Meteorological summer precedes astronomical summer by a month or so. I don't think it behooves a human with full cognitive capacities to trust anything to fickle as weather or as indifferent as the laws of planetary motion to mark time for us. Time is a fixed resource; keep your eye one it. You should really decide for yourself what counts as summer.
I'm swiftly approaching a decade free from the schedules of academia, so the end of classes have slowly been supplanted by other, softer signs that the few odd weeks of blackening, then disappearing snow banks we dubiously refer to as “springtime” in these latitudes have given way to summer, full fledged and irrefutable.
There's a smell you only get when rain falls on hot pavement. I smelled that for the first time this year a couple days ago, while I was stopped to buy a 12-pack of domestic beer to bring to a party where I didn't really know anyone, but the invitation contained the phrase “100 hot dogs”, so what was I going to do?
So, yeah. It's summer now. Who wants to help me put up a hammock?
Monday, May 25, 2015
Monday, March 30, 2015
Lebensraum
When I moved into my house last summer, I made a bold statement before I began the process of packing. "I will not label any boxes 'Miscellaneous.'" It was hubris; I know that now. Aside from a box labeled "Miscellaneous", there was another labeled "Miscellaneous Kitchen" and one labeled "Books and other Rectangles". The task of categorizing anything inevitably leave outliers; no amount of store-bought box labels and hours spent reading Wikipedia articles on set theory can avoid this precept.
But I kept trying. When I started unpacking, I foolishly declared a "no junk drawer" rule for the kitchen. Ironically, I don't have a silverware drawer, but the far left drawer is still filled with batteries, twist ties and half-empty blister packs of cold medicine.
Since my initial remodeling period bled more or less seamlessly into the holiday/overtime season, I've only recently had the time and inclination to revisit the arbitrary organizational decisions I made when I moved in. Chief among my decisions has been to steer into the skid of the Inevitable Junk Drawer.
Every room in the home of any well-adjusted includes a light dusting of "stuff that doesn't go anywhere." It can't be stopped. It's like the tide. So, I decided flood control strategies were in order. I gave up trying to stop the flow in favor of just redirecting it. In several places throughout the house, I have a low-profile plastic bin where "everything else" goes. That means when I'm looking for something, and it's not in any of the places it should be, I'll know it's in one of the designated holding ponds I set up to catch that kind of overflow.
Or, when I have some time to devote to it, I can just pick one of those boxes and dispose of (categorize or discard) the extraneous junk at my leisure.
I was complaining that I didn't have anything to write a blog about, and that this topic seemed really boring, but now that I've written it out, I realize that it's not so much boring as it is an obvious allegory for the Final Solution.
Home ownership is weird, you guys.
But I kept trying. When I started unpacking, I foolishly declared a "no junk drawer" rule for the kitchen. Ironically, I don't have a silverware drawer, but the far left drawer is still filled with batteries, twist ties and half-empty blister packs of cold medicine.
Since my initial remodeling period bled more or less seamlessly into the holiday/overtime season, I've only recently had the time and inclination to revisit the arbitrary organizational decisions I made when I moved in. Chief among my decisions has been to steer into the skid of the Inevitable Junk Drawer.
Every room in the home of any well-adjusted includes a light dusting of "stuff that doesn't go anywhere." It can't be stopped. It's like the tide. So, I decided flood control strategies were in order. I gave up trying to stop the flow in favor of just redirecting it. In several places throughout the house, I have a low-profile plastic bin where "everything else" goes. That means when I'm looking for something, and it's not in any of the places it should be, I'll know it's in one of the designated holding ponds I set up to catch that kind of overflow.
Or, when I have some time to devote to it, I can just pick one of those boxes and dispose of (categorize or discard) the extraneous junk at my leisure.
I was complaining that I didn't have anything to write a blog about, and that this topic seemed really boring, but now that I've written it out, I realize that it's not so much boring as it is an obvious allegory for the Final Solution.
Home ownership is weird, you guys.
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
Theoxenia
My old Live Journal contains a lot of uses of the word Party. Capitalized. It's, I guess, most of what my Live Journal, and more to the point, my 20s were about. The constant, nightly search for something fun to do with one or more of the dozen or so people I like.
