This makes me so happy I feel like hopping around my room screaming “YES WE CAN” like Kyle’s dad.
I’ve been racking up extra hours (at work and outlining) so I can afford to take the weekend off for the move. The move shouldn’t be too bad because I don’t own any of the furniture in my fraternity room…
…which means a trip to Ikea.
The apartment is really out of my hands at the moment – the landlord is doing the obligatory criminal and credit check. And, again, barring any shenanigans (ie someone stole my identity and ruined my credit) things should be fine.
Today’s task was getting serious about finding a dog. I filled out the applications and did the follow-ups… and there are two finalists at the moment:
Tula
Harley
Tula is a pitbull. Harley is a mastiff.
There are pros and cons for each dog.
Tula pros:
Friendly
Cheaper monthly expenses (smaller dog)
High energy, but not a spaz (good running dog!)
Used to being inside
Well behaved
Tula cons:
Pitbulls have an extremely bad reputation
Mom wigged out ala, “OH MY GOD I WILL NEVER VISIT YOU IF YOU GET THAT DOG!”
Tula’s mom isn’t a 110% sure that Tula is house broken
Harley pros:
Friendly
Mastiff is my dream dog
Potty trained
Less likely to destroy furniture
Harley cons:
More expensive (monthly costs, bigger dog)
Foster parent hasn’t been as communicative with me, so I’m relying more on the advertisements for the dog.
Mastiffs SNORE…
I know what I’m getting with Tula, whereas with Harley…hm. While I don’t think it would be a disaster per se, Harley is definitely more of a wild card. Oh what ever shall I do?
So the leasing office is in an alleyway and partially hidden by a dumpster. I walk up to the door. It’s locked, but I see people inside so I knock.
A Somali man opens the door and shoots me the “wtf?” look. I ask for Jeff. He points to another guy, who isn’t Jeff. I repeat my question. Guy #2 points to an woman at a small desk (also not Jeff!) The woman is cussing someone out on the phone. Angry Receptionist: “LISTEN LADY! It’s not happening today! We have over sixty properties and I’m the only one working. I have eight people in the office right now and it’s 10 till 5. You’re not getting a showing today call back... okay, I understand, but it’s not happening. Again. We are busy… what? Hey look – I’m assisting you the best I can right now. If you have a problem then take it up with management or rent else where. Bye.”
It was a really small room. There were six Somali men and me. The two oldest Somalis were filling out leases. I stood with the younger ones as we watched receptionist’s bitchfit.
The receptionist hangs up and then turns to me. “Hi. Can I help you?”
I’m uber-cautious not to become the next victim. I quietly tell her I’m here to drop off my lease application. My tone? Please don’t throw the phone at me…thanks.
The receptionist seemed relieved that I spoke English. She explained the deposit procedure to me and snapped at the Somalis as I wrote my checks: Angry Receptionist: “Wait, how many people are living with you? So it’s you, your brother, your friend…and? Wait,…that does not go on that line. . . wait, I have a call.”
(She picks up her cell) Angry Receptionist: “Oh yeah, so I normally wouldn’t do this but I was too lazy to go outside so I smoked in the apartment…. yeah, I had a fan blowing it outside. It didn’t smell like smoke did it? OH GOOD!”
I stood there, smirking, like, “lady, you just made the blog…”
A few minutes later I put my security deposit down. I’m going to move into my very first aparment soon! Now all that’s left is to get some furniture, and of course, the dog!
The end is near! This past week was the week of changes and drama. Finals are creeping closer and so is the law review petition…
Oh and classes are still going on apparently. Most of my section has become impatient with classes. Here’s a rundown:
Crimlaw is a waste of time. Even the “nice” girl has stopped reading Crimlaw and simply outlines during class. We can tell that our professor is extremely knowledgeable, but he is a thoroughly inept teacher. Our professor is also late for almost every class. What the hey?The whole Crimlaw experience is exacerbated by Billy Scratch N’Sniff. Scratch N’Sniff (SNS) is a boy from the other section who spends the entire class periodscratching his nether regions. Yes, even during the double-session we had on rape. Actually, the sex crime topic prompted an unusual amount of participation from SNS…it was bizarre. And yes, he was scratching as he opined about rape. The horror…
Corporations has really picked up. Several of my friends refused to take corporations because of Professor M’s verbal ticks1 but the professor has really relaxed and the stuttering has almost disappeared. The class is usually amusing, with Professor M taking plenty of pot-shots at the Delaware courts. I love it.
