Who’s Your Daddy?

I have had a variety of landlord experiences in my day. In New York – I never met them once, nor did I have their contact information. Next, my parents were my landlords – they bought my groceries. Then, my landlord was a 60 year old hippie who let himself into my apartment at any hour of the day without warning. And currently, a middle-aged anger management case who only communicates by text message and hires “nigel” to all of his work for him – and inconveniently, has a no dog policy.

My roomie was in the market for a pup – and I volunteered myself to warm our landlords icy heart by stalking him incessantly until he agreed we could have one. I started with two phone calls and voicemail’s before resorting to his natural form of communication:


OK.. so not actually potty trained, and not sure how we would protect the floors but…good start. Plus, I was polite. I didn’t hear anything for a few days until my phone rang in Target and my landlord and I had a nice 15 minute phone conversation as I perused the card and gift isle. He encouraged me to get a cat, claimed a dog would ruin the floors forever and no one would ever rent the house again, was intrigued by the offer of a pet deposit, and finally compromised that we could have a dog if we renewed our lease (which is up in September). Definitely a stretch, but I considered it a win. We were’t ready to renew the lease, and I certainly wasn’t ready to make that decision before finalizing my $25 purchase of greeting cards and candy – so, I told him we would regroup and call him back.

Just ten minute later the “dog-hater” sent me this…


Most concerning, who names their dog Daddy?! Even if you adopt a dog that comes with that name…probably you should change it. Secondly, where was this compassion for animals on the phone? Also, isn’t the saying an elephant never forgets? I’m not sure if I have missed the in depth research on the steel-trap-memories of canines, or if Daddy is just exceptionally bright. On another note – slightly shocking that landlord has a wife, but good for him.

Now that my eyes were opened to this compassionate and tender hearted side of landlord I decided to push the envelope one more time…

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The emoji puppy as the clincher, I was certain he would cave.

That is the last time I have spoken to him. But next time I do, I will let him know that Daddy is definitely disappointed in his lack of compassion for his puppy brethren.

Something’s Fishy.

As I tucked myself into bed on Monday night something was not right. I noticed my room smelled strange. Not dead mouse strange or good strange….like a fish market strange (I had just showered. It wasn’t me). I checked for trash, old food in the kitchen, anything that could be wafting into my room. Nothing. I turned to Google.

Google told me that a fish smell in the house means electrical wires are wet or corroding and could result in an electrical fire.

Naturally, I panicked and unplugged everything in my room incase that would solve the issue. Called my boyfriend and texted my dad to say my goodbyes (sorry, mom). And slept in my roommates room where the smell was non-existent and the electrical fire obviously wouldn’t start. *Note: both males insisted I had spilled something or left food under my bed (thanks) and did not seem nearly concerned enough that I could be engulfed in flames at any second.

The next morning … still fishy. I was irate – this house is SO old, how could our landlord not take care of this, they need to fix this immediately, shit I don’t have renters insurance, and so on. I resolved to give my landlord a piece of my mind when I got to the office.

I stopped at the grocery store on the way to work and noticed when I got back into my trusty Chevy that it too, smelled of fish. Hmm. I took a sniff in my purse…and sure enough…a bottle of fish oil from my Christmas stocking (that I apparently kept in my purse?!) had spilled in the bottom of my bag and multiple capsules had exploded fish oil all over EVERYTHING.

I nonchalantly emptied out the contents of my bag on my car and violently dumped the small items and pills directly into the parking lot garbage can – all with my dad on speaker phone asking him if “HE COULD EVEN BELIEVE IT?!” it wasn’t an electrical issue after all! PHEW! He did not find this revolution nearly as relieving or entertaining as I did. In fact, he was not even a little bit surprised.

When I got to work I bought renters insurance. I felt pretty good about myself until I realized my hands and all of my belongings were still covered in fish oil – and smelled like it. My coworker walked up as I was blatantly smelling my pen. I explained I was just checking if it smelled like fish. I had to repeatedly explain to everyone in my work space that the overwhelming scent was not someone microwaving leftover salmon…it was me.

Even better? I got to drive a car-full of people to a work outing mid-day and had to literally use the phrase “I apologize if my car smells a little fishy…” as they sat next to my purse in the backseat.

A few key lessons here if you ask me: A fishy smell could mean electrical fires for most people so beware. You should get renters insurance even if your apartment doesn’t smell like fish. Don’t carry fish oil in your purse.

Loser Stamp.

I woke up this morning to find two black marks on my neck.

Question 1: Did the bar hand stamps from Saturday morning REALLY imprint on my neck and last over 24 hours without me noticing?


Question 2: Is this some sort of weird insect bite? Or bruise?


Question 3: What the HELL are these things?!

After three rounds of soap scrubbing without success it came to me….two black ovals that were the exact size of Eshu’s pupils.

Yes, the black semi – permanent tattoos were from snuggling my blue boyfriend last night. (My human one is currently on the other side of the world – its not THAT weird, right?!)

I had just given him some routine eye-work this week, re-touching his pupils with a fresh sharpie to make him look more beautiful (read: less like a horrifying doll). I apparently was squeezing him REAL tight last night because despite the scrubbing and three layers of cover up, his pupil imprints are still visible on the side of my neck.

I feel like Drew Barrymore with the loser stamp in “Never Been Kissed.” Except I think this for sure less embarrassing?