I was asked recently what my biggest accomplishment of the past few years has been, and I think, aside from (or probably as a parallel to) buying a house, it's going from being a good party guest to being a good host. That transition seems to fundamentally be the entire purpose of becoming a responsible adult. Jim used to wreck stuff sometimes, and now he apologizes for the small variety of cheeses on the cheese plate, because he wasn't expecting to have people over. This might seem like one of those moments where you imagine your younger self seeing you and you think they'd be disappointed, but I really can't imagine 23-year-old Jim (or me, for that matter) being anything but pleased with the idea of being the kind of guy who owns a lot of cheese.
There was a guy named... All right, I'm not going to pretend I remember his name at all... Anyway, he came to my Halloween party a couple years back and spent most of it bouncing from one party guest to another, morosely close-talking and mixing himself non-sensical cocktails. I definitely saw him pour Bacardi 151 and Grendine into a plastic cup with no ice. I don't remember his name, and I don't remember anything he said to me, but I remember that someone told me he left with the friends who brought him.
My dad used to say that the hard and fast rule of going out for the night was that everyone who goes out together comes back. You don't leave a guy passed out at the country bar. If one of your friends pulls a knife on a coke-dealer, you're obliged to do the same. These are the rules of a Fun Night. It follows that if the fun is happening at your house, all those people are your job, from the first pig-in-a-blanket until the last to-go vodka tonic the next morning. We live in a society. Hospitality is important.
Renae continues to be around. I'm waving off a certain brand of inquiry on that front by deferring to the reflexive property of equality. (I've used that joke before and I'll have you know it's just as funny this time.) She texted me before work a couple Fridays back, and launched a small inquisition about the degree to which I enjoy her company. History has taught me that when a lady* asks those kind of questions, you should start hoarding potable water and shotgun shells. As it turns out, she was just having a friend from out of town visit, and lacked a suitable venue in which to entertain the half dozen or so affable nerds and miscreants who wanted to see the prodigal BFF. I had met a couple of them previously, and I like gatherings (plus wiles may have been plied [by which I mean promises to clean my kitchen]), so I agreed cheerfully, but advised against anxiety-inducing lead-ups to obviously simple favors.
I'm never sure how fancy other people's friends are. I bought pizza rolls and Miller Lite. One was popular, the other is still sitting in a tepid puddle in the cooler in front of my dishwasher. It's strange to host even a small party for a group of almost exclusively all-but-strangers, but they seem to all be one or another of a few familiar brands of weirdo. Good people, just not our people.
The party broke up around 1:30 (not our people), but the feedback was good. People like the house. Couches are comfortable. Cocktails are delicious. The study, she is a porno.
New people invariably ask what I do for fun. I traditionally don't have an answer, but I've found that when I meet people at a party at my house, and they ask the question, it's nice to be able to gesture vaguely around me and say, "This. This is what I do."
Dan Johnson. Nice to meet you. My house is fun.
* Out of politeness, let's all pretend I don't almost exclusively mean Sarah.
I was asked recently what my biggest accomplishment of the past few years has been, and I think, aside from (or probably as a parallel to) buying a house, it's going from being a good party guest to being a good host. That transition seems to fundamentally be the entire purpose of becoming a responsible adult. Jim used to wreck stuff sometimes, and now he apologizes for the small variety of cheeses on the cheese plate, because he wasn't expecting to have people over. This might seem like one of those moments where you imagine your younger self seeing you and you think they'd be disappointed, but I really can't imagine 23-year-old Jim (or me, for that matter) being anything but pleased with the idea of being the kind of guy who owns a lot of cheese.
There was a guy named... All right, I'm not going to pretend I remember his name at all... Anyway, he came to my Halloween party a couple years back and spent most of it bouncing from one party guest to another, morosely close-talking and mixing himself non-sensical cocktails. I definitely saw him pour Bacardi 151 and Grendine into a plastic cup with no ice. I don't remember his name, and I don't remember anything he said to me, but I remember that someone told me he left with the friends who brought him.
My dad used to say that the hard and fast rule of going out for the night was that everyone who goes out together comes back. You don't leave a guy passed out at the country bar. If one of your friends pulls a knife on a coke-dealer, you're obliged to do the same. These are the rules of a Fun Night. It follows that if the fun is happening at your house, all those people are your job, from the first pig-in-a-blanket until the last to-go vodka tonic the next morning. We live in a society. Hospitality is important.
