Minneapolis Adventures

I must have a serious lack of credibility

2008-01-30T00:48:00.000-06:00

The other day as I was walking into work, I happened to look at my phone and noticed that I'd missed a call while driving. I listened to the voicemail, which was a bit fuzzy, but I could make out that it was a woman calling from some office in downtown Minneapolis asking about the delivery of some sandwiches. Since I would have hated for her whole office to not get lunch, I decided I should call her back and let her know she had the wrong number.

Me: "Hi, I'm just calling because someone from this number left me a voicemail about some sandwiches, and - "

Woman: "Yes, this is Joan, and I need those sandwiches by 11."

Me: "Well, the thing is, I was calling back to let you know that you have the wrong number. I'm sorry, but I can't help you, and I wanted to make sure - "

Joan: "I need those sandwiches by 11! You'll have them delivered by then."

Me: "I'm very sorry, but this is my personal cell number, and I'm afraid I can't help with any sandwiches."

Joan: "No, I need those sandwiches!"

Me: "I'm sorry, but you have the wrong number. I don't work for a restaurant."

Joan: "No! I need those sandwiches delivered by 11."

Me: "I do not work for a restaurant, I'm afraid you have the wrong number."

Joan: "No, I have the correct number. It's 612-555-5555." [Which oddly enough was my cell number...]

Me: "I'm sorry, but this is my personal cell number. It does not belong to anyone affiliated with a restaurant. I'm sorry but I can't help you."

Joan: "Fine." [slams down the phone]

To this day, I'm both extremely puzzled and extremely entertained by the fact that she simply did not believe me when I said that she called the wrong number.

They shouldn't have elected Him to the Board of Regents.

2007-10-21T21:41:00.000-05:00

IrishTenor's friend NevadaSoprano (reading a banner hung on a sorority house): "Jesus Christ is Lord of the University of Minnesota."

IrishTenor: "I knew someone fucked up was running that shit!"

Fun with survey critiques

2007-09-19T19:33:00.000-05:00

I love my survey methods class.

Question on a survey evaluating service at a hotel in New Orleans: "When you arrived to check in, were you greeted warmly?" (Yes/No)

Classmate: "What if 'greeted warmly' means something different in Minnesota from what it means in New Orleans? Did I get beads?"

Professor (as respondent): "Yes, I was flashed appropriately."

I have no words for this one.

2007-08-12T12:15:00.000-05:00

I was at a bar in Uptown on Friday night, and as I was weaving through the crowd, a creepy-looking Asian guy with glasses and a molestorstache pulled me aside, peered into my face, and asked me, "Are you Asian?"

Wanted: Coffee shop to use as a study space. Must have normal clientele.

2007-04-09T21:05:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time, Arbusto introduced me to a certain coffee shop in St. Paul. Over time, it has degenerated from a laidback, pleasant place to study into an indie Twilight Zone. On a mild night, there might simply be a group of noisy and idealistic undergraduates. One night, while sitting in the back room, I kept hearing a strange noise coming from the front part of the coffee shop; it sounded like an unintentional Wookie imitation.

However, the strangest group by far to frequent this coffee shop is the gaggle of women who gather to knit, talk about dismembered pets, and randomly sing "John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt."

Tonight, as I sit here trying to enjoy a cup of coffee and a chicken sandwich and focus on my stats project, the knitting group has convened at the next table and is talking loudly amongst themselves. Topics covered tonight have been LiveJournal, how none of them want kids (thank God, we've dodged a bullet), and how one of the women knows someone who BREASTFED A LITTER OF PUPPIES.

I decided I might need to leave and never return.

A friend pointed out that a human breastfeeding puppies is farfetched at best and is probably a physical impossibility.

However:

Apparently someone tried this.
These people associate with that person.
These people are in the same room as me.
I have now had the unfortunate image of a woman breastfeeding poodles seared into my brain.

I might need to leave and never return.

A united front

2007-04-01T19:14:00.000-05:00

Zach, IrishTenor's big orange cat, lives only for his next meal. On most mornings, he will do his best to turn on the cute and con someone into giving him an extra breakfast. This morning was no exception. IrishTenor woke up an hour after I'd fed Zach and Thundercat, and Zach seized the opportunity to try for a second helping.