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Living vicariously through anyone who is not me

Yesterday was the first day I didn’t watch at least two full episodes of Scandal in over a week and I feel like I haven’t seen my best friends in years. No, no. Not my real friends because I have been cooped up watching Scandal – Olivia Pope and company (the characters), obviously. I can’t wait to see which problem we are going to solve next – and yes, we. In my world of living vicariously through the fictional non-lawyers I am a crime solving, white hat wearing champion of Washington. Definitely not a copy making, lunch ordering, power point building AAE who actually loves her job.

I am also super pumped about the fact that it was 70 and sunny this morning. The perfect day for a 3 mile jog without being uncomfortably hot – but warm enough to enjoy a swim in the ocean afterwards. Oh wait, again – not my real life. The life I am vicariously living through my Australian-residing boyfriend to help me cope through the polar vortex 2.0 (which is COMPLETE bullshit by the way – what the heck happened to global warming? Can we bring that back?!).

In other news – I am getting a new dog. His name is Mufasa and he is one part German Shepard, and other part adorably perfect. This mixed breed puppy is going to be mine all mine – to snuggle and take for walks and train to do fabulous tricks. I have been showing everyone pics of my new pup at the office so they can share in the excitement. Except this dog is actually going to be my roommates which means I don’t have to pay for vet bills or pick up poop – and ACTUALLY our landlord probably wont let us even have dogs anyways.

I slept at my parents house last night so I could hitch a ride in the morning – hoping to finally pickup my car at the auto body shop and enjoy my favorite morning commute loudly yapping a stream of consciousness over the boring talk radio of dad’s choice. The day started off with the continuation of my unlucky streak – and another day for my car at the shop. I was greeted downstairs by my mother who promptly ordered me back to my room to change my “inappropriate” outfit of sweatshirt and lants that was beyond unacceptable for the workplace. The worst part, I listened. I marched back upstairs to change my clothes before heading out the door – to my sisters POS car that has a permanently dirty windshield and ajar passenger door. (side note: Last week I tried to use the cupholder and ripped off the front of the audio system, and today I drove to work with the trunk WIDE open the last 5 minutes of the commute.) The high school flashback continued when the audio inexplicably turned to CD mode – allowing me to perform Kelly Clarkson’s entire album live for everyone in traffic on 394. Each word came back to me as if I wrote the songs myself AND had the help of a karaoke machine. I was a lyrical genius.

Yep, that last one….definitely my real life. Thrilling, glamorous, and classy as ever.

(Side note: if you need to get pumped up for an early AM meeting – Kclark is the obvious musical choice to get you there)

Mouse Trap.

I hate cats. I hate cats so much. They are creepy and slithery and needy and useless and only funny when they are wearing tights: http://meowtfit.tumblr.com/. The house I live in was deemed the “Cat House” years ago when our friends and their cats were the inhabitants. However, roommates switched and I moved in happily and cat free last September.

Last week was the first time I wished we had a cat – and not just the “outdoor cat” that lives down the street and eats fancy feast that our neighbor buys for us to feed him off our front stoop. Last week…we had our first mouse invasion.

My roommates had debated if it was the early morning groggy imagination or an actual furry creature scurrying across our floors. The best time to confirm a mouse invasion, however, is when you are trying to sleep and the mouse is UNDER YOUR RADIATOR RIGHT NEXT TO YOUR BED FOR FOUR HOURS. I thought the annoying scratching sound was my fan blowing something around – but the noise continued sans fan. I shined my trusty iPhone flashlight at the sound and it stopped immediately – DEFINITE MOUSE! The flashlight game went on for four hours. Yes, four. Until I saw its little tiny horrifying slithery tail under my radiator 3 feet from my face and it scooted right across my room and out the TINIEST crack in my door. Its like it had no bones. That freaky, horrifying creature.

The next day everyone felt the need to tell me that mice can climb. and jump. and burrow. and fit through any sort of hole. SO I developed my anti-mouse plan:

  • Put a towel under your door on both sides to avoid invasion
  • Spend at least $20 on traps and set a minimum of 9 of them around your house, mostly near your own room
  • Clean the chocolate wrappers from under your bed that the mouse was eating out of. – and be less dirty in general – you know, less trash on the floor and things
  • Make your bed an island in the center of the room and tuck all the sheets under the mattress so the mouse would have to jump really high to get to you while you’re sleeping

Welp, a few days later and no mice were caught in the traps. Luckily this means they all went back outside now that the “polar vortex” of cold is over. Phew.

First and Last Massage. EVER.

The entire concept of a massage is totally weird when you think about it. How could paying a stranger to rub your body for an hour not be awkward?!

I got my first massage last week with a gift card I found from last Christmas. I was greeted with an unfriendly, shifty eyed handshake from “Mary,” the woman who would bring me the next 60 minutes of un-relaxation.

Massage places should really call customers ahead of time to better prepare you for the massage experience. First of all, a warning not to be creeped out when you have to fill out a form AND have a face to face convo about which body parts can and cannot be touched– umm how about just my back? Or add an option to say “just the normal massage ones – you’re the experts!” Also – they should provide a better description for what you should or should not wear. Obviously “undress to your comfort level” is not enough instruction for someone of my level of social functioning.

I mostly just wish they had told to bring own music and headphones, or my iPad to watch a video to fill the 60 minutes of silence. One solid hour of just the sound of oil on human  – and the oil being pumped from her oil holster belt clip. All I could think about was the amount of body acne that