Property is a death march. I really like the subject but the class has become tedious. Professor P has a stiff, mechanical style and is relentless when questioning students.It’s really painful to watch. When a student doesn’t know the answer to a question, Professor P simply repeats the question. Over, and over. Have you ever seen two kids do that, “Yeah-huh, nuh-uh, yeah-huh” bit? That’s how questioning feels in Property. Today’s class was especially brutal. please let it be over soon…
But there is always Civil Procedure. I have been preaching the gospel of Professor V since last semester, but most of the section hasn’t come around until this semester. Professor V is the best professor ever and has amazing powerpoints. Today’s slides started with a Yogi Berra quote. Past classes have featured Diana Ross and Anna Nicole. I love it…although we’ve spent so much time on Erie/Hanna analysis that it better be on the exam…
On Thursday I was the distraught 1L in computer services when my laptop suggested that OneNote had deleted ALL OF MY NOTES. Yeah. I was almost the kid howling “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” in the study carrels. My laptop then proceeded to do this:
Unacceptable. Everything turned out alright, but I could have done without the 20 minutes of remmidemmi…
Things in the Gamma house have deteriorated ever since the trashing. The housemates are divided into two camps. People are pissed off and it is getting hard to be civil to Slovenly Housemate.
I tried really hard to be accommodating. But I’ve had to walk over too many beer bottles, pizza boxes, and Coke Zero cans. Slovenly’s friends are also annoying people and over WAY too much.
Charity stops here. I’m pissed off.2
There is going to be a contested election for house president within the next two weeks, but I’m done. I’m moving out after finals. I refuse to live in filth.
I visited an apartment building today that I’m probably going to move into. There were two apartments for rent. The first unit was a dank place on the bottom floor that rents for $575, and the second unit was a huge place on the top floor that rents for $650 a month.
The problem is that the huge apartment is…well, huge. Like, “I entertain” huge.
I’m negotiating a lease right now. We’ll see how it goes.
The building allows dogs, which is crucial. I need a canine running partner.
I arrived for the apartment showing a bit early so I stood outside of the building while talking on the phone. While I was on the phone, a lady left the apartment building with two small dogs.
I was on the phone with Jack and mentioned that the humane society has a lot of pitbulls on its website. My main concern is that a formerly abused pitbull is going to have a flashback and rip my throat out in my sleep. EXTRA: MINNEAPOLIS LAW STUDENT MAULED TO DEATH. DUMBASS ADOPTED AN ABUSED VICIOUS DOG.
Of course potential-neighbor-lady overheard this and started writing down websites where I can find non-throat-ripping dogs. She then detailed the various substance abuse3 problems of the tenants. It looks like it’s going to be an interesting experience…
This was definitely the week of changes. In addition to the apartment hunt, I gave up Splenda and started running because I signed up for a marathon. The marathon is in October, but I’m training now. My first run was 3 miles. The next morning I was so sore that I thought “OH MY GOD I BROKE MYSELF!”
I bitched at myself for a good half hour before I went back and ran 6 miles. The 6 miles were not as painful as I expected. Running is a great people-watching opportunity. The funniest thing I saw was a gay guy walking a pair of chihuahuas.
How do I know he was gay? Well, besides the Juicy Couture sweatpants he was wearing… there was also the fact that his DOGS were sporting pink camouflage hoodies. Diva please.
I had two “Diva Please” moments at bars this week because I was mistaken for a 32 year-old TWICE.
I’m actually 22. I think it’s the beard that does it.
Ah well. Age is overrated, as Sloven Housemate has proven…
1 Professor M used to string together “uh, uh, um, ers” … he never went over six in a row though. Yes, we counted.
2 I refuse to lecture someone who is OLDER THAN ME about “how NOT to be the dirty irritating housemate.” If you haven’t learned how to respect your peers by college, then you have some deep character flaw that’s not getting fixed any time before your wife serves divorce papers on you…
Alfie is a pacman frog1 and spends his days brooding around the tank.