Zach: "Meow? Meow? Meow? Meow? Meow? ..."

IrishTenor: "SouthernCanadian, did you feed the cats already?"

Me: "Yes, an hour ago."

IrishTenor: "So Zach is lying to me."

Zach (hopefully, upon hearing his name): "Meow?"

Me: "Yes."

IrishTenor (to the cat): "Zach, that's a nice try, but you need to realize something. SouthernCanadian and I have a little thing in our relationship called communication, and she has communicated to me that you have already eaten. You're out of luck."

The birds and the bees...Violinist-style.

2007-02-19T17:21:00.000-06:00

While talking about my adoption...

TheViolinist (to me): "So you don't know your 'real' parents?"

IrishTenor (interjecting, somewhat facetiously): "SouthernCanadian doesn't have parents."

TheViolinist: "So did the pelican bring you?"

What's that tag line about "inappropriate remarks," again?

2007-02-12T23:34:00.000-06:00

I have been working at my current job for nearly a year now and have not had a single moment right out of The Office...until today. I ran upstairs to the vending machine this morning and passed through the break room just in time to overhear the following exchange:

Guy 1: "...although he is a bit bigger than what I normally like."

Guy 2 (staring intently at his sandwich): "I am not even going to ask in what way."

Arbusto demonstrates respect for academia

2006-12-05T22:23:00.000-06:00

Me (jubilantly): "So after this spring, I only have three more course requirements left!"

Arbusto: "And then your thesis."

Me: "Wait, did you say 'thesis' or 'feces'?"

Arbusto (after a split second of deliberation): "They are the same."

Chicken run

2006-10-30T15:57:00.000-06:00

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!"

The Uptown mouse killer

2006-10-11T18:23:00.000-05:00

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.

Musky Ass

2006-10-10T14:23:00.000-05:00

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.

I'm a grad student. I read good.

2006-10-05T21:23:00.000-05:00

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

KAREN CLARK
for state representative

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.

Feline gender identity crisis

2006-08-17T10:54:00.000-05:00

8:25 AM:
Arrive at the Kitty Klinic.

8:30 AM:
IrishTenor arrives at the Kitty Klinic with Thundercat.

8:32 AM:
Filling out paper work, IrishTenor asks what he should put on the form for the kitten's name. Surprised he would ask, I say, "Thundercat." IrishTenor says he thought the novelty of the misnomer would wear off eventually, so we write, "Morris."

8:40 AM:
The vet and vet techs conclude that although with a kitten this young they would not swear on their diplomas or on the graves of deceased loved ones, they are pretty sure Morris is a girl.

Oops.

Call me Lumbergh.

2006-07-03T14:51:00.000-05:00

Last week, I did some data analysis on one of my company's projects. Today, I spent some time drafting the reports to give to the clients and emailed said reports to one of my senior team members.

I just passed this team member as I was leaving my cube to get coffee, and I just asked him, verbatim, "Did you get that memo?"

Wanted: One mouser

2006-06-26T10:04:00.000-05:00

At long last, I am finally ensconced in my new home with my new roommate, TheDesigner. The house we live in is older, but it's comfortable and beautifully decorated. TheDesigner's boyfriend, DrGamer, is around a lot and seems like a riot to hang out with. IrishTenor already knows DrGamer through an ex-girlfriend and likes him, so it will be a lot of fun to have everyone at the house together. In short, although I'm still settling in, I can't think of anything negative about my new living situation...

...except the resident mouse.

TheLandlord warned me when I signed the lease that there had been a mouse sighting or two last year and asked if my cat was a hunter. At the time, I didn't know, but this morning we had the chance to test Maya's predatory prowess.

The mouse made an appearance as TheDesigner and I were getting ready for work. Maya had been crouching by the kitchen sink ever since I got up, but I didn't think anything of it. After my shower, I entered the kitchen just in time to see Maya chasing a mouse back under the stove.

I shrieked. TheDesigner came running. Maya, who had failed to actually catch the mouse, recoiled from the stove.

