We stopped for lunch at Jaspers Alsatian Bistro http://www.daubesbakery.com/jaspers.html in Rochester. It wasn’t just good, it was fantastic.

The main reason we went to Rochester in the first place is so Cindy could show me their Barnes and Noble bookstore. It’s an old renovated theater and is worth a trip down there just to see it.

As usual, a good time was had by all.

[View with PicLens]

See, cute baby in cute alpaca hat and not so cute alpaca in not so cute alpaca hat. OK, you may think it’s cute but for sure it’s stinky. I think I can smell it from here.

Sorry, I know a lot of folks like them and I’m sure they’re warm, but I think they look monumentally stupid on anyone over the age of two.  

But I digress, let’s get back on the bus. As you might guess, there is by no means a shortage of douche bag business men on the bus who never tire of listening to themselves talk about how busy and important they are and speak so loudly you can’t hear yourself think. Reading is out of the question, the only defense is to turn up the volume on your iPod and hopefully drown him out. Oh, and he’s also the guy who has to take up as much space as possible by stretching out his arms and legs and leaning forward. Fuck you. There is no personal space on the bus you fat head; you don’t get to take up two seats just because you’re under the delusion that you are superior to the rest of us. Again I say, fuck you. Get in your behemoth SUV and drive to work like your other douche bag friends and spare us your shit-bag personality.   

For some reason there are only perhaps five people on the return trip. I almost always have the same bus driver. She sometimes forgets to let me off the bus. I pull the buzzer thingy, she pulls over, and while I’m getting up to leave she takes off. Um…HEY, did you want to let me off the bus, Crazy Bus Driver Lady?

I’m thinking of moving, selling my house in South Mpls and renting/buying a loft in NE Mpls. Air Traffic AirTraffic is the biggest reason, the other reasons, in no particular order are;

• Basement – Hate, nothing good ever happens in the basement. I’ve always wanted to fill it up with cement.
• Snow shoveling – Los argh, moving piles of snow from one location to another, in the freezing cold. Grrrrrrr and Brrrrrrr
• Lawn mowing – an endless, thankless task but at least it’s warm and the smell of freshly mown grass is a particular favorite of mine.
• No shower – Older homes, what’s a gal to do? I’ve been taking baths for 20 years, I want a proper shower.
• Did I mention NO BASEMENT?

Here is what I have in mind

[View with PicLens]

Plus, Nordeast is hip (not unlike myself), lively, diverse and exciting. I could do with a bit of excitement.

More Crap

Remember the clock I talked about yesterday, the one with Stephen Fry’s delightful voice gently arousing one from slumber? Well, I went back to the web site just to make sure I didn’t want the clock and happened to catch some reviews on Amazon. Seriously, I couldn’t be happier. As it turns out, the clock ticks too loudly (OMG, I loathe the tickity, tick, tick of a stupid tickity, tick, ticking clock) and sadly, SF’s voice is too quiet to arouse even the lightest of sleepers. The best part is that it doesn’t go off at any precise time; it sounds roughly 10 minutes either way of the set time.  I’m so relieved I didn’t spend $80 on that, but it’s such a disappointment, what a great idea.

I got my hair cut too short. It makes my ass look big.

I almost bought an alarm clock with Stephen Fry’s, voice gently luring one from slumber with phrases like, “Good morning, Madam, I’m so sorry to disturb you but it appears to be morning. Very inconvenient, I agree Madam.” Then I remembered that British pounds and the American dollars are NOT created equal. The clock is £54.95 plus S&H (yes, a hefty amount), in the U.S. that’s $79.95 plus $7.55 S&H. Hmm…over $80 for an alarm clock I don’t need. (But really, really want.) I soon realized the error of my ways. Had the object also been shiiiny, I would now be listening to the dulcet tones of SF’s soothing voice every morning.

In case you’re wondering, the segue there was P.G. Wodehouse created the Jeeves and Wooster stories, which got me interested in Stephen Fry (SF plays Jeeves in the British TV comedy series), which led me to SF’s blog (which I joined), which then led me to the alarm clock that is for sale on his web site. Did you follow that?

Jeez, I’m not sure any of that made any sense. I make myself crazy sometimes. At least I didn’t buy anything or join the U.K. Wodehouse Society at $40/year. I wanted their quarterly newsletter “Wooster Sauce” for some reason; I think I just like the name. I did, as I’ve said, join SF’s ClubFry and am the better for it.

