It's that weird time of year in my neighborhood: Spring.
First let me describe the neighborhood to you. It's one exact square mile, within which can be found: one 7 Eleven, one veterinary hospital, two churches and another being built, one apartment complex, 1,200 single-family dwellings, two housing association amenities areas, and a golf course.
My house is in the middle of the golf course, as in, the 18 holes circle my block but in no way does my home abut the green at any point.
The golf course brings an interesting element to the area. We have ponds. Lots and lots of ponds. Oh, I know they're water hazards and only there to fuck with the golfer's games (and store the water for irrigation), but they look like ponds to me.
They also look like ponds to the local wildlife. Which is what makes this time of year weird.
For the next several weeks I will have to routinely slam on my breaks so as not to kill one of the plentiful mallards who are currently searching for a nesting spot, and later on will be taking their new families back to the pond. It's a regular Make Way for Ducklings around here, without Officer Mike.
Last week when I came home there were two ducks just hanging out in my neighbor's driveway. They watched me drive by. I swear I heard one quack to the other, "You think she'd wash that UrbanTruckster she drives more that once a season, wouldn't you?"
And then there's the bunnies. Today, the Jesus of Cheese was about to start cleaning out his tomato patch, and discovered a baby bunny. We held it, we petted it, we took pictures of it, we tried to feed it a carrot, and then we let it go. And where did it go? Right back to the tomato patch, with it's three brothers and sisters. At first we thought it was only one sibling, and then Simian Boy accidentally discovered the next sibling by stepping on it.
We're not sure how bunny #3--apparently it's now named Rachel--is doing. I think she's got a broken foot. Or a broken something. She's moving around and stuff, but not how she should.
There's a fourth one also, who's very good at hiding under the leaves or right beside a brother or sister.
After discovering the cute and fuzzy creatures of the forest living happily (okay Rachel's not that happy but the other three seem pretty content) two feet from our garage door, we decided to put the tomato bed cleaning on hold.
Maybe we should put up a bunny house or something. But if we did that, with our luck, a skunk would move into it. And the kids would be all happy about their new black and white kitty, and name it Flower.
I think we're gonna need the tomatoes.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Friday, March 30, 2007
Blue Laws
Prompted by a comment by SFChick, here's a quick breakdown of liquor laws in Minnesota:
Liquor, spirits, wine, and "strong" beer must be sold by a licensed off-sale retailer. "Strong" beer is what everyone else in the country just refers to as beer. It is, however, marked "strong" on the top of cans.
These stores are never open on Sundays. Monday thru Saturday hours are set by local municipal laws.
Beer of 3.2% alcohol content may be sold at grocery and convenience stores. I have no idea what hours the sale of this beer, commonly referred to as "three-two," is confined to, because I always planned ahead. Okay, sometimes only 15 minutes ahead, because it was 11:45 on a Saturday, but still.
What's so scary about alcohol that you've got to have such silly laws? I couldn't tell you specifically, but generally, I blame God. Or rather, those who claim they know that God Would Want It That Way.
What a bunch of tools. Here's how it kind of breaks down:
1) There are still Women's Temperance chapters that meet monthly in small towns in Minnesota.
2) Everyone knows everyone else's business, including how often people visit the "off-sale."
3) But everyone "knows" that Minnesotans are God-fearin' folk, every last one of 'em.
4) So there's no need to make that Devil's water too available, right?
5) Even so, they may as well make money off the heathens, so...
6) Most liquor stores in small towns are owned by the city, and the profits go to offset the taxes. Which is why half of the bars in Minnesota are called "The Munie." That is, the municipal liquor store, which sells liquor for consumption both on the premises and to take home.
Really, I have no fucking clue why the constraints and restrictions exist, except to placate a lot of small-town personalities and politics. And to offset the tax base.
Because this is How Their God Feels.
My God feels that those people are asshats. I know this for a fact. He and I commune on this issue daily, and we've concluded. Ass. Hats.