TheDesigner and I held a very succinct council of war, the outcome of which was a decision to shut Maya in the kitchen until we both left for work, in case the mouse ventured out again, and let DrGamer set a few traps tonight.

Amid Maya's plaintive protests, I negated her hasty retreat and returned her to the kitchen, shutting the door behind us. She refused to approach the stove, instead positioning herself as far from it as possible. She pawed at the door and mewed fearfully as I poured myself a glass of water.

At the very first opportunity, she again fled the kitchen and promptly hid under my bed where the mouse wouldn't get her. So much for all of those famous feline hunting instincts.

IrishTenor's edict on covariance structures

2006-04-27T01:03:00.000-05:00

My last statistics lab concerned covariance structures. All one needs to know is that there are approximately a metric buttload from which to choose for your data and that some of the most common are abbreviated RE, ARH(1), CS, RE + AR(1), and UN.

The other night, while Zach was "helping" me with my assignment, TheViolinist and IrishTenor were trying to make sense of the lab questions in all of their jargon-filled glory.

TheViolinist (reading from the question sheet): "Consider the UN model - "

IrishTenor: "Just blame it on Iran!"

"No, I swear, the cat really did eat my stats lab!"

2006-04-25T08:14:00.000-05:00

The above picture is Zach interfering with my efforts to finish my statistics lab, which is due by 4:30 today. My course notes, SAS output, and lab assignment were spread all over IrishTenor's living room floor in organized piles, since IrishTenor and TheViolinist were playing a video game. Zach sat and watched me work for a good ten or fifteen minutes before deciding that he could not let me have all the fun. After all, it would be completely unfair of me to play with so many piles of paper and a pen and not let him join me. And everyone knows that cats and statistics go together like ice cream and cake.

The result? One very wrinkled lab assignment; one very satisfied kitty:

Eighth grade boy humor, statistics-style*

2006-04-20T17:03:00.000-05:00

*I promise, reading this won't make your head hurt.

Today in class, my statistics professor opened up the Help menu in SAS, the statistical software we use to do assignments. Help topics for the various analytical procedures were listed in a frame on the left side of the window.

Nestled in the list along with the MIXED procedure, the CORR procedure, and the REG procedure (among others) was the INBREED procedure. Imagine teaching a course on SAS programming and having this on the list of course topics: "Okay, class, now that we've learned how to generate a correlation using SAS, let's talk about how to INBREED."

My dad is a bastard.

2006-04-04T14:03:00.000-05:00

While watching the basketball game last night, IrishTenor, his new roommate TheViolinist, and I were wondering about the origin and significance of the day during Holy Week designated as "Maundy Thursday." Because at heart all of us are nerds and because we were drinking, this was a matter of great importance.

TheViolinist and I both felt that as the offspring of men of the cloth, we should know this. IrishTenor's friend and co-worker, TheBanker, did not see the connection.

TheViolinist: "We're PKs. Our dads are pastors."

TheBanker (pauses, blinks, and stares): "Did you just say your dads are bastards?"

"Thou shalt not use thy knowledge of statistics to inflict harm"...oops.

2006-03-30T09:56:00.000-06:00

I’ve been pretty stressed out lately over work, classes, other assignments, and...my statistics lab. As a result of this, I have also been very, very tired. Last night, I was staring at my computer screen, trying to generate intelligent answers to the lab questions and forcibly removing the cat from my desk every three minutes. I decided I needed a break and called IrishTenor to tell him my woes. After all, a boyfriend is supposed to lend a sympathetic ear when I want to complain about things that do not interest him and make his head hurt.

IrishTenor picked up the phone, and I started to tell him how sleepy I was and about my statistics lab.

IrishTenor: "Wait, is this something where I have to care?...Okay."

Me (reading from my assignment sheet): "Write the two-level hierarchical linear model for the main effects..."

IrishTenor (sounding dismayed and borderline violated): "And now you’re reading it to me. I was reading The Count of Monte Cristo."

Me (trying to conceal my amusement): "Should I let you go back to that?"

IrishTenor: "Yes. Goodnight, my dearest."

