So I’m typing a text, attempting to spell the word, “Hi” … and failing.
(Don’t kill yourself, Nacey. It’s almost spring and somebody’s got to tune my bike up.)
So, happy hour tonight after work. (During work / after work … semantics.)
And as we’re sitting there, this adorable little old couple comes in. And the old guy’s using a walker. You know, the kind with cut-up tennis balls on the legs? (Which would be totally the way to go, because that would be like hobbling very slowly on a cloud, I think.) And he’s got the glasses with the tinted covers, and he’s got them flipped up for indoor use… At any rate, all the women at our table were cooing about how cute this old couple was and how the old guy was puttin’ out the vibe and how I should go over and chat with him and get his tips and advice for scoring with babes and then I should blog about it, blah, blah, blah…
Clearly, I was having none of it. (Honestly, if you’ve ever met me before, can you even conceive of me walking up to a strange old guy and asking him for his romantic advice? Me neither.) Still, the girls kept going about it – how cute and how sweet this old couple was and how I needed to go interrupt their dinner and ask about their love life. Eventually, they decided they needed a photo to go along with this mythical blog post I was going to write. Corinne and Jenny both whipped out the phones, both oh-so-subtly angled them … and both got totally photo busted.
Check it out, here’s Corinne’s photo:
And here’s Jenny’s:
That woman is most certainly aware of these crazy bitches sniping pictures of her and her man, and she is CLEARLY having none of it. Look at those eyes. She’s just about daring Corinne and Jenny to step outside, because somebody’s about to get their asses kicked old-school style.
Okay, admittedly, I’m a little off my game. But this was really stupid.
Erin flew back from her spring break trip to Florida this morning and she’d asked me to come pick her up at the airport. Not a big deal at all. The day was clear, the roads were good, her flight was at a convenient time – she even got in early. So there were no mishaps whatsoever in the hour-and-a-half drive from Sartell down to Twin Cities International in Bloomington.
Corinne drove down, and Molly and Claudia came along with us, since we were going to take the opportunity to stop and get some lunch somewhere fun. We opted for Big Bowl and it was predictably fantastic.
I didn’t notice the stupid part until hours later, back at home, the next time I pulled my wallet out. Yes. I left my check card in the convenient little slot in the handsome black portfolio your waitress hands you when she gives you your bill.
[This is the point in the story where I hang my head in shame.]
First matter of business? Find the number for Big Bowl at the Galleria in Edina and confirm that they actually have the card.
Second matter of business? Um… Well, what IS the second matter of business? The lovely young woman on the phone (who’d obviously experienced this degree of idiocy before), explained that, “If you just come on in with a photo ID, I can give you your card back.”
But I don’t WANT to drive all the way back to Edina.
“Tell you what,” I said (at Corinne’s wise suggestion), “Why don’t you just cut it up and text me a picture of it?”
[Insert long, confused pause.] “I’ve never had anyone ask me to do that before.” [Insert another pause, filled with the near-audible spinning of mental gears.] “Yeah. I guess I could do that.”
So I guess tomorrow I’ll be stopping by Wells Fargo to order a replacement card. But, as of right now, I don’t think I’m going to have to close the account and all that annoying bullshit. And I didn’t have to spend three hours driving back and forth to do it. Fingers crossed.
I’m just glad I left a half-decent tip.
Yea, new Pope!
Having been raised Roman Catholic and spent most of my life Catholic, there’s a lot I love about the Church. I love the tradition. I love the ritualism.
So I had a dream last night and I want to just toss it out there to Francis I, cuz I think it’d be a blast and totally has some merit.
I dreamed there was some VIP – a CEO from some tech company or something – who was considering donating a few million dollars to the endowment at The College of St. Benedict. Before making that happen, she wanted to meet with the president. But that was impossible. The president was unavailable.
“Unavailable?” asked the impatient CEO. “Well when will she be in?”
“None of us know,” replied the innocent student worker on the other end of the line. “She’s in Velieris Quod Peto – The Most Sacred and Holy Hide & Seek.”
(Okay, I don’t really dream in Latin. I had to look that up.)
That’s when I woke up. At first I smiled at what a weird and random dream that was. But then I started thinking about it. If you look at it from the outside, a TON of stuff in the Catholic Church is weird and random. So why not Holy Hide & Seek?