Renae continues to be around. I'm waving off a certain brand of inquiry on that front by deferring to the reflexive property of equality. (I've used that joke before and I'll have you know it's just as funny this time.) She texted me before work a couple Fridays back, and launched a small inquisition about the degree to which I enjoy her company. History has taught me that when a lady* asks those kind of questions, you should start hoarding potable water and shotgun shells. As it turns out, she was just having a friend from out of town visit, and lacked a suitable venue in which to entertain the half dozen or so affable nerds and miscreants who wanted to see the prodigal BFF. I had met a couple of them previously, and I like gatherings (plus wiles may have been plied [by which I mean promises to clean my kitchen]), so I agreed cheerfully, but advised against anxiety-inducing lead-ups to obviously simple favors.
I'm never sure how fancy other people's friends are. I bought pizza rolls and Miller Lite. One was popular, the other is still sitting in a tepid puddle in the cooler in front of my dishwasher. It's strange to host even a small party for a group of almost exclusively all-but-strangers, but they seem to all be one or another of a few familiar brands of weirdo. Good people, just not our people.
The party broke up around 1:30 (not our people), but the feedback was good. People like the house. Couches are comfortable. Cocktails are delicious. The study, she is a porno.
New people invariably ask what I do for fun. I traditionally don't have an answer, but I've found that when I meet people at a party at my house, and they ask the question, it's nice to be able to gesture vaguely around me and say, "This. This is what I do."
Dan Johnson. Nice to meet you. My house is fun.
* Out of politeness, let's all pretend I don't almost exclusively mean Sarah.
Monday, February 23, 2015
If I seem like I'm not standing fully upright, it might just be axial tilt.
The pork loin I bought to grill for the Tropical Depression party was inexplicably and impressively spoiled already when I thawed it. That seems to have been the only hitch in an otherwise fantastically successful day of facilitating fun. Predictably, I bought too much ice and liquor. The Spam sliders were a hit; I probably should have made at least twice as many of those, but there were time constraints.
Jim was the last guest to leave, about 12 hours after the party started, and I managed to pace myself well enough to lock the doors and shut off the crock-pot when he left, though admittedly not well enough to avoid what competitive eaters term an "unfortunate reversal of fortune" in Stevie's car on the way to Champlin the next morning for Birthday Dinner with the family. Shrimp and Macadamia nuts are a poor substitute for the stomach-insulating qualities of complex carbohydrates. Loco Moco next year, I think. The decorations are still up, and I think the success of the party dictates a repeat performance. This is the new Tax Return Barbecue, kids.
The party served as a de facto house-warming, with a handful of guests making their first visit to the Owned Home. Ian and Jessica were suitably impressed, and Ella, my real estate agent finally picked up the glass-and-brass atrocities that used to be my kitchen and living room light fixtures, to be refurbished and sold at her her vintage store. Apparently that look is coming back into fashion. And with it, one assumes, comes an upswing in the demand for either cocaine or General Tso's chicken.
Renae did a yeoman's job of mingling with my purported-to-be-insular-and-unwelcoming social circle, in spite of having only what remained of my focused attention after hosting responsibilities, a handful of Dos Equis and an admittedly ill-considered Long Island around midnight.
Ian asked about the dime on the floor of my parents' downstairs bathroom. It's weird that I immediately knew what he was talking about.
The decor is cheerful, but since the party comprised the bulk of my discretionary income for the coming weeks, I will be leaning into the cold, dull routine of winter, and I'll need my stark white walls for that. If it were just me, I might leave the 5000K daylight-equivalent bulbs in their sockets, but even if it takes all day and a stepstool, I'm sure Stevie will be having none of that. They definitely make photos of food unappetizing.
While the dinner was yesterday, today is properly my mom's birthday. Happy birthday, Mom! She is 58. I looked up the date and number in Wikipedia for an interesting fact to share and came up mostly dry. 58 is the atomic number of cerium.
I think I might have a bowl of cerium for dinner again.*
Except that the only milk in my house was finally thrown away while cleaning for the party, having expired some time in early January.
*This is the kind of wordplay that I, as a tedious pedant, sometimes find annoying, because the words only sound the same because they share an etymological root, but what do you want from me, Internet, it's still Monday morning.
Jim was the last guest to leave, about 12 hours after the party started, and I managed to pace myself well enough to lock the doors and shut off the crock-pot when he left, though admittedly not well enough to avoid what competitive eaters term an "unfortunate reversal of fortune" in Stevie's car on the way to Champlin the next morning for Birthday Dinner with the family. Shrimp and Macadamia nuts are a poor substitute for the stomach-insulating qualities of complex carbohydrates. Loco Moco next year, I think. The decorations are still up, and I think the success of the party dictates a repeat performance. This is the new Tax Return Barbecue, kids.