I went back to my computer. I saw instant messages from my ridiculously smart brother, who wanted to talk about psychometrics, statistics, and research methodology. Inwardly I groaned.

Those of you who know me know that these things are my main focus in graduate school and may be wondering why the prospect of discussing them with TheGoodOne made my head hurt. In fact, those of you who know me are probably wondering why I wasn’t literally jumping for joy. The thing to understand is that at any given time, 95-98% of my brain is devoted solely to keeping me from falling asleep in my chair. Also, TheGoodOne is a full-fledged, bona fide brainiac. I usually need to borrow about 50 IQ points from a neighbor or from someone on the street just to hold my own talking with him about anything. And we have completely different philosophies about approaching research, which methods to employ, how to employ them, and what kinds of questions we can ask.

TheGoodOne had many rather vague questions about coursework in research methodology, survey methods, psychometrics, and statistics. Fatigued and unable to clear the SAS syntax I was seeing inside my head, I finally asked him, “What specifically do you want to be able to do, with statistics?”

"Well, by the end of my political science stats training, I should have mastered regression in its various forms. But I'm looking for analysis other than regression."

There it was. My chance for small scale revenge. Because I am well enveloped in the nerdy evil that is statistics and because I like it that way, I felt enlightened rather than disillusioned when I finally learned this. I finally had a global understanding of all the things I'd been calculating and interpreting for years.

For my brother, I think this felt more like The Firm, when all the partners pull an associate into the office or conference room and reveal that they are merely a front for a Mafia money laundering scheme. I knew it would feel that way for him. But God help me, I said it anyway.

"Other than regression? Like what? Everything is regression."

No response. I pressed on.

"Analysis of variance is a special form of regression. Hierarchical linear modeling and longitudinal data analysis are based on regression. That t-test you might know and love? Well, it's really just an F-test, which is regression. When the numerator degrees of freedom equal one, F is equal to t-squared. To put this simplistically, all we are really doing in any of this is looking at variance and its possible sources."

Nothing from TheGoodOne for a few minutes. Finally he typed only, "That's kind of sad, that that's all we do."

Finally, Arbusto is intimidating

2006-03-21T21:24:00.000-06:00

This is my very disgruntled cat, while visiting Arbusto at his apartment. Between the car trip, the unfamiliar environment, and all the new or newish people (Arbusto, Pinky, Pinky's girlfriend DeathPeppers), Maya was not a happy camper.

I recently threatened a hyperactive/psychotic Maya, "If you don't stop meowing incessantly and if you don't stop biting my toes, I am going to take you to Arbusto's to visit!" She immediately calmed down. Upon hearing the story later, Arbusto was deeply chagrined.

On Sunday, I was in a rush to leave my apartment, as I had promised to go shopping with Arbusto and to leave at noon. Maya came into the bathroom to use the litterbox while I was brushing my teeth, after which she sat by the toilet and stared at me. I finally asked her, "What?"

Maya looked pointedly at her litterbox and then back at me.

Me: "Can't you wait until tonight? I have to leave."
Maya (irritated): "Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow..."
Me: "I'm going to Arbusto's, and I swear to God I will take you with me if you're not quiet."

Maya looked even angrier, but she stopped meowing right away (again, much to Arbusto's disappointment upon hearing the story). After a moment, she looked back at the litterbox and then back up at me and let out a small, hopeful, "Mew?"

The Borders Zone

2006-02-24T18:21:00.000-06:00

I went to Borders today to study for a bit before going to see Arbusto and his girlfriend Jazz, who is in town for the weekend. I picked a table facing the music/DVD section. It also faced a table about six feet away at which a guy was sitting...frequently staring at me.

Despite the fact that others were studying in the cafe area, he tried to talk to me from his table, asking my name and making a game of trying to guess my ethnic origin. Chinese? No. Japanese? No. Vietnamese? No. Laotian? No. African? What? No.

Finally, in order to keep him from further distracting everyone else with his guessing game, I went and sat at his table. He talked to me about his studies at St. Paul Technical College, talked about his move from Ethiopia, and tried to extract information about my ethnic background and graduate program. Then he asked if he could get my number so that we could see a movie or have coffee.

