Post Script: Ellen is said bitch. And yes, she’s back.
After an extended and self-inflicted bout of post-Meltdown depression (approximately 6 weeks, 4 hours, and 3 minutes), I am snapping out of it as of….now. Amen.
What the flip were you doing these past six weeks, Ellen?! Well friends, I’m a laundry list of issues and spring/summer has only augmented them. I shall indulge you slightly in what went down.
1. Bicycle Tune Up from the Firey Bowels of Privately Owned Parking Lots (Hell)
Please read Molly’s Bicycle Tune Up entry from June 7th for details on how awesome One on One is and what our caravan downtown and back entailed. I shall continue where Molly prompted me to start off… So we get home, Denny (our landlord) is dinking around in the backyard, and here is where I hand the story off to Ellen: Denny was dinking around the backyard when he awkwardly and timidly revealed to me that the bike I was using for the past 9 months wasn’t actually left by a former tenant. In fact, it is his wife’s bike which they have owned and she’s never ridden for the past 11 years. In his frequent absent-mindedness he told me a former tenant left it behind and then gave me permission to use it as much as I wanted. With that, I thought I had inherited a beautiful blue Beauty and the Beast (a playful nickname I gave her at One on One just hours before my landlord unveiled his dark secret). Therefore, Beauty and the Beast is no longer under my ringmaster’s reign.
Part II: The Parking Lot Straight from Satan’s Womb – After a week of leaving the ol landlord’s bike in the shop, I returned to pick it up after work on one sunny, bad luck laced Monday evening. I decided to park in a small surface lot just a few storefronts down from One on One in downtown Minneapolis (1st Ave N and Washington Ave to be exact). When I entered the lot, a man stood in front of a rudimentary pay box located on a wood pole. He seemed to be fixing something with the box, so I stepped out of my car, thinking nothing out of the ordinary, went into the shop, and returned six minutes later to find the pay box man taking camera photos of my car.
The tow truck is on its way. Excuse me? It costs $8 to park here and you didn’t pay. Oh, even for five minutes? Yep. Well, I don’t have cash. Do you take card? Nope. Ok. You’ll have to give me a second while I put my bike away. Better hurry up because it’s on its way. Look, there’s no need to be mean about it. I’ll get you cash but you need to give me a second. *Awkward silence while I shove bike in trunk* Ok. Where is the closest cash machine? Well, there’s one inside there, but I think it’s broken. Or there’s one across the street. If I go across the street, get you cash, and the tow truck comes, are you going to tow my car ? Well, once the truck gets here it’s going to do what it does.
I of course go across the street and turn around to see the tow truck pulling into the lot. In a fit of adrenaline, I ripped cash from the ATM and sprinted back to my car. The hillbilly goat f*cker of a tow man smiled at me with his half-smile and rigged the car next to mine to be towed first. Trying to stick it to the pay box man, I jumped in my car, locked the doors, flipped him the bird and drove away.
Yadda yadda he somehow got my cellphone number, harrassed me for a few days and threatened police involvement until I sent him a check for $8. Whistleblower in the Star Tribune did a story on this man’s parking lots for a good reason. Read up and git pissed.
So many of my beautiful friends just happen to have birth celebrations in the months of May and June (and July…I guess...). And we all know what birthdays mean: tits and booze.
Speaking of tits and booze, I also attended my first friend bachelorette bash, and it was off.the.chain. Animal print, bellydancing, downtown hotel suite, chicken buffalo dip, consuming 48lbs of pasta, dancing and dranks, dranks, dranks.
3. ArtHouse Reunion Weekend (a.k.a. Meat Mania 2011)
Was this past RTG the 3rd Annual ArtHouse Reunion Weekend?! Me thinks so. And if I’m wrong, oops. Ten girls, all who once shared two bathrooms and Tic Tac birth control pills, have made it a tradition to gather in Minneapolis every June and enjoy the indie-soaked music fest that is Rock the Garden. After pulling the out-of-state dwellers back into the swassy depths of Minnesota, we gather for three days in a meaty blur of continual grill outs, double chin shots, tears of joy and laughter, rocking, and minimal amounts of booze. We’ve tamed down quite a bit since the old booze and snooze days of yore, but we definitely know how to keep a (sh)Art party rolling.
4. It’s Raining Men
5. The Week of Wine
What’s The Week of Wine, you ask? Well, it started with one of the worst Mondays at work, followed by 2/3 of a bottle of wine, pasta, an accidental bloody mary, and two hours of ABC’s The Bachelorette. Faboosh. And that was just the kick-off. Wine, beer, and a multitude of liquors flowed like a mighty, tipsy river every night until I capped it off with a nap-and-rally one Saturday morning at 1am. Talk about exhausting. For four days following The Week of Wine binge, naps were mandatory. I could hardly stay awake at work and even struggled during the 15 minute drive home every day. Is this what it means to be a single 25 year old woman in the metropolitan groove? God, I hope not.
Well, now I’m tired from typing. Despite my extreme fatigue, I vow to update more often and avoid multi-week hiatuses. Molly and I just returned from an indulgent Sioux City weekend and we’re ready to jump back on the bandwagon. After a full weekend of binge eating/drinking and non-stop visual assaults by Iowas cream of the crop, I’m ready for a celery and Botox diet.