Yippy Dog Moves In Next Door

(No further narrative required re headline, I trust.)

And...there's this. I didn't really intend for it to look like a cry for help. It's not. I'm just fine. Yes, indeedy.

Latest Painting Reveals Tribal Influences

My latest painting was painted from a live model. It's a strange thing to have a portrait of some random person hanging on your wall. But I'm proud of it even though it's bad. It was hard to do. So it stays.

Greta says I have "tribal influences." I can't explain why my people look like they are carved out of wood.

Offended Cheese Avenges Self

I hosted a little soiree at my place last week, for which I picked up a chunk of creamy--and extremely stinky--cheese. Thinking that the taste would compensate for the olfactory assault, I covered it with a coffee cup to prevent the scent from wafting across the room. I roasted garlic. I lit candles. Nothing doing. Finally, in an extremely misguided attempt at eradicating the problem, I picked up the stinky cheese and chucked it out the back door.

I did not realize that it landed on the steps leading to the garage. (Where it lay. In wait. Perfectly poised to cover the bottom of my shoe at the moment I least expect it.)

Let's back up to Friday morning. We are filing some papers on Monday, and the partner I'm working with sent me an email asking me to "take a quick look" at a particular issue.

Now, any young associate knows that these words are the kiss of death. (Followed closely by "I know there is a case out there that says X. Find it.") The issue, of course, is never "quick."

I set to work. The partner sends me an email in the afternoon looking for an answer. I need a lot more time. There are several bases to cover. There are nuances. And most importantly, the law has not been saying what we want it to say. Oh, and another thing: I am terrified of this attorney. Only because I greatly respect her. And of course I want her to think that I'm smart and a worthwhile human being, and I just get myself all panicked and worked up when I don't feel like I'm doing an awesome job for her (which is all the time). So I go down to her office, tell her what I found so far, and tell her I'll need more time to look at x, y, and z. She agrees those things should be looked at. She asks me to get a memo to her by tomorrow (Saturday) afternoon. She tells me the issue I'm looking at is going to be used to write a footnote in her brief.

A footnote.

I'm back in my office researching. At 4:19 I get an email from her, asking me to look at one other thing while I'm at it. I reach for my letter opener and notice that my assistant has astutely hidden all sharp objects. The messiness of my hair is directly proportionate to my level of frustration. At around 7 p.m., I pack up all of my things and take them home. I drink an entire pot of coffee between 8 p.m. and midnight. I go to bed at 1:30. I have dreams about working for another partner in the office. He praises my work. He tells me I'm brilliant. He can't believe his good fortune at having me work as his associate. I wake up at 6 a.m., brew a pot of coffee, and am back in front of my computer at 6:04. At 8:30, I pack up my things to return to the office.

I grab my briefcase, throw on my coat, and head down the sidewalk to the garage. On the bottom step, I feel a great squeeeeeeesh under my foot. I stop. I close my eyes. I definitely smell something. Looking down I see that the chunk of stinky cheese has attached itself to the bottom of my shoe, squished around the sides of my shoe, and embedded itself in that little seam between the side of the shoe and the sole. I grab a twig and attempt to scrape it off. The cheese has powerful adhesive properties. I yank the shoe off and scrape the sole against the retaining wall. The main chunks are gone, but this is an extremely creamy cheese. And, I have not done right by this cheese. I have cast it out to be tormented by birds and squirrels. This cheese has a chip on its shoulder. It has been insulted, rejected, snubbed, exiled! Summarily deported without a trial! This cheese seeks revenge, and who can blame it?

My car fills with the smell of this insidious stinky cheese. The smell follows me out of the car, across the parking ramp, down the elevator, through the skyway, into Dunn Bros, out of Dunn Bros, down the escalator, across the foyer, up the elevator, onto the 27th floor, and through the security doors. I slip into the break room, and thoroughly scrub my shoe with hot soapy water in the sink. I spend the rest of the morning in my socks.

The memo is written, but I can't send it on because my research is not saying what I need it to say. I keep looking into every nuance, make sure every base is covered, desperately try to think of what thing I have overlooked that will open the door to this most brilliant of footnotes. My fingertips perform a series of calisthenics--rap on my desk, mess my hair; they meet each other to form a temple, thumbs attempting to drill a hole in my forehead: Think, think, think!

At 11:30, my phone rings. It is the partner. I stare at the phone. I can't pick it up. What can I tell her? I don't have what she needs! I have a 7-page memo telling her all of the reasons not to write the footnote! I stare at the phone as it rings three times. Finally I pick it up. My voice cracks a little bit as I say hello.

"I decided not to write the footnote," she says. "You can stop researching."

"Oh." I clear my throat. "Good."