Me: "Oh, thanks, that's nice of you to ask, but I have a pretty serious boyfriend."
Guy (skeptically): "How serious? Are you married?"
Me (puzzled): "Uh...no."
Guy: "Well, are you engaged?"
Me: "No."
Guy: "Well, then, we could - "
Me: "No, we're pretty serious."
Guy: "What does he do?"
Me: "He's a professional musician."
Guy: "Is he done with school?"
Me: "Yes."
Guy: "Then perhaps he is ready to be serious."
Me: ...
Guy (decisively): "I will give you my number in case things change."
Me: "I have to go."

The embodiment of stereotypes

2006-01-17T17:42:00.000-06:00

Following an agreement to disagree on dinner arrangements last night, IrishTenor and I decided to get takeout from two separate restaurants. When I wandered downstairs to put on my shoes and coat, his roommate "BillyMitchell" and the roommate's girlfriend, "CurlySue," were sitting in the living room.

BillyMitchell: "So what are you kids doing for dinner?"
Me: "I'm craving Korean, so I'm getting that, and IrishTenor is having Kentucky Fried Chicken."

BillyMitchell and CurlySue exchanged glances.

BillyMitchell: "Insert ethnic joke here."

The best insult ever

2006-01-09T13:48:00.000-06:00

When my brother, TheGoodOne, was about eight years old, he called our younger brother CaptainBasketball, who was then around two years old, a mouton.

CaptainBasketball was perturbed. He knew he'd been insulted, but he had no idea in what way.

Seeing our brother's confused expression, TheGoodOne explained, "A mouton. It's a cross between a moron and a crouton."

TheGoodOne was the best 8 year old ever.

My new favorite sign

2005-11-19T19:53:00.000-06:00

As opposed to...?

Love and pestilence

2005-11-15T14:05:00.000-06:00

Me: "I had a dream that you had the Ebola virus."
IrishTenor: "I had the Ebola virus."
Me: "Yeah, and you gave it to me. I was pissed."
IrishTenor: "Fuck you! I had Ebola."
Me: "No, you were one of the 5% that doesn't get sick and die. I had Ebola."
IrishTenor: "Haha, you had Ebola."

"I know how they think!"

2005-10-21T09:54:00.000-05:00

I had a rather interesting experience at a bar Wednesday night with a guy who amused me to no end and shouldn't have. I met some girls in the restroom who were talking about a course they were taking at the University of Minnesota, dealing primarily with issues of race and white privilege. As we were leaving the restroom, we bumped into a tall, lanky guy who immediately joined our conversation. He asked for my background, and I told him I was Korean.

He proceeded to immediately forget this information - "Korean" registered in his mind as "Chinese" - and then told me that he had spent a lot of time in China and that he had shed all of his racist tendencies and would love to have an Asian girlfriend.

Me (stifling laughter): "Just for future reference, you might not want to say that around too many Asian women."
Guy: "Oh no, I know, but I really want to have an Asian girlfriend."
Me: ...

And later...

Guy: "...and I've been to China, and I know how the Chinese people think."
Me: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!"
Guy: "But I have spent time in China, and I know how they think there."
Me: "Uh, there are like a billion people there, I'm not sure you can say that."
Guy (now clearly agitated): "But I've been there, and I know how they think!"

How to properly medicate a cat

2005-10-17T21:52:00.000-05:00

Watch IrishTenor demonstrate holding cat on his lap, lubricating pill with butter, prying cat's mouth open, popping pill into cat's mouth, and holding cat's mouth closed until he swallows.
Wonder whether you can duplicate procedure by yourself; conjecture no.
Arrive at IrishTenor's house the next evening; locate cat, medication, and butter.
Seat yourself on living room couch and summon cat.
Realize that cat is under coffee table and therefore is out of reach.
Get up; lure cat out from under table.
Pick up cat and seat him on your lap.
Scrape butter onto pill.
Try to pry cat's mouth open.
Jump violently when someone knocks on the door, dog explodes into loud barking, and cat flees, digging his hind claws into your thigh as he goes.
Locate and soothe cat.
Repeat Steps 4, 7, and 9.
Give up when you realize cat will not cooperate.
Enlist the aid of IrishTenor's roommate.
Have roommate restrain cat while you try to pry cat's mouth open; experience fear of losing finger when cat's ears fly back as a result of annoyance.
Watch pill go flying due to being too well buttered.
Recover pill from floor.
Attempt another prying of cat's mouth while cat is restrained by roommate.
Repeat Steps 16 and 17.
Applaud roommate's brilliance when he suggests wrapping pill in cheese.
Enfold pill in small piece of Kraft Single.
Watch in awe as cat gobbles down cheese, pill and all.
Repeat Steps 21 and 22 twice daily until IrishTenor's return.