Politically speaking, Minnesota is very liberal. Except with the liquor. (And the anal sex, but that's off topic.) Minnesotans plan ahead, and they expect everyone to follow suit. You want beer to drink while watching the Nextel race? You better remember that on Saturday night. If ya don't, it's your own fault.
(Next on the agenda: Blue Laws II: Not Friendly, The Texas Way!)
Liquor, spirits, wine, and "strong" beer must be sold by a licensed off-sale retailer. "Strong" beer is what everyone else in the country just refers to as beer. It is, however, marked "strong" on the top of cans.
These stores are never open on Sundays. Monday thru Saturday hours are set by local municipal laws.
Beer of 3.2% alcohol content may be sold at grocery and convenience stores. I have no idea what hours the sale of this beer, commonly referred to as "three-two," is confined to, because I always planned ahead. Okay, sometimes only 15 minutes ahead, because it was 11:45 on a Saturday, but still.
What's so scary about alcohol that you've got to have such silly laws? I couldn't tell you specifically, but generally, I blame God. Or rather, those who claim they know that God Would Want It That Way.
What a bunch of tools. Here's how it kind of breaks down:
1) There are still Women's Temperance chapters that meet monthly in small towns in Minnesota.
2) Everyone knows everyone else's business, including how often people visit the "off-sale."
3) But everyone "knows" that Minnesotans are God-fearin' folk, every last one of 'em.
4) So there's no need to make that Devil's water too available, right?
5) Even so, they may as well make money off the heathens, so...
6) Most liquor stores in small towns are owned by the city, and the profits go to offset the taxes. Which is why half of the bars in Minnesota are called "The Munie." That is, the municipal liquor store, which sells liquor for consumption both on the premises and to take home.
Really, I have no fucking clue why the constraints and restrictions exist, except to placate a lot of small-town personalities and politics. And to offset the tax base.
Because this is How Their God Feels.
My God feels that those people are asshats. I know this for a fact. He and I commune on this issue daily, and we've concluded. Ass. Hats.
Politically speaking, Minnesota is very liberal. Except with the liquor. (And the anal sex, but that's off topic.) Minnesotans plan ahead, and they expect everyone to follow suit. You want beer to drink while watching the Nextel race? You better remember that on Saturday night. If ya don't, it's your own fault.
(Next on the agenda: Blue Laws II: Not Friendly, The Texas Way!)
Playing catch-up
When I first moved to Texas, I would always carry my passport. I was at least 25, but apparently I looked 20 or younger because I always got double-carded. Yes, it's legal to double-card. In Texas, anyone not bearing a Texas Driver License or Texas Identification may be asked for a second form of photo I.D.
I figured this out my second day in Texas. Lucky for me, I was still in the process of moving and had my passport in my purse. Ya see, I had discovered--JOY--that I could buy real beer at a grocery or convenience store. This was unheard of in Minnesota; you had to go to a liquor store for regular beer, because what they sold elsewhere was only 3.2 percent.
So there I was, giddy at the grocery store, buying beer and hamburger and potatoes. I guess I was acting suspicious, which is understandable because I was WAY too happy to be buying beer and potatoes and hamburger. So of course I was carded, and I presented my Minnesota Driver License, number H-636-368-585-151. Which (at the time) looked more like a credit card than a DL. (EVERYONE who carded me said that.) So the pimply guy who carded me asked for another ID, at which time I presented my passport. I had to show him where the birthdate was. I offered to wait for his manager to verify. He declined and let me buy the damn 6 pack.
My passport was endlessly amazing to Texans. I don't know if it was my Freshly Fucked hairdo in the picture (both literal and figurative), the East German entrance stamps, or just the idea that there was somewhere...else...that I had visited. Dunno.
They also thought the Canadian money I kept in there was pretty cool. So much so that somebody eventually stole it. It was less than $10 worth.
It was really a bit of relief to not carry the passport around once I applied for a Texas driver's license. I thought it would be much more difficult than it was, you see. I thought that I'd have to take at least a written test, if not a road test. But nope! I gave them my Minnesota license, they gave me a paper Texas one, and I paid the standard fee. That was IT!
However, it was a pain in the ass buying beer for the few days that I only had a paper Texas license and a passport.