Bob came with me this morning to help me put together a workout plan. Thanks Bob. However, he wanted to get an early start and be at my house by 6:30. That’s right,  I said six-fucking-thirty. Whatever. With this in mind, I set my alarm and went to bed a bit earlier than usual hoping to be well-rested for Dawn’s Excellent Workout Adventure, only to find, I was not at all tired. I got up, I went back to bed, I got up, back, up…sigh. Apparently, there was much sub-conscience gnashing of teeth and rendering of clothing (thanks for that Jen) and I believe I finally drifted off around 4 a.m. Craptacular. Bob said he was so worried about not getting up in time he didn’t sleep AT ALL.

I gotta tell you, the very first thing I did was put my water bottle on the front desk, bend down to tie my shoe, and the water bottle fell on my freaking head (and yes, it made a loud noise). Not an auspicious beginning. Seriously, I am so wimpy my spindly little arms were shaking after the first machine. I have the upper body strength of an elderly flea.  I did make it through Bob’s recommended workout routine, with the exception of crunches, I could only do ONE. Bwahahaha, stupid, weak baby!

The rest of the workout was uneventful, but fun, and now I have the energy of ten thousand burning suns! Yay.

The cheeky little bastards got away from me somehow. Where do underpants go? It could be the underpants gnomes, you know how they are, stealing your panties, stock-piling them in their underground lair, doing God-knows-what with them.

Whoever has them, please bring them back, I will pay handsomely for their return. Provided they are unharmed and in the same condition you found them. If you’ve worn them, just keep ‘em. Ick.

My pal Bob asked me once if I like to fold kittens (Where did THAT come from, Bob?), I told him, “Yes, but it’s hard to get a good crease.”

This isn’t a new obsession but it has reached epic status since I quit ironing everything. And I mean EVERYTHING. I’ve always blamed my mother for this, it’s a curse she put on me as a child. She never let me leave the house without being thoroughly pressed and creased. I was a slave to the curse up until the last few years, now I rarely bother. I used to iron the crap out of my jeans complete with a razor-sharp crease down the front. I quit doing that when someone told me it reminded them of Texans, big belt buckle, cowboy boots and creased ironed jeans. Yuk. Creased jeans are dead to me now, spitting sounds.

I’ve recently discovered an old British TV series, Jeeves and Wooster. Jeeves is a Gentleman’s Gentleman and while delivering his lines he is constantly folding and aligning everything perfectly. OMG, I think I’m in love! I need Jeeves to come to my house and fold with me.

I was looking forward to have a whole day to myself. Thoughts of pampering, shopping and freedom filled my very small head. The pampering consisted of a long-awaited massage which left me both relaxed and bruised in some very strange places, but that is a story for another day. Anyway, I had a gift card burning a hole in my pocket. Foolishly, I decide it might be fun to pick out a new swimsuit. I know, right, the dread “S” word. I take a handful of one-piece suits to the fitting room. Now, I ask you, is the mirror in the fitting room actually a fun house mirror? Why is it once the even most beautiful swimsuits look hideous on me? I am not (much) overweight or grossly disfigured in anyway, but yet when donning said swimsuit I look like the elephant woman, complete with strange lumps, dimples and an extra butt I didn’t know I had. WTF? So I have decided it must be the mirrors. I know I don’t look like that in my own house in front of my own mirror. That is my story and I am sticking to it. I think at this point it is needless to say, I walked out of the store with my gift card spent (and then some), but sans-swimsuit.

• I was only 18 years old when I had her. I was still very much a child and didn’t know a damn thing about “birthin’ no babies.”
• I was a single parent with no job skills. I worked factory jobs on second shift for four or five years.
• Says she grew up in the back seat of a Volkswagen. This is more or less true.
• I tried to choke her by rolling her head up in the car window when she was about four.
• One time she was in her little car seat (not like today’s car seats, think folding chair) and it folded up with her in it. I was driving along the freeway and I hear these muffled cries from the back seat. I turn around to find her folded over with her face pressed against her knees and her skinny little arms flailing about. I couldn’t stop to help her until I could pull off on the next exit. Sorry Kid, but after 38 years this is still funny.
• I smoked.
• I drank.
• I read all the time. “Mom, will you STOP READING and pay attention to me!”
• Made her play Scrabble with me incessantly.
• Forced her to listen to the Allman Brothers music. Hey Dani, do you still remember all the words to Whipping Post?
• Worked full-time and took classes full-time. For a few years I only saw her on weekends. Sorry Dan.
• We visited some friends in Arizona for a couple of months when she was five. She was in the sun so often she looked Hispanic. I am sooo not exaggerating. Dani refers to this as her “baby melanoma” phase.

Holy Crap! This could be like the never-ending list. I better stop before I get all depressed and filled with self-loathing.