Memo at Jimmy John's: "Do not deliver sandwiches to this address..."

2005-09-19T09:44:00.000-05:00

While intoxicated the other night, I was suddenly hit with an intense craving for a tuna fish sandwich. IrishTenor thought this was a good idea. He tossed his cell phone at me and told me to order a couple of subs from Jimmy John's. The following conversation ensued, and I can only say that I now feel terribly sorry for the guy answering the phone that night.

Me [on the phone]: "Do you have a tuna?"
Guy: "Yes we do."
Me: "Okay, I'll take two."
IrishTenor: "Get two number fourteens!"
Me [on the phone]: "Do you have a number fourteen?"
Guy: "Yes."
Me: "What is it?"
Guy: "Roast beef and turkey."
Me [to IrishTenor]: "Number fourteen is roast beef and turkey. It is not tuna!"
IrishTenor: "It is too!"
Me: "The guy just said it wasn't!"
IrishTenor: "Well there's a tuna sandwich and a tuna sub."
Me: "I want a tuna sandwich. [on the phone] Do you have a tuna sandwich?"
Guy: "Yes."
Me: "Okay, that's what we're looking for. I want two."
IrishTenor: "I just ran downstairs and looked at the menu. The tuna sandwich is number FIFTEEN! I was off by one!"
Me [on the phone]: "Is number fifteen a tuna sandwich?"
Guy: "Yes."
Me: "Okay, I want two."

The Unfortunate Tale of Arbusto and the Eel

2005-09-12T20:02:00.000-05:00

On Saturday night, a group of people went out for dinner at a Korean restaurant to (belatedly) celebrate my twenty-fifth birthday. Arbusto had never experienced Korean food and was interested in trying something new. Like the rest of us, he was perusing the menu and feeling more than a bit lost. I missed this part, but apparently IrishTenor told him, "Try the eel. It's good."

Now. Arbusto is such a straightforward, trusting person that it would simply not have occurred to him that IrishTenor might not have actually eaten eel, and it definitely did not occur to him to call bullshit. I was conversing with the other half of the table, so I didn't hear the exchange and was not on hand to call bullshit. So Arbusto ordered the eel.

Once the eel had arrived in its teriyaki glory, it was somehow discovered that IrishTenor had in fact never consumed eel. He had merely been speaking with great authority, which translated into apparent plausibility. Predictably, Arbusto did not care for eel. Since he did not eat his eel, the rest of us all had the opportunity to taste it. I can say that it isn't terrible, but it is very very fishy and was not my favorite; I do not like fishy things. I would not recommend eel unless you have a special affinity for fishy-tasting things.

Arbusto was a good sport and said at least he had tried something new. I vowed to have a little talk with IrishTenor concerning the topics of my friends, eels, and the truth...however, I actually thought it was pretty funny and probably will content myself with laughing and with buying Arbusto dinner next time to make up for the experience of eel.

A prime example of systematic measurement error

2005-05-26T14:06:00.001-05:00

An old roommate, TheHistorian, is a third grade teacher. Her students are an interesting group: One little boy was caught chasing his classmates around the playground trying to put purple eyeshadow on their faces (the next day, despite a talking-to, he repeated the performance with lipstick). Another boy purposely drew pictures of people stabbing polar bears, because he wanted to incite a murderous rage within the breast of his classmate "Jordan," who loves polar bears.