After that, I used my passport twice more. Once to go to Montreal, and once to Toronto. This was when a passport was only "advised," so the Canadian authorities looked at me strangely when I presented a passport.
My passport's been expired 7 years, now. Kind of sad, that I haven't needed it.
The Jesus of Cheese and I will be applying for passports for ourselves and the kids in the near future, because you never know. A quick trip to Mexico isn't out of the question living in Texas, and we've taken shortcuts through Canada in the past--which is another long, stupid story.
When you apply for a renewal, even lapsed like mine, you're supposed to turn in the old passport. But there's no way in hell. I have East German stamps in there. I have that silly freshly fucked hairstyle preserved for all eternity. It's nostalgic, and I'm going to say I lost it.
Because it's mine.
I figured this out my second day in Texas. Lucky for me, I was still in the process of moving and had my passport in my purse. Ya see, I had discovered--JOY--that I could buy real beer at a grocery or convenience store. This was unheard of in Minnesota; you had to go to a liquor store for regular beer, because what they sold elsewhere was only 3.2 percent.
So there I was, giddy at the grocery store, buying beer and hamburger and potatoes. I guess I was acting suspicious, which is understandable because I was WAY too happy to be buying beer and potatoes and hamburger. So of course I was carded, and I presented my Minnesota Driver License, number H-636-368-585-151. Which (at the time) looked more like a credit card than a DL. (EVERYONE who carded me said that.) So the pimply guy who carded me asked for another ID, at which time I presented my passport. I had to show him where the birthdate was. I offered to wait for his manager to verify. He declined and let me buy the damn 6 pack.
My passport was endlessly amazing to Texans. I don't know if it was my Freshly Fucked hairdo in the picture (both literal and figurative), the East German entrance stamps, or just the idea that there was somewhere...else...that I had visited. Dunno.
They also thought the Canadian money I kept in there was pretty cool. So much so that somebody eventually stole it. It was less than $10 worth.
It was really a bit of relief to not carry the passport around once I applied for a Texas driver's license. I thought it would be much more difficult than it was, you see. I thought that I'd have to take at least a written test, if not a road test. But nope! I gave them my Minnesota license, they gave me a paper Texas one, and I paid the standard fee. That was IT!
However, it was a pain in the ass buying beer for the few days that I only had a paper Texas license and a passport.
After that, I used my passport twice more. Once to go to Montreal, and once to Toronto. This was when a passport was only "advised," so the Canadian authorities looked at me strangely when I presented a passport.
My passport's been expired 7 years, now. Kind of sad, that I haven't needed it.
The Jesus of Cheese and I will be applying for passports for ourselves and the kids in the near future, because you never know. A quick trip to Mexico isn't out of the question living in Texas, and we've taken shortcuts through Canada in the past--which is another long, stupid story.
When you apply for a renewal, even lapsed like mine, you're supposed to turn in the old passport. But there's no way in hell. I have East German stamps in there. I have that silly freshly fucked hairstyle preserved for all eternity. It's nostalgic, and I'm going to say I lost it.
Because it's mine.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Sweet Irish George
I met my friend George as a Freshman in college, at a fraternity party. The party itself was known as the "Post New Year's" party, which was traditionally held on a Saturday a week or two after the actual New Year's, the point being, most college students weren't actually in town during the New Year's, and if you were going to hold it later, why not hold it on a convenient evening?
On the occasion that I met George, I was with this guy who had just bought his own tuxedo, on clearance from a rental shop in town. He wore the tux on a dare. I think it was our second date, or something.
Anyway, I met George while dancing on a bar. Or perhaps a dresser. I don't quite remember.
I learned much from George. The secret recipe for "greenies," the official drink of his fraternity, for instance. How to steal your roommate's pizza by pretending you're sneaking off to the dining room to have sex. How to host lovely Post New-Year's parties that people will still attend annually, after almost 20 years.
How to not kill your friend BeerPup, even when she changes the outgoing message on your answering machine to say, "We're having a party! Call back later!" or if she wraps everything in your refrigerator with masking tape, then tapes the refrigerator itself shut. Or if she brings three drunk guys to your house who insist on building a chair out of scrap lumber from the deck you just made.
How not to give three drunk guys power tools, diplomatically.
George taught me a lot. He never taught me how to drive a school bus, though. In retrospect, though, that was probably wise.
On the occasion that I met George, I was with this guy who had just bought his own tuxedo, on clearance from a rental shop in town. He wore the tux on a dare. I think it was our second date, or something.
Anyway, I met George while dancing on a bar. Or perhaps a dresser. I don't quite remember.
I learned much from George. The secret recipe for "greenies," the official drink of his fraternity, for instance. How to steal your roommate's pizza by pretending you're sneaking off to the dining room to have sex. How to host lovely Post New-Year's parties that people will still attend annually, after almost 20 years.
How to not kill your friend BeerPup, even when she changes the outgoing message on your answering machine to say, "We're having a party! Call back later!" or if she wraps everything in your refrigerator with masking tape, then tapes the refrigerator itself shut. Or if she brings three drunk guys to your house who insist on building a chair out of scrap lumber from the deck you just made.
How not to give three drunk guys power tools, diplomatically.
George taught me a lot. He never taught me how to drive a school bus, though. In retrospect, though, that was probably wise.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Carline Special?
I'm going to bitch about the car line.
My daughter is in first grade. For nearly two years, every day, twice a day--I have driven to her school to drop her off and then pick her up. So let's see, 180 days last year, and this year we're at least past day 140, so that's (180+140)2=640. Six Hundred forty times, I've done this.
In order to avoid traffic congestion on certain roads, the school has a specific spot for each grade to drop off and pick up, plus a direction to approach the school from. K-1 from the West, 2-3 from the North, and 4-5 from the East. It takes the new parents a couple of weeks to get it right--particularly the Kindergarten parents, but after that, we've pretty much got it.
The exceptions, of course, are the parents who rarely do the pick-up or drop-off routine. Last year, every Friday there was a guy in a black BMW who would approach from the East and expect to cut in line in front of 20 or 30 other cars that had been waiting for 15 minutes. I hated Black Beemer. Others would do this also. Once someone was going to do it in front of me and I gave the woman the "back off!" hand signal. I was in my crappy old blue car and I was going to hit her if she didn't stop.
But the thing that bugs me lately is the "move forward" signal. All the cars are pulling through a circle drive, and the correct procedure is pretty obvious.
Every morning, though, the parent on duty, does this "move forward" hand signal when the cars at the front begin to pull out of the drive.
Why the FUCK do they do that? Do they think we're confused? Do they think we don't know where to go? Do they think we don't notice that the space in front of us is no longer occupied (because if we didn't notice that, we wouldn't notice their stupid hand signal either. Duh.)?
And in the afternoon, sometimes they make the same stupid movement when there is no where to go. Do they REALLY want me to rear-end the car in front of me?
If I knew the person in front of me in the afternoon was the same person who'd been doing the "move forward" signal at me that morning, you bet I would. And if they're in a black BMW, all the better.
My daughter is in first grade. For nearly two years, every day, twice a day--I have driven to her school to drop her off and then pick her up. So let's see, 180 days last year, and this year we're at least past day 140, so that's (180+140)2=640. Six Hundred forty times, I've done this.
In order to avoid traffic congestion on certain roads, the school has a specific spot for each grade to drop off and pick up, plus a direction to approach the school from. K-1 from the West, 2-3 from the North, and 4-5 from the East. It takes the new parents a couple of weeks to get it right--particularly the Kindergarten parents, but after that, we've pretty much got it.
The exceptions, of course, are the parents who rarely do the pick-up or drop-off routine. Last year, every Friday there was a guy in a black BMW who would approach from the East and expect to cut in line in front of 20 or 30 other cars that had been waiting for 15 minutes. I hated Black Beemer. Others would do this also. Once someone was going to do it in front of me and I gave the woman the "back off!" hand signal. I was in my crappy old blue car and I was going to hit her if she didn't stop.