The party served as a de facto house-warming, with a handful of guests making their first visit to the Owned Home. Ian and Jessica were suitably impressed, and Ella, my real estate agent finally picked up the glass-and-brass atrocities that used to be my kitchen and living room light fixtures, to be refurbished and sold at her her vintage store. Apparently that look is coming back into fashion. And with it, one assumes, comes an upswing in the demand for either cocaine or General Tso's chicken.
Renae did a yeoman's job of mingling with my purported-to-be-insular-and-unwelcoming social circle, in spite of having only what remained of my focused attention after hosting responsibilities, a handful of Dos Equis and an admittedly ill-considered Long Island around midnight.
Ian asked about the dime on the floor of my parents' downstairs bathroom. It's weird that I immediately knew what he was talking about.
The decor is cheerful, but since the party comprised the bulk of my discretionary income for the coming weeks, I will be leaning into the cold, dull routine of winter, and I'll need my stark white walls for that. If it were just me, I might leave the 5000K daylight-equivalent bulbs in their sockets, but even if it takes all day and a stepstool, I'm sure Stevie will be having none of that. They definitely make photos of food unappetizing.
While the dinner was yesterday, today is properly my mom's birthday. Happy birthday, Mom! She is 58. I looked up the date and number in Wikipedia for an interesting fact to share and came up mostly dry. 58 is the atomic number of cerium.
I think I might have a bowl of cerium for dinner again.*
Except that the only milk in my house was finally thrown away while cleaning for the party, having expired some time in early January.
*This is the kind of wordplay that I, as a tedious pedant, sometimes find annoying, because the words only sound the same because they share an etymological root, but what do you want from me, Internet, it's still Monday morning.
Friday, February 20, 2015
Tropic of... what? Pisces? Is that the fish one? When does that start?
I've been saying for years that I was going to have a tropical themed party in February, and I've never managed to get my proverbial lime in one coconut to get the idea off the ground. That ends tomorrow. Or, in 20 hours, to be more precise. The night will be spent slicing pork products and marinating shrimp skewers, after a trip to the grocery store for Various Fruits. People eat fruit, right? 'Sgot vitamins. Party starts at 3pm; you're gonna need some sugar in your blood if you want to keep the party going to a respectable hour. Eat the damn fruit.
Work has become even more of a tedious, lucrative blur than usual the past few weeks. They tell me they anticipate employees in my position having more free time in the future, and they'll be assigning us "coaching" to do, which basically means listening to other people do their jobs and telling them how to do it better. I'm not complaining or anything, but I really like saying, "I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job or anything…" and it seems like that will make that sentence harder to utter with a straight face. I ain't mad. I wasn't that attached to my straight face.
I got a raise this week. Ask me what I'm going to do with an extra $0.36 per hour…
You might be asking, "Dan! Multiple blog posts in one week? From whence the sudden burst of literary ambition?" I guess the short answer is that telling short old stories to new people made me remember that my old blog existed, which in turn reminded me that my new blog exists. I think the last post on my Live Journal that wasn't a Russian Spambot was from Ian telling me that if I wasn't going to update my blog anymore, I was supposed to call him weekly with stories, and I seem to have missed a few hundred weeks.
I also don't really have stories, but an afternoon reading my Live Journal suggests the possibility that I never really DID have exceptionally interesting stories. The amount of time I devoted to writing about tacos and naps in 2003 is downright astounding.
There are 40s in the long-term forecast. There's every reason to believe we're all going to get out of this winter alive, but you should come to my party just in case.
Work has become even more of a tedious, lucrative blur than usual the past few weeks. They tell me they anticipate employees in my position having more free time in the future, and they'll be assigning us "coaching" to do, which basically means listening to other people do their jobs and telling them how to do it better. I'm not complaining or anything, but I really like saying, "I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job or anything…" and it seems like that will make that sentence harder to utter with a straight face. I ain't mad. I wasn't that attached to my straight face.
I got a raise this week. Ask me what I'm going to do with an extra $0.36 per hour…
You might be asking, "Dan! Multiple blog posts in one week? From whence the sudden burst of literary ambition?" I guess the short answer is that telling short old stories to new people made me remember that my old blog existed, which in turn reminded me that my new blog exists. I think the last post on my Live Journal that wasn't a Russian Spambot was from Ian telling me that if I wasn't going to update my blog anymore, I was supposed to call him weekly with stories, and I seem to have missed a few hundred weeks.