Perfect Storm Converges in Minneapolis Bathroom

Former roommates know I have two (I swear! Only two!) peculiarities: (1) I hate when food wrappers/remains (particularly banana peels) are thrown anywhere but in the kitchen garbage, and (2) I get extremely panicky when I think someone else has used my toothbrush.

The toothbrush thing can be traced pretty far back, but was definitely exacerbated in April 1998. I was studying in London for the semester, and a group of us traveled to Scotland for a week. We took an overnight bus out of London, and by the end of the next day had hitchhiked to the southern point of the Isle of Skye, far from any convenience store. As we settled in to a little hostel at the foothills of the Cuillins, Theresa noticed that she had forgotten her toothbrush. Somehow, I suppose because I was her closest friend on the trip, this became my problem. "Come on," she said, "just let me use your toothbrush." My response was not a word. It was more like a deep rumbling in the throat. She pressed on: "It's no big deal. It's just like kissing. You would kiss me, right?" Sharing a toothbrush is NOT like kissing. It involves an extreme digging up and swapping of germs. But, I was also empathetic. It drives me nuts not to be able to brush my teeth. And we were in the boonies; she had no other choice. I sighed. "Sure, I would kiss you," I said.

The next week, back in London, I was dealing with red, swollen gums. If I brushed my teeth too hard, they bled. I asked Theresa oblique questions about communicable diseases. I became paranoid that all of my roommates were using my toothbrush. I bought a new one. I boiled it every few days. I slept with it under my pillow.

Toothbrushes come in these wacky colors that help you identify which one is yours, which is nice. The color of our toothbrush is one of the many small but frequently changing details that we have to keep track of in our daily lives, along with our pin numbers, location of our car keys, approximate amount of gas left in the car, etc. etc. etc. Of course this would be easier if I committed to a toothbrush color and stuck with it, but that's boring. And my spouse is on his own toothbrush cycle sometimes (like, say, he went on a trip and lost his old brush so had to get a new one), so there is of course always the danger that in a few overlapping weeks, we could end up with the same color, and then I have to remember some secondary identifying factor, like the brand of the brush I happen to be using these three months. I try to avoid this scenario by picking up slightly obscure colors (like, say, orangey-yellow). I think what I'm trying to say here is that since I get a new toothbrush every few months, I don't get too attached, and I'm not so concerned about picking it out of a line-up; I just remember enough basic details to identify which of the two brushes on the bathroom sink is probably mine and which one is probably not.

Which, of course, can be complicated by the addition of a roommate (Greta is living here for awhile).

Voila. The perfect storm:

Bad Pun Yields Digressive Blog Entry

Those who have had the pleasure of meeting my delightful Grandpa Clarence tend to be, on the whole, more forgiving/accepting of my propensity to conceive of (and, more egregiously, to deliver) bad puns. It's an unfortunate genetic predisposition.

I had a good one (or a bad one, which in this context is really a good one) this afternoon. However, since it was delivered via text-message, I missed out on the satisfaction of seeing the smirk and or eye-roll that accompanies a good (bad) pun. The classy thing to do would be to just let it go, but it made me think of other things, too, that will inevitably lead to a rambling blog entry.

Anyway, here it is: When my breakfast plans were threatened by an early morning meeting, I respond "Early meetings are for the birds."

BA-DING BOOM! (Anybody? Anybody?)

Does anybody even use "for the birds" in its colloquial sense ("That's crap!") anymore? Well, here is where things get digressive. As I was smirking to myself about that stupid pun, I started thinking about birds, and about that phrase, and I can't think of anyone that has used it ever except my mom. Which--hey, on the topic of birds!--made me think of another word that I have only ever heard uttered by my mom: "Shitbirds." As kids, we'd get this when we reallllllly made her mad--tracking mud into a freshly swept kitchen, that sort of thing. "You little shitbirds!" It was such a wonderful and repulsive word! I'm sure we felt really bad, bad enough to stop eating all the cookie dough when her back was turned, but I don't really remember. It wasn't until I was in my early twenties that I realized I have no idea what a shitbird is.

No fear! Urban dictionary comes to the rescue. (Rated R, as you might imagine. Mothers, keep your children close.) The most accepted definition is: A completely useless individual who is unaware of his/her own complete uselessness. Ouch. Damn, mom, that's harsh. But I can't help respecting your vocabulary.

A search for "shitbird" on Merriam-Webster Online yields zero results. However, the dictionary offers several suggestions for words you might try instead. The second suggestion is: "shadberry."

Juice Invites Ridicule

OK, go ahead, I know it's hilarious. (But don't be too harsh, please, it is only my first painting after all.)




Mary and mom came down Thursday and left today. Mary and I made a bunch of rings out of buttons and ... buttons. Also, I apparently can't hold the camera still enough to take a non-blurry photo.







And I found this on my camera, which I apparently have not used since November 4, when Shad and I were playing in the leaves.