TheHistorian called me the other night with a story that had me in tears of laughter, because I am a measurement nerd. I'm paraphrasing her words; the story is as follows:

"Our school is administering the [state standardized test]. Some of the sections are listening, which means that I read a passage and they answer questions. One of the passages was a story about 'Polly the Penguin' and 'Fernando the Frog.' Midway through the story, Jordan stood up and said loudly, 'But Miss [Historian], that could NEVER HAPPEN! Penguins and frogs can't be friends. They don't even occupy the same habitat!'

"This kid is also obsessed with polar bears, and all the other kids know it. In a different section of the test, they had a multiple choice question where one of the answer choices was 'polar bear.' During that section, he loudly blurted, 'Wow, one of my favorite animals is one of the answers. Too bad it's not the right one.'"

Cats don't like underwear

2005-04-15T17:08:00.000-05:00

I discovered this last night.

On my way home from Blarney (where I had gone to people watch and relax over a couple of pints of Strongbow), I drunk dialed my friend ParadiseLost. After rambling for awhile, I let her get a word in edgewise, and we found ourselves talking about underwear. I only know one or two people who do not wear underwear, and I came to the conclusion that it was best for everyone to wear it.

Upon hanging up the phone, I realized that my cat was not wearing underwear.

Unacceptable.

So I went to my underwear drawer and fished out an old pair. They were turquoise satin. I didn't care for them and never wore them, but they were quite nice, really, for a cat. Maya looked at me rather oddly when I drunkenly approached her, holding underwear in my hand.

I put her hind legs through the holes and began pulling the underwear up over her tail. She became unhappy and mewed. I decided that she had a valid point: Bunching her long tail into the seat of the underwear might be very uncomfortable. So I put her tail through one of the leg holes instead. Predictably, this was when she nipped me and ran away.

The conclusion: Cats definitely do not like underwear.

I want to play with my ding-a-ling

2005-03-28T13:12:00.000-06:00

Yesterday was Easter Sunday, and in the grand tradition of many Christians, I attended one of my two annual church services. Typically, I listen to the service and follow along with the hymns; it is usually fairly uneventful. This year's Easter worship, however, was more than just a normal service. It ended up as the embodiment of a joyful noise made unto our poor Lord, who immediately thereafter ran for His bottle of Excedrin migraine.

The new associate pastor had the brilliant idea to have the children's sermon at the beginning of the Easter service. She and my father performed a puppet show and gave out bells and these little wooden dowels with a white streamer at the end to all the kids. They instructed the kids to ring the bells every time they heard the word "alleluia."

It should be noted that the 8:30 am service on Easter Sunday is one of the most crowded of the entire church year, with the most kids. Given that, there is no recourse other than to helplessly wonder why anyone would think that distributing noisemakers to the scores of children in attendance was a good idea. And of course nearly every hymn contained the word "alleluia" in multiple places. So all you could really hear at the end of every phrase was the vigorous ringing of the plethora of little bells.

Christ the Lord is risen today, DING A LING A LING DING A LING DING DING
Sons of men and angels say, DING A LING A LING DING A LING DING DING
Raise your joys and triumphs high, DING A LING A LING DING A LING DING DING
Sing, ye heavens, and earth, reply, DING A LING A DING A LING A DING DING DING

The upside is that the bells somewhat disguised the lady to my right who had the weirdest vibrato ever and the lady off to my left whose nasal voice was more than vaguely reminiscent of Fran Drescher. I was also greatly amused by observing a family of four kids a couple pews in front of me. One little boy complained loudly about breaking a nail. But before long, the broken nail was overshadowed by the pleasure of ringing his bell directly in his brother's ear. Later, he started hitting his sister in the head with the little white flag. Thanks be to God for bringing us all together to be entertained.

"May I please see proof of US residence?"

2005-03-04T13:48:00.000-06:00

A few Fridays ago, my academic advisor (also my boss), TheAdvisor, asked me to stay a little later at the office. He said he needed to leave, but a student was coming to drop something off and someone needed to let the guy in and then lock up. I readily agreed, since I live within easy walking distance of my place of employment.

Promptly at the appointed hour, a knock sounded at the door. I opened it to find a small, craggy looking man who must have been in his mid-fifties and a card-carrying member of Dirty Old Men of America. He entered the office suite and left a huge stack of papers on TheAdvisor's desk.

Since he had now made his delivery and I wanted to go home, I thought it best to hint that it was time for me to lock up. I smiled and told him, "Have a nice weekend!"

He turned to me, looked me up and down, and then said, "You had to have been raised in the States, because you speak really good English!"

I think that's the most racist thing anyone has ever said to me. After I finally got rid of the creepy little guy, I couldn't stop laughing.

The least fun I have ever had.

2005-03-03T01:06:00.000-06:00

Tonight was easily the most disgusting experience of my life. I think I am going to have my cat completely shaved so this is not a recurring event.

11:40 - I am sitting at my computer, about to start work on a paper, when Maya comes running out of the bathroom and wipes her hindquarters on the floor, leaving a long streak behind her. She runs into the kitchen.

11:41 - I am at a loss. I can only stare in wonder and disgust while debating whether to clean the cat or the carpet first.

11:42 - I decide on the cat. I follow her into the kitchen and grab her and some paper towels. I begin disentangling feces from hair. Her objections are loud and adamant.

11:47 - The cat ducks into a corner and refuses to budge. I find the carpet cleaner and spray a liberal coat over the streak before returning to the cat.

11:49 - I cannot seem to clean any more fecal matter from Maya's rear end using wet paper towels. The smell is overpowering. She continues to voice her displeasure.

11:50 - I retrieve a pair of scissors.

11:53 - The cat is struggling, rendering the scissors largely ineffective. I pick her up and deposit her in the bathroom.

11:56 - I spray another coat of carpet cleaner over the streak.

11:58 - I return to the cat, who flees the bathroom the second I open the door. I have to lure her back with kitty treats.

12:00 - I am in the bathroom with the cat. She sits and glares at me. I am not sure what to do next.

12:02 - I fill the bathtub with a couple of inches of water. I can see Maya's eyes get wide as I pick her up and set her in the tub.

12:03 - Maya jumps out of the tub and sprays water everywhere.

12:06 - I am on my knees on the bathroom floor, once again trying to swab her clean with wet paper towels. She kicks and struggles and mews loudly.

12:10 - I have managed to cut off some of the mess. I pick it up with toilet paper and flush it. The cat sits and glares at me.

12:12 - I go back to swabbing her rear end. She kicks at my legs. I try to speak soothingly, which is a challenge when her claws are embedded in my thigh.

12:15 - I let her have a break. She glares. I speak softly and try to pet her. She lunges at my hand.

12:19 - I am unhappy. I am having very little success with further cleaning.

12:22 - We take another break. Maya looks at least as unhappy as I am.

12:27 - The cat has given up struggling. I manage to remove most of the grossest clumps.

12:30 - The cat and I have had enough trauma. I clean up the floor and then scrub my hands while singing the entirety of "International You Day" by No Use For A Name, to make sure I am somewhat sanitized.

12:35 - I open the bathroom door. The cat stalks out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. She sits and stares pointedly at the refrigerator (where she knows her treats are).

12:36 - I decide she deserves a treat. She eats it and then takes a swipe at me with her claws before going and lying down by the radiator.

12:37 - I watch her turn to clean herself, take a whiff, and change her mind.

12:40 - She is still sitting in the kitchen, glaring at me with death in her eyes. I apply another coat of carpet cleaner.

12:42 - I am still trying to clean the carpet. I notice that the cat has fallen asleep.

12:45 - I finish the carpet. The cat is still sleeping. I think I might hate her.

Wonton soup

2004-10-27T14:12:00.000-05:00

Last week while at China Express in Dinkytown waiting for my dinner, I overheard this random conversation between two men at the adjacent table.

One of the men was middle-aged; the younger was perhaps in his mid-twenties. They were singing the praises of the wonton soup and bemoaning the fact that the "secret recipe" was not in their possession. This led to the discussion of various plots to obtain said recipe. As I was leaving the restaurant, I heard the older man earnestly entreating the younger to marry the restaurant owner's daughter, thus gaining access to the wonton soup recipe.