I also don't really have stories, but an afternoon reading my Live Journal suggests the possibility that I never really DID have exceptionally interesting stories. The amount of time I devoted to writing about tacos and naps in 2003 is downright astounding.
There are 40s in the long-term forecast. There's every reason to believe we're all going to get out of this winter alive, but you should come to my party just in case.
Monday, February 16, 2015
More red flags than the Revolution of 1848.
Is "Soviet Laundry Corps" funnier?
I don't really care; I'm done reading the Wikipedia article on red flags for today.
So, anyway, Internet, remember when I used to go on dates with girls and post about it on a blog? Well, I recently started doing one of those things again, and figured I might as well do the other, too.
I've actually been on a handful of one-off Internet dates since I resumed paying attention to my now-decade-old OKCupid account. A quick recap goes something like this:
1) Mostly asked her out because she seemed like a sure "Yes", remembered why we don't aim low.
2) Date went mostly okay, but not well enough for either of us to contact the other again.
3) Met at the CC Club, drank one drink and parted ways, got a message indicating things were not "sparky." Didn't really need the rejection letter after one 45-minute date, but courtesy is nice, I guess?
4) Black Forest with a short girl with 900 Facebook friends and a hangover. Mostly went because she messaged me out of pure curiosity, presumably at not already knowing me? Probably not a "date."
5) CC Club for early afternoon drinks, this time with my own hangover. Mostly a "meeting a like-minded weirdo" meeting, but had a really good time and shared chilli fries. Drove her home to save a bus fare, handshake.
6) Jimmy's on a Sunday night. Weird scene. Lots in common on paper. Talked mostly about cooking. Sort of seemed like a conversation I would have with a co-worker while standing outside during a fire evacuation.
Which brings us back to #5...
We kept messaging back and forth through OKCupid, and eventually exchanged Gchat information. We're not fundamentally similar people, but we're amenable to each other's unfamiliarities, and she doesn't seem intensely proud or protective of the things about her that would concern or even just annoy me about someone newly met. There's an archetype of a girl you might remember from your 20s... The kind of girl who Comes From Circumstances (which, for those of you not up on your geography, is usually in Florida), and generally lives in a swirling shit-storm of chaos and bad life choices. Well, this girl is relatively freshly out of her 20s, and it seems like most of those life choices weren't hers; she just lacked the foresight or upbringing or cold Scandinavian detachment from the misery those around her to grimace and sidle out of the path of other people's bad decisions.
None of this apologia is to imply anything about "long term prospects" (the lady seems not a whit interested in being prospected in any case), but only to explain why she doesn't, in the immediate term, trigger the proximity defense alarm I had installed to warn of the approach of an Elise, or Sarah, or Laura, or, or, or...
It's enough to tip the scale from "toxic disaster" to just "in a transitional phase." When I was 30, I was living in my parents' basement and was freshly out of a fairly disastrous relationship.
We've gone out (or stayed in, as inclinations dictated) a couple times since. We spent most of the weekend together. I used think of dating as largely a means of promoting self-improvement. But seeing as how, in the intervening years since I spent much time at it, I've become a home-owner with a steady job and a 401k who washes forks before I'm out of clean ones, I guess now, if nothing else, it's nice to have a reason to make Hollandaise sauce from scratch. As often as I speak aloud the words "Who am I trying to impress?", it's pretty much never as an explanation of something awesome I was doing; it's usually like, why I was eating cereal for dinner?
Actually, cereal sounds good, but that's neither here nor there.
I don't really care; I'm done reading the Wikipedia article on red flags for today.
So, anyway, Internet, remember when I used to go on dates with girls and post about it on a blog? Well, I recently started doing one of those things again, and figured I might as well do the other, too.
I've actually been on a handful of one-off Internet dates since I resumed paying attention to my now-decade-old OKCupid account. A quick recap goes something like this:
1) Mostly asked her out because she seemed like a sure "Yes", remembered why we don't aim low.
2) Date went mostly okay, but not well enough for either of us to contact the other again.
3) Met at the CC Club, drank one drink and parted ways, got a message indicating things were not "sparky." Didn't really need the rejection letter after one 45-minute date, but courtesy is nice, I guess?
4) Black Forest with a short girl with 900 Facebook friends and a hangover. Mostly went because she messaged me out of pure curiosity, presumably at not already knowing me? Probably not a "date."