Alfie enjoys crickets, long hops on the beach, and the rule against perpetuities. He graduated from UMN law school and worked as an associate at Hoppry & Frogson before going solo and serving as Chris Brown’s defense lawyer…
Bigger images are on facebook.
1 Ceratophrys. A really informative website is here.
I usually had Splenda packets in my pocket…
…and in my briefcase.
…and in my car.
I had a box of Splenda in my locker…
…and two boxes in my room.
Splenda was delicious and always on hand.
So, of course I thought that drinking Tea without Splenda was going to be awful – but it wasn’t! Turns out that I really like unsweetened tea.
And I don’t know why this was such a surprise. I really like bitter things: I drink dry, bitter beer and prefer 90-100% Cacao to regular chocolate – so why did I need my tea had to be sickeningly sweet?
Oh well. If anyone at school needs a boatload of Splenda… message me.
Sunday, before Stella and I worked on our ADR assignment (which took forever) we went to the Mall of America1 and Wal-Mart.
MOA = hilarity. But since it is impolite to take pictures of the NUMEROUS goth kids wearing black bat and kitty ears (I kid you not) we had to settle for the Hollister mannequin, who was flashing the entire mall:
This is the first time that I realize how hobo-chic Hollister is. The mannequins both look like they’d smell and ask for a quarter. Hm.
After the mall we went to Wal-Mart. We found some gi-normous tea cups!
Okay, okay. This is actually a flower pot. I want a Starbucks one.
After Wal-Mart we went to Wilde Roast and spent a minute on the ADR assignment. It was long-ish, and the in-class ADR simulation is tomorrow. We’ll see how that goes!
1 Cheapest mall trip every by-the-way. I spent $4 on a keychain and Stella spent $4 on a too-tight headband at Forever 21. Our primary reason to go to the mall was so that I could get my watch shortened and so Stella could scream at Version for her $100 mystery charge on her phone bill.
I came home yesterday and two of my four toads were dead.
All the plants in the tank were dead too. I have no idea what happened, but I was over it. I phoned Petsmart and told them that they were taking my remaining frogs back. I then chucked everything in the tank.
Pfft.
By the time I got Petsmart I was pretty cranky. I didn’t buy a fish net and had to pluck the dead toads out of the tank with my hands. Let’s think about that for a second. Dead toad. Bare hands. Dis-gusting.
And yes, handling a dead toad is worse than handling a dead fish… I could still feel the slime as I drove to the store…
The Petsmart manager was nice. He could see that I was annoyed and grossed out, so he didn’t bitch at me for killing two animals. He also, somehow, managed to sell me an allegedly hardier pet. We’ll see how this goes…
Yes. It was gross.1
1 I bleached my hands afterward. And no, that picture is not of a dead toad. I wouldn’t do that to you…
I take 35W home from work. 35W is a big-honking highway that is under never-ending-construction.1
I suspect the city started closing all of the highway lanes at night, because on my home from work the traffic is backed up for miles. Even at 10pm on weeknights! Unholler.
And yet, I always forget about the construction until I’m on 35W and spot the sea of cars ahead. The same thing happens every time: I gasp, gag a little, and then swing my car towards the nearest exit.
And then I wade towards downtown through 6 miles of residential neighborhoods. It’s a great way to get to see the city, but also a good way to get shot.2
Yesterday, during another construction-induced adventure, I saw a castle.3 Yes. I’m serious. Minneapolis has a small castle:
It’s the American Swedish Institute, a Swedish cultural center:
The American Swedish Institute is a historic house, museum, and cultural center located near downtown Minneapolis. Swedish immigrant newspaperman Swan J. Turnblad founded the Institute in 1929.
The Turnblad mansion, which houses the Institute, is on the National Register of Historic Places. The 33-room mansion is a fine example of early 20th century chateauesque architecture. Graced with a majestic two-story grand hall, carved stone and woodwork, sculpted ceilings, and eleven floor-to-ceiling kakelugnar (Swedish porcelain tile stoves), the mansion is now a blend of period rooms and exhibit galleries. (Via the official website.)
This is the coolest thing to ever come out of a traffic jam! I think I’ll swing by next weekend and yes, I will be on the lookout for Ikea furniture…
1 Every city has one. In Miami it’s the Palmetto. 2 I always find the ghetto. Without fail. 3Judy G., local architect has pointed out that the Swedish Institute doesn’t actually qualify as a castle. Hmmf!
My mother lives in Miami. I spoke with her on the phone today: Mom: “I hear you guys are getting snow later this week.” Me: “Really? But it’s so beautiful out today! It’s hot and lots of people are walking around in shorts and flipflops.” Mom: “What? It’s 30 degrees!” Me: “What? There’s no way. It’s hot!” Mom: “Okay, well, the actual temperature is 40 degrees, but the “feels like” temperature is 30 degrees.”
I checked the weather an hour later: 41 degrees. “feels like 33.”
It feels like 33 degrees and I’m outside sweating. I don’t know what I’m going to do this summer.
I go to Ikea this morning to get a plant for my cubicle and I get gravely confused: it’s 10am on a Sunday and Ikea is packed. Am I missing something?
I notice that every third person had the same metal kitchen pot. Am I forgetting another holiday? Did Obama declare “Make the AIG executives into a tasty gumbo” day or something? I thought the pots were strange, but as the hefty guy in business clothes buying a potted plant, I decide not to judge…
I get to the checkout line and almost drop my plant. The line is horrifying.
I resist the urge to leave my plant on the nearest piece of sleek Swedish furniture and run.
I get in line and just stare at the mass of people. Why why why? I came extra early just to avoid THIS VERY SITUATION.
And what is up with all these cooking pots? Half the people in line are clutching big, silver cooking pots. Did I enter the Swedish-designed twilight zone or something? Am I on tape?
To support my twilight zone theory is the fact that I’m actually standing in the self-checkout line. I hate the self-checkout line. I avoid the self checkout because it makes me feel stupid in an entirely new way every time.
As I wait, the store speakerphone comes on: Ms. Chipper: “Good Morning Ikea Customers! Thank you for attending our special event. ALL OF OUR WHATISCALLED COOKING POTS ARE SOLD OUT. I repeat. WE ARE SOLD OUT OF ALL OF THE WHATISCALLED POTS. Thank you for shopping with Ikea. Please come to our next special event. And remember, AGAIN, WE ARE SOLD OUT OF THE POTS.”
Oooh, so that’s why everyone has a pot! Fancy!
The line shortens, and I anxiously hope that I get the checkout station furthest from the line… so of course when my turn comes, I get the checkout station right in front of the line! Hm. What is this? An opportunity to bedazzle angry shoppers with my self-checkout ineptitude? YESSS…
I approach the self-checkout station, muttering under my breath, and start to fumble my potted plant.
I almost drop the plant. Then I almost drop my wallet. Then I almost drop the scanner.
I pick up the scanner and discover that my plant pot won’t scan. I’m swiping my plant pot like a declined debit card and it still won’t scan. Crap, crap crap!
The couple in front of the line stares me down and frowns. Sweat collects on my forehead.
I key in the number of my pot and then try to scan my plant.
It doesn’t work.
The people in line grunt. I can’t find the key-code on the plant. Crap. The “how to find your key-code” diagram doesn’t help. Ahh…
The line glares.
My deodorant breaks down.
I turn to find the customer service guy and hear screaming: the Ikea customer service guy is fighting with an African lady at the station behind me: Lady: “WAIT, WHAT IS GOING ON?” (The Ikea guy snatches her cooking pot and walks it to another register) Lady: “Where are you going? Why did you take my pot for?” Ikea guy (coming back): “You’re only allowed to have one pot per customer. You have two!” Lady: “I’m holding it for my sister.” Ikea guy: “You were trying to buy it.” Lady: “NO I WASN’T! I was holding it for my sister. She’s on her way.” Random mullet guy in line: “She gotta be in the store herself woman!” Lady: “What did you say? THIS IS RIDICULOUS! She is on her way!”
Ugh. Fail.
I ignore the hot mess going on behind me and try to scan the plant again. I was just grateful that the line wasn’t glaring at me anymore. I’m trying to scan the stupid plant before the fight stops but plant won’t scan…
The Ikea guy finishes arguing with African lady just before Mullet dude incited a riot. Ikea guy walks over to me, and asks if I need help. Me (Trying hard not to sound pathetic): “It won’t scan.” Ikea guy: “Yeah it will. See.”
Ikea guy picks up the scanner and my plant scans on HIS FIRST TRY.
Of flipping course.
I quickly pay the machine and scurry out of the store. As I left, I could hear the African lady resume her bitchingconcerns about “her sister’s” cooking pot…
The plant looks great, but next time I’m standing in the normal checkout line.
I knew I had a problem the second I opened my bedroom door – my room stank of swamp. It smelled like I had a bog body under my bed. Uck.
The nast came from my toad tank. Apparently my toads prefer live food. So if a cricket or meal worm dies before the toads get to it, then it just rots in the tank. Delcious. I know. I was so thrilled to learn this firsthand…
I wasn’t prepared to deal with rotting bugs, so I went to the fresh part of my room1 and finished reading Malcom Gladwell’s Tipping Point.
Finishing a non-textbook felt good. I think it’s a 1L rarity. Woop! I was now ready to reclaim my room’s freshness.
I pumped the tank, did a water change, lit coconut incense and about a dozen scented candles. I also vacuumed and disinfected all surfaces. My room currently has more chemical smells than Lady Gaga’s hair salon.
I did have one problem:
The 14-year-old sales rep at Petsmart was mistaken – my toads do not eat mealworms. At all. Half of the uneaten-grossness in the tank was worms. Fail.
But I still had so many left! What to do?
After thinking about it for a few minutes I realized: “Wait, meal worms are …WORMS! And I don’t care about worms!”
Chuck, Flush, Holla! Problem solved!2
Now that I have a newly cleaned and freshened room, I can finally concentrate on those fee committee reports…
1my bed, which is by the diffusers… 2 I didn’t actually flush the worms… chucked them outside. It’s warm enough…and the bats that live in our attic are looking famished…
We went to the lake street Popeye’s Chicken, and were amused.
Inside, I ran into a lady from Miami.1 We both agreed that Minneapolis is amazing, but desperately needs a Church’s Chicken Store. The closest Church’s Chicken stores are in Milwaukee and Missouri.2Hmmf.
The best thing at Church’s are the biscuits. They drip and glow with butter…mm savory!
1 Yes. For all you people who thought Renee and I were the only ones who moved from Miami to Minnesota. 2 Which means that I’m making a road trip this summer…
Jamie’s grandmother turned 77 years old yesterday. There are very few things that one can buy a 77-year-old, so Jamie opted for boxed wine!
Classy!
Actually, boxed wine is very practical – bottled wine only lasts 3-4 days after its opened, whereas boxed wine can last up to a month.
Since we were at the liquor store, we decided to take the drunkard’s advice and buy some Trashlite (aka Pitbull Beer).
And the bum was right! Pitbull beer is the business.1 It has that strong bitter taste that reminds me of grandma’s Altbier.2
I suppose a drunkard is an alcohol expert, in a way. Hm. One gets good advice from the strangest places…
1 It tastes good, but I wouldn’t say it “rocked my world” (as the Toothless bum put it…) 2 I love it, but Jamie thinks its disgusting. But I also eat 100% Cacao…
I have noticed a drastic improvement of the quality of generic Wal-Mart products. I wasted $17 at Target diffuser.1 It’s the one on the left:
I bought the smaller diffuser on the right for $6 at Wal-Mart, and I’m overwhelmed with freshness every time I enter my room.2 I just keep the Target diffuser around for decoration now.
The quality of all Wal-Mart groceries has improved as well and my wallet are all about it. Viva la Wal-Mart!
1 It only diffused the money from my wallet. 2 So, for full disclosure, it helps when you accidentally knock over said diffuser and spill the scented oil everywhere – BUT – the diffuser was also very powerful before the spill.
