Pechman had a “recreational fire” at his house. His neighbors were unamused.
Pechman had a “recreational fire” at his house. His neighbors were unamused.
I gave some snark during the dog walk:
Mousy Girl: “Oh god, I can’t believe someone would just tie them up like that!”
Gawky boy: “Yeah, how pathetic and inhumane.”
Mousy Girl: “Too many bad dog owners in the neighborhood…”
Me (coming out of the cafe) : “They’ve been pissing for the past five miles, so they can wait five minutes while I pee for a chance.”
Jill and I were in the company store rifling through the massive candy selection when we make a discovery: Burger King French toast flavored snacks!
Jill: “That’s vile. I’m going to buy a bag of that crap so we can try it.”
Jill and I brought the bag of toxic nast flavored-snacks back to the cubicles and forced Amber to partake in the taste test. The snacks taste like carmeled cheetos…which didn’t sit well with Jill and Amber:
Last night Matt, Judd, and I celebrated our team’s Trivia win at the Lowertown Bulldog. We are walking back to my car when I announce my plans to drop out of law school:
What a busy, hilarious week. There is too much to write about, so I am settling for pictures and captions. This is choppy, but appropriate given the state of things…
This week featured a massive iced-tea spill at the office. Amber is cackling as I run to fetch napkins:
Judd and I took the dogs on a walk around Lake of the Isles this morning. He now realizes that I do not exaggerate the craziness I run into on these walks.
There were vicious mini-dogs, creepers that went out of their way to talk to us, and a lot of awkward “why is the dog doing that?” moments. We survived with a lot of lysol, some silly string, and a taser.
There were also mansions. The Lake of the Isles is cluttered with them.
This is my favorite:
Bam! I know there are grander mansions directly on the lake, but this is my favorite. I will live here someday. I will wear a long, flowy bath robe and saunter out to the front steps to fetch the morning edition of the New York Times. The dogs are dead at this point, the bad-ass kids are away at boarding school and Juddson is off on business.
It is just me, my mansion, my coffee, and the lemurs…
The mansion straddles a hill slightly off the lake and is surrounded by dramatic old churches. Living directly on the lake seems inconvenient. The constant stream of cars, dogs, and gawkers is not worth the status boost. Then again, maybe my opinions will change when I’m fabulously wealthy and in need of a prestigious address…
Last week I decided to stop wasting my time.
I quit a clerkship, dropped a pair of toxic “friends” and told the boyfriend that I not getting any younger, these ankles are swelling, and it is time to finalize our adoption and mortgage plans…
Well, maybe not that last part, (That is for this week!) but I have realized that this blog is one of the things that is wasting my time.
This blog is supposed to be a journal and a time saver. It is neither.
In which Gertrude establishes who’s boss:
I moved some furniture around so that the Rottweiler can no longer see me leave the apartment. This might help end her kennel-hysterics.
Harley decided to camp out behind my books during the furniture move:
And yes, I’ve decided that I’m going to construct a book-fort around him when I move from this apartment.
My apartment building is old and decrepit, aka vintage, so bathroom wall leaks in odd places. This isn’t new.
Two weeks ago I had a mysterious leak from my medicine cabinet. The landlord eventually came, fixed the leak, and said, “OH MY GOD! Look at the water damage to the paint in your bathroom! We need to fix this!”
Turns out that the paint in the bathroom has had water bubbles and stains since before I moved in a year ago…
After a week of scheduling, the painter arrives. I leave the painter (hoping he doesn’t rob me) and walk the dogs around the Lake of the Isles.
Spring break was exhausting.
The week was strewn with awkward middle-of-the-day appointments and my entire salary went to the vet.
I come home from work on Saturday night to find my apartment covered in scat and blood.
Apparently stress caused the Rottweiler to have a bacterial imbalance, and erm, yeah. Blood. Everywhere. It was disgusting.
I was on the phone with Madre Jansen while scrubbing the blood from the floor:
Me: “Ugh.”
Madre Jansen: “What’s wrong grasshopper?”
Me: “I’m scrubbing blood from the floor. The Rottweiler is having issues again. I’m going to vet.”
Madre Jansen: “This is getting expensive. Maybe you should give the dog back to the humane society.”
Me: “Ugh. We’ll see. I still want to make her into a handbag.”
Madre Jansen: “Maybe she’s on her period and – excuse my language – just a sloppy bitch.”
I laughed so hard that I almost dropped my phone in the blood.
Mom cursing = hilarity every time.
It was my third vet trip within a week. Harley did a good impression of my face when I saw the bill:
The birthday boy decided to do his best Jay Sean pose:
I came home from work, Gertrude was out of the kennel, and the floor was covered in blood.
Another trip to the vet, $230, a hospital stay, and a dozen tests later, the doctor tells me that stress induced a bacteria imbalance which causes the rottweiler to pee blood. Charming.
The only thing that’s keeping me from killing both of the dogs is the cuteness:
Two small miracles happened.
Spring break is complete.
I frequently share an elevator with a guy who looks just like Michael Buckley. Until today I have only exchanged polite nods with Buckley in that “I’m acknowledging your fashion sense” sort of way, but today Buckley broke the ice:
Buckley: “Nice shoes.”
Me: “Thank you.”
Buckley: “I have a similar pair, but my boss would kill me if I wore loafers1 to work. Even nice ones.”
Me: “I am an intern, so we are expected to look a hot mess anyway.”
Buckley (cackling): “I didn’t think you guys were aware of that.”
Earlier: Amber’s Skill and Competence.
1 Joseph Abboud loafers.
Amber is raging about the office today. Amber’s father is a dog breeder and coaxed her into running a Twin Cities kennel club, which apparently1 has caused some drama:
I’m at SuperAmerica and pass an overly-tan girl and her pale friend. Overly-tan girl stares me down and when I pass her I hear her whisper to Casper:
Overly-tan girl: “Hah! And people call me orange!”
Sassy Sue: “Are the dogs scared of bikes?”
Me: “I guess we’ll find out.”
Sassy Sue: “Oh hell nah!”
Me: “What did you say?”
Sassy Sue (getting off bike): That answer was unacceptable!”
I then ran into a pack of kids coming out of a youth center across the street.
Jake brought a random pair of tacky douchebag glasses to trivia and made everyone pose with them. Behold:
Everyone has a syrupy facebook friend: the one whose status updates constantly mention their significant other in a cheesy, overly-sentimental way,
Syrupie Smith: “Off to lunch with my amazing boyfriend!”
Syrupton Bergsteiner: “Going to see my beau! Love you babe! Xoxo!”
Syrupy ~LOLZ~ Adams: “So excited for tonight! I get to see my sweety! Tee hee hee!”
Etc.
These are also the people with the preggers pictures and baby-profiles, or the gay guys who upload dozens of nearly-identical shots of themselves posing with their not-so-cute boyfriends. Hay!
We all know these tacky people, and I am trying desperately not to become one. But it’s hard. The new relationship is more Beyonce than Sophie Ellis-Bextor.
Today the temperature was well into the 50’s and everyone was waltzed around without coats, and most of us had shorts on.
I had time for the multiple dog walks because I left work early.
My coworkers and I are probably going to start boycotting most of the food options at work. Amber got food poisoning from a cafeteria salmonella salad, and I became deathly ill after eating a pack of sugar-free gummi bears from the company store.
I, of course, ate an entire pack of the jelly beans AND the gummi bears. And yes, the warnings are there for a reason. My goodness.
This coming week is Spring Break for my school. I will work a lot, but I have grand fitness plans. We’ll see if I can force myself into a Jillian Michaels workout routine, or if I will have Har Mar’s curves for another season.