Here’s the way it would work:
It only happens during Papal transition periods. At the point when the College of Cardinals locks themselves into Conclave, devout and observant Catholics will gather in parishes around the world.
At the exact moment when the doors of the Sistine Chapel close, parish priests everywhere will stand at alters and begin counting (in Latin). They’ll count up to whatever year it is (2013 AD – that’s Anno Domini – Year of Our Lord – none of this “Common Era” crap they’re trying to foist on us these days).
Once he’s finished counting, he’ll turn from the alter and begin searching for his lost lambs. Every parishoner he finds will then, in turn, become another seeker, until everyone in the parish is found – however long that takes. Could be days. Cool, right?
I know it sounds like a complete non sequitur (check me out, getting more Latin in here), but is it really?
The priest is, of course, representative of Christ, The Good Shepherd, who will not rest until his lost sheep are found. The time spent hiding, alone and isolated, represents Jesus’ 40 days in the wilderness. While hiding, Catholics would be encouraged to spend that quiet time in prayer and meditation for the selection of a new Holy Father. This whole thing could be totally legit.
So Francis, if you’re listening, here’s my agenda for your newly coronated Papal term:
1. Stop molesting kids. (I don’t mean you, personally, but sick priests everywhere… Well, wait, I guess I do mean you personally – if you’re molesting kids. Which I seriously hope you’re not. But if you are, then stop.)
1a. Maybe consider letting priests marry so they would have some legitimate outlet for those urges?
2. Female priests. Your ranks are getting seriously thin. And you’re excluding devout followers of the faith? I’d rethink that one.
3. Let Catholics get married when they’re in love. Gay or straight. Don’t quote Leviticus to me unless you’re willing to give up your Choose Life t-shirt. That 50/50 blend don’t fly.
4. Velieris Quod Peto – The Most Holy Game of Hide & Seek.
You’re welcome and good luck!
So this is how it is, huh? I’ve posted nearly 200 times on this blog. I’ve tried shooting from the hip. I’ve tried writing from the heart. I’ve invested a ton of time here. Hell, I’ve frequently shamed and embarrassed myself here.
And when all’s said and done, the post that’s drawn the most hits to this blog wasn’t even something I wrote.
Thanks a lot, assholes.
That being said, thanks a lot for your concern. I’m just fine. Still don’t have any definite answers as to what the heck’s going on, but they’re going to start me on antibiotics to treat that C-Diff thing anyway. (Sure, the test was negative. But I’ve never been real good at tests. And, I hear some people pass this test the second time around.)
So, by taking this first dose tonight, I’m going to start doing something proactive to get over whatever this is. But have no fear, if anything goes south, I’m quite sure my wife will be more than happy to keep you all posted about the inner workings (or failures) of my digestive tract.
Special guest post by Corinne!
When your usually loving, sensitive husband asks you to ‘please, don’t squeeze me’ – something’s wrong.
When it follows a two week bout of sinusitis with a colonoscopy thrown in, it probably means that a trip to the ER is in your future.
Of course, Greg spent most of the week not really letting on how badly he was feeling. By Sunday, he started to let his guard down and asked me to drive Erin to the airport in his place. I probably should have pushed the issue then. But I think Greg likes to put on his brave face and make sure he’s not being an inconvenience.
Case in point – he told the admitting nurse we were there because he was having some “intestinal challenges” this week. If that’s how you describe nausea, inability to eat, massive abdominal pain and more urgent trips to the restroom (Editor’s note: We really tried to come up with a fun euphemism for that, but couldn’t come up with anything Greg found acceptably ungross.) than we can count – then I guess he was suffering from just that.
When the doctor offered some relief from the pain while we figured things out – he politely declined. They politely declined to let him decline (okay, I told him not to be a hero and he totally crumbled). One dose of morphine and anti-nausea medication later, Greg was feeling a little more himself and chatting up the nurses – taking bets on who sticks the best needle.
For all of you who have emailed, messaged or called today – Greg’s going to be okay. We still don’t have solid answers and they are running tests to check for a little bug called C-Diff (rapid culture is negative – so that’s promising). He also has a follow-up scheduled with his colonoscopy surgeon for tomorrow afternoon.
Intestinally challenged or not, I’ll give him a hug from all of you. But I promise not to squeeze too hard.