking. He catches up.
I dread parking in the Salon parking lot.
There is a parking lot attendant who always creepily compliments my haircut when I pay. He makes me uncomfortable and I have a hard time understanding his thick-Somali accent. He makes me feel as if I’m in some sexual-harassment training video.
A historic storm hit Minneapolis last night. There were 60mph wind gusts which made the evening dog walk feel like being simultaneously cast in a Willow Smith video and a dramatic scene from Harry Potter.
The bulk of the storm was last night, but this morning’s commute was still windy and filled with that soggy type of snow that doesn’t stick. Jill caught me running out of the school parking garage in this plague weather.
I am at the office’s coffee/hot water machine. It’s a Tazo tea day. A curly-haired woman approaches from the side and we both do a start-stop motion towards the machine.
Me: “Oh, sorry. Go ahead.”
Curls: “Oh no, you go.”
Me: “It’s fine.”
Curls: “You were here first.”
Me: “Well thank you.”
Curls: “You’re very welcome.”
I got an email a few days ago from my school:
UMN: “Hay! We received your FAFSA but you totally need to do entrance counseling for your loan. NO CRUSHING DEBT MONEY FOR YOU UNTIL YOU DO THIS!
Get on it, Snickerdoodle.
Toodles.”
So I moseyed down to the Department of Education website and completed their entrance counseling. This is the first time I’ve had to do entrance counseling, which is a series of pages that say “Hey, you really need to repay your loan or we’ll shank you!” followed by short questionnaires:
I’m at Dunn Brothers and trying hard to not laugh. Minneapolis cafes are prime territory for awkward conversations, and this is precious.
I am sitting near a middle aged man who is a caricature of a slimy Hollywood producer – facelift, all black clothes, tasseled shoes, bluetooth in ear, and a really glossy facelift.
Hair plugs’ victim is a cute, 20-something year old girl.
A little water-cooler gossip…
Jill: “So Jack is dating Britney now?”
Me: “Yep.”
Jill: “Which one is Britney again?”
I’m the caretaker for my building. Part of the caretaker job is showing open units to the ghetto and the crazy, most of whom don’t show up for their appointments:
Me: “Hello, I’d like to speak to KeKe.
Old Lady: “What? Why? Who?”
Me: “KeKe. We had an appointment for an apartment showing at 1pm. It’s 1:15 now…”
Old Lady: “Oh, THE GIRL! Lemme find her…”
KeKe: “Yea?”
Me: “Hi Keke. This is Dennis from the Whittier Apartment building.”
KeKe: “Okay.”
Me: “…uh, well, we had a showing scheduled today for 1pm. It’s 1:15 now. Do you need directions?”
KeKe: “Oh I couldn’t find it.”
The krakens and I surprised one of the apartment maintenance guys:
Maintenance guy: “Woah!”
Me: “Sorry.”
Maintenance guy: “Those are some big ass dogs!”
Me: “Yeah, I moved to the garden level apartment, so they are necessary.”
Maintenance guy: “Two dogs and a shotgun for city livin’. That’s what I say.”
So true.
And the krakens finally earned their keep re: the city livin’ part!
I am in line at one of the many Starbucks in the Mall of America.
In front of me are two African women. In front of them is a middle aged woman. She’s soaked with sweat.
Of course she turns around and addresses the African women:
Matt and I are at the Saloon. I see a Hispanic guy wearing a thin white button down with a gaudy silver pattern on the back. He also has a “female” friend who made me instantly homesick for Miami – flat ironed hair, tight tank top, fake breasts, scandalously short skirt, and dangerous stilettos.
I couldn’t resist.
Me: “Oh gurl, you’re beautiful!”
Yamile: “Why thank you!”
Me: “I’m from Miami. You’re taking me back right now.”
Yamile: “Oh my god! We are from Miami!”
She’s from finals, but I forgot to post the picture here:
It’s late. Matt, Brett, Hair, Swan, and I are outside of Jetset bar. Brent and Hair are smoking. Hair looks bored. Matt wants to leave.
I leave the group to go to the restroom. When I come back outside I see Alig out of the corner of my eye.
Alig is your run-of-the-mill1 skeezy club rat, sort of like the club kids in Party Monster, except this is Minneapolis so half the time Alig is in track shoes and ill fitting shorts.
Reputation-wise, Alig is the equivalent of WMD or Pig Pen from the Peanuts: the tragic hot mess of the city who will soil anyone he talks to like broken septic tank. Behold:
