Minneapolis Adventures

At 2:50 AM Sunday (after the time change), I was awakened by a phone call from IrishTenor, who had been at a party.

IrishTenor (jovially): "Hey, what are you doing?"
Me (somewhat less jovially): "Sleeping."
IrishTenor: "Is it fun?"
Me (disgruntled): "Not anymore."
IrishTenor: "How would you like to come and pick me up? I'm walking home and I'm dressed like a big yellow chicken."
Me: "What...?"
IrishTenor: "I said, I'm walking home and I'm dressed like a big yellow chicken. Say, what time is it?"
Me (pointedly): "Nearly 3 AM. And this is after I changed my clocks back."
IrishTenor: "It's 3 AM?! I can't be walking around Minneapolis dressed like a chicken at 3 AM!"
Me: "All right...fine. I'm coming. How will I find you?"
IrishTenor (as though this is self-evident): "Drive around Lake Calhoun until you see the guy dressed like a big yellow chicken!"

On Sunday afternoon, IrishTenor and I were sitting in his living room watching football when I saw the mouse skitter out from under the couch. My immediate response was to squeal, "Oh my God, it's a mouse!"

IrishTenor: "What?"
Me (borderline shrieking): "A mouse. Under your couch."
IrishTenor: "Where's Zach?"

Zach, as it turned out, was sleeping in the closet. IrishTenor went into the closet, grabbed Zach, and informed him that it was his job to take care of the mouse.

Zach's reply was a surprised grunt. He didn't take care of the mouse.

Ten minutes later, I saw the mouse again. Squeal, rinse, repeat.

This time, IrishTenor was bound and determined that his cat would kill that mouse. He pulled the cat over to the couch again.

IrishTenor: "Zach! Get the mouse!"
Zach: "Mrow?"
IrishTenor: "Zach, don't stand there like a moron. Get that mouse!"

I stood on one couch so the mouse wouldn't get me (yes, I am scared of mice just like Maya...fuck you), and IrishTenor stood on the other shouting instructions to his cat.

"No, you idiot, it's over here. Behind the speaker! Zach! Stop being stupid and LOOK BEHIND THE SPEAKER!"

Again, Zach failed to take care of the mouse. This time we decided to take action in order to facilitate Zach's hunting. We moved both couches away from the wall so Zach could have better access to where we suspected the mouse was hiding. Zach sniffed around for quite awhile, but he had no luck locating the mouse. Eventually we gave up and moved the furniture back to its proper place.

Late that evening, after IrishTenor went to bed, I was up writing a paper while TheViolinist was watching TV. Suddenly I heard TheViolinist exclaim, "Zach got a mouse!" Sure enough, Zach had finally killed the mouse. I restrained an indignant, protesting Zach while TheViolinist disposed of the kill. If you've never held onto a large cat with a big bad predator complex while someone else takes his precious kill and throws it outside, I tell you: That's pure fun.

TheViolinist announced the next morning that Zach killed a second mouse just minutes after the first met its death. RIP vermin.

This morning I decided to make a stop at Al's Breakfast before going to campus to cram for and take my statistics quiz. I arrived to find that all the seats were full, but I was first in line so I didn't anticipate a long wait.

A middle aged man walked in and began talking to the younger guys seated in front of me about the menu. Despite being behind me in line, he asked the server if he could order right away, with them.

That was when the smell arrested my nostrils. His cologne was overwhelmingly bad. I wouldn't quite describe it as acidic, exactly, but I did have to resist a strong urge to check him for visible chemical burns. At any rate, I am fairly certain that the fumes would wilt flowers.

The server seemed hesitant to let him cut in front of me, but I was glad to let him take the seat that opened up right next to his party. I could still smell him, but at least it was now farther from where I was standing. I pulled out my phone and began the following conversation with my roommate via text:


Me: "The guy standing next to me in line at Al's Breakfast has marinated in the worst cologne EVER. Heinous! Really, why would he think that's okay?"

TheDesigner: "What does it smell like?"

Me: "Strong, musky ASS."

TheDesigner: "Oh, the musky ass smell. The scent of ignorant desperation."


At this point, the server found me a seat at the opposite end of the bar.

Server: "I'm really sorry about the seating."

Me: "It's fine. That guy had the worst cologne ever! I had an ulterior motive - I couldn't wait for him to sit down."

Server: "HAHAHA, good move."

Later...
Server: "I went down to his end of the bar. You were totally right about his cologne."


So the moral of the story is, if you're out in public and someone seems more than happy to let you go ahead of them in line, ask a brutally honest friend about your cologne. You might be wearing Musky Ass.

While riding the bus home from campus tonight, I noticed a lawn sign that read:


In my brilliance, I misread it and for a moment was entirely confused as to why in God's name anyone would advertise a prostate representative.

My reading comprehension is totally stellar. I think I'm ready to graduate now.