But the thing that bugs me lately is the "move forward" signal. All the cars are pulling through a circle drive, and the correct procedure is pretty obvious.
Every morning, though, the parent on duty, does this "move forward" hand signal when the cars at the front begin to pull out of the drive.
Why the FUCK do they do that? Do they think we're confused? Do they think we don't know where to go? Do they think we don't notice that the space in front of us is no longer occupied (because if we didn't notice that, we wouldn't notice their stupid hand signal either. Duh.)?
And in the afternoon, sometimes they make the same stupid movement when there is no where to go. Do they REALLY want me to rear-end the car in front of me?
If I knew the person in front of me in the afternoon was the same person who'd been doing the "move forward" signal at me that morning, you bet I would. And if they're in a black BMW, all the better.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Being Anti-antichrist
Here's the really stupid part about the prophesied End Times. According to the prophecy, no one will see it coming. No one will recognize the antichrist for who he is. It'll be all, "Who is Darth Sidious? Oh hello, there, Chancellor Palpatine. Nice to see you."
We'll all be as clueless as George Lucas trying to write a convincing plot. None of us will notice that we never see Superman and Clark Kent together. Soylent Green will always be a really delicious treat the government thought up for us.
There are a few traditional characteristics that the antichrist is supposed to possess: charismatic, intelligent, obtains a position of power--political or otherwise--without seeming to seek it, physically attractive, and basically able to seduce the world. Oh, and he'll be accompanied by his hound of Hell.
Except for the dog part, I just described Steve Jobs. But there are other possibilities, some obvious and some not:
Dubya: He could be the antichrist, in a manner as obvious as the Palpatine/Sidious scenario. However, I don't think he's smart enough. He's not even smart enough to figure out that a whole lot of the population he represents is smarter than him.
Cheney: Nah. Way too obvious.
Martha Stewart: Until her fall from power, I was pretty sure she would gain control of the world, one simple 48-step project at a time.
Ashley Judd: I only added her because she always has to have her dog with her. And he's one of those little dogs, who are all creatures of Hell. Plus, she has become quite successful even though she lacks any talent whatsoever.
Mel Gibson: Now wouldn't that be ironic?
The Pope: The current one. The last one was actually a nice guy. I know that because my friend Elly met him once.
However, I'm sure none of these speculations are correct because that would negate the idea that the anti-christ will go among us undetected. In the end, we just won't know. However, I'm sure of one thing: I don't think the Antichrist will let anyone burn the Gutenberg Bible. Boy, what a relief!
Wait, I just thought of something. Does Barack Obama have a dog?
We'll all be as clueless as George Lucas trying to write a convincing plot. None of us will notice that we never see Superman and Clark Kent together. Soylent Green will always be a really delicious treat the government thought up for us.
There are a few traditional characteristics that the antichrist is supposed to possess: charismatic, intelligent, obtains a position of power--political or otherwise--without seeming to seek it, physically attractive, and basically able to seduce the world. Oh, and he'll be accompanied by his hound of Hell.
Except for the dog part, I just described Steve Jobs. But there are other possibilities, some obvious and some not:
Dubya: He could be the antichrist, in a manner as obvious as the Palpatine/Sidious scenario. However, I don't think he's smart enough. He's not even smart enough to figure out that a whole lot of the population he represents is smarter than him.
Cheney: Nah. Way too obvious.
Martha Stewart: Until her fall from power, I was pretty sure she would gain control of the world, one simple 48-step project at a time.
Ashley Judd: I only added her because she always has to have her dog with her. And he's one of those little dogs, who are all creatures of Hell. Plus, she has become quite successful even though she lacks any talent whatsoever.
Mel Gibson: Now wouldn't that be ironic?
The Pope: The current one. The last one was actually a nice guy. I know that because my friend Elly met him once.
However, I'm sure none of these speculations are correct because that would negate the idea that the anti-christ will go among us undetected. In the end, we just won't know. However, I'm sure of one thing: I don't think the Antichrist will let anyone burn the Gutenberg Bible. Boy, what a relief!
Wait, I just thought of something. Does Barack Obama have a dog?