5) CC Club for early afternoon drinks, this time with my own hangover. Mostly a "meeting a like-minded weirdo" meeting, but had a really good time and shared chilli fries. Drove her home to save a bus fare, handshake.
6) Jimmy's on a Sunday night. Weird scene. Lots in common on paper. Talked mostly about cooking. Sort of seemed like a conversation I would have with a co-worker while standing outside during a fire evacuation.
Which brings us back to #5...
We kept messaging back and forth through OKCupid, and eventually exchanged Gchat information. We're not fundamentally similar people, but we're amenable to each other's unfamiliarities, and she doesn't seem intensely proud or protective of the things about her that would concern or even just annoy me about someone newly met. There's an archetype of a girl you might remember from your 20s... The kind of girl who Comes From Circumstances (which, for those of you not up on your geography, is usually in Florida), and generally lives in a swirling shit-storm of chaos and bad life choices. Well, this girl is relatively freshly out of her 20s, and it seems like most of those life choices weren't hers; she just lacked the foresight or upbringing or cold Scandinavian detachment from the misery those around her to grimace and sidle out of the path of other people's bad decisions.
None of this apologia is to imply anything about "long term prospects" (the lady seems not a whit interested in being prospected in any case), but only to explain why she doesn't, in the immediate term, trigger the proximity defense alarm I had installed to warn of the approach of an Elise, or Sarah, or Laura, or, or, or...
It's enough to tip the scale from "toxic disaster" to just "in a transitional phase." When I was 30, I was living in my parents' basement and was freshly out of a fairly disastrous relationship.
We've gone out (or stayed in, as inclinations dictated) a couple times since. We spent most of the weekend together. I used think of dating as largely a means of promoting self-improvement. But seeing as how, in the intervening years since I spent much time at it, I've become a home-owner with a steady job and a 401k who washes forks before I'm out of clean ones, I guess now, if nothing else, it's nice to have a reason to make Hollandaise sauce from scratch. As often as I speak aloud the words "Who am I trying to impress?", it's pretty much never as an explanation of something awesome I was doing; it's usually like, why I was eating cereal for dinner?
Actually, cereal sounds good, but that's neither here nor there.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Stories about Stories about Noah
As of this morning, my most recent blog post on my company’s site is the “most liked” recent post in the entire company. It’s actually just “The Parable of the Motorcycle” from my Stories about Noah series, slightly re-written to focus on the idea that, when people ask if something can be done, they’re not actually interested in how much work it will be, only about the end result. The finished product reads as less cynical than my synopsis makes it sound. The path to a cushy copy writing job is becoming clearer.
On my way to Champlin after work yesterday, the persistent shudder in my right, rear tire that started around the first of the year metamorphosed into a jarring rattle and eventually a blown and shredded tire along north 169. I put the spare on in relatively short order, only to find the spare in only slightly better condition, though it did get me off the freeway and into the parking lot of an appliance store in New Hope where I could stash the car while I ate Mexican food and shopped for tires. As luck would have it, my car was only about a mile and a half from the place selling the cheapest tires in the metro area, well within the radius of my roadside assistance plan’s free towing benefit. All told, assuming that I was planning to buy tires out of my next paycheck or two anyway, the whole ordeal cost me nothing but my afternoon.
I’m off work today at 3:30 which is shockingly early for a Friday. My tentative plan for the weekend involves a lot of measuring, purchasing of bins and shelves, and organizing the two closets off my kitchen. And maybe designing a logo for the Bargain Basement Bar and ordering custom matchbooks from the internet. And probably something involving putting chili on top of other food.
On my way to Champlin after work yesterday, the persistent shudder in my right, rear tire that started around the first of the year metamorphosed into a jarring rattle and eventually a blown and shredded tire along north 169. I put the spare on in relatively short order, only to find the spare in only slightly better condition, though it did get me off the freeway and into the parking lot of an appliance store in New Hope where I could stash the car while I ate Mexican food and shopped for tires. As luck would have it, my car was only about a mile and a half from the place selling the cheapest tires in the metro area, well within the radius of my roadside assistance plan’s free towing benefit. All told, assuming that I was planning to buy tires out of my next paycheck or two anyway, the whole ordeal cost me nothing but my afternoon.
I’m off work today at 3:30 which is shockingly early for a Friday. My tentative plan for the weekend involves a lot of measuring, purchasing of bins and shelves, and organizing the two closets off my kitchen. And maybe designing a logo for the Bargain Basement Bar and ordering custom matchbooks from the internet. And probably something involving putting chili on top of other food.
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