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Hello. Hello, again.
Early this morning, I was drunkenly but not unkindly booted off my old shared blog, because I have breasts and a vagina. I could ramble about the event, but I'll just boil it all down to this: Nick's site (linked somewhere on this page) really should be about him. It's definitely time to leave the nest.
I did a lot of crappy, sappy writing over there. But I did a lot of good writing over there, too. So I'll intro over here the same way I did over there. Here's a little ditty from March, 2004:
BeerPup is a Geek
To show what a geek I am, I offer this as my official introduction:
Imagine that you're watching the Bravo channel. Inside the Actor's Studio, having run out of good actors to interview, and has also worked their way through mediocre actors who happen to be ''stars'' (they had SMeg Ryan on, for god's sake!), they have now become Inside the Average Lame Writer's Mind. The interview was very uneven, since the guest declined to ever look at James Lipton, except to call him an obsequious ass (which prompted a standing ovation from the students). Pushing on, however, James 'Where's my martini' Lipton has reached the conclusion, and poses his traditional final questions.
Q. What is your favorite word?
A. 'Worcestershire.' Because I can spell it.
Q. What is your least favorite word?
A. 'Cute.' With 'nice' running a close second.
Q. What turns you on?
A. Guy on guy action. Oh, wait, that wasn't what you meant, was it? You know, you should always explain that question better, Jimmy--can I call you Jimmy? I can't? Well, Jimmy, you really should explain that question better, to save your guests some embarrassment. If you don't, what kind of obsequious ass are you? Where were we? What turns me on, intellectually, emotionally? Um. Guy on guy action. Yeah. That would have to be it.
Q. What turns you off?
A. Penguins. Or when my handcuffs break.
Q. What sound do you love?
A. The sound of air breaks when I'm having sex on the subway.
Q. What sound do you hate?
A. That bongo sound when Scooby and Shaggy run and don't get anywhere.
Q. What profession other than yours would you like to attempt?
A. Belly dancer. I can already roll my stomach like that. No, I won't show you, Jimmy.
Q. What profession would you not like to participate in?
A. Ice cream truck driver. I don't think I could handle the death threats.
Q. If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
A. Bar's open. *clink*
I did a lot of crappy, sappy writing over there. But I did a lot of good writing over there, too. So I'll intro over here the same way I did over there. Here's a little ditty from March, 2004:
BeerPup is a Geek
To show what a geek I am, I offer this as my official introduction:
Imagine that you're watching the Bravo channel. Inside the Actor's Studio, having run out of good actors to interview, and has also worked their way through mediocre actors who happen to be ''stars'' (they had SMeg Ryan on, for god's sake!), they have now become Inside the Average Lame Writer's Mind. The interview was very uneven, since the guest declined to ever look at James Lipton, except to call him an obsequious ass (which prompted a standing ovation from the students). Pushing on, however, James 'Where's my martini' Lipton has reached the conclusion, and poses his traditional final questions.
Q. What is your favorite word?
A. 'Worcestershire.' Because I can spell it.
Q. What is your least favorite word?
A. 'Cute.' With 'nice' running a close second.
Q. What turns you on?
A. Guy on guy action. Oh, wait, that wasn't what you meant, was it? You know, you should always explain that question better, Jimmy--can I call you Jimmy? I can't? Well, Jimmy, you really should explain that question better, to save your guests some embarrassment. If you don't, what kind of obsequious ass are you? Where were we? What turns me on, intellectually, emotionally? Um. Guy on guy action. Yeah. That would have to be it.
Q. What turns you off?
A. Penguins. Or when my handcuffs break.
Q. What sound do you love?
A. The sound of air breaks when I'm having sex on the subway.
Q. What sound do you hate?
A. That bongo sound when Scooby and Shaggy run and don't get anywhere.
Q. What profession other than yours would you like to attempt?
A. Belly dancer. I can already roll my stomach like that. No, I won't show you, Jimmy.
Q. What profession would you not like to participate in?
A. Ice cream truck driver. I don't think I could handle the death threats.
Q. If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
A. Bar's open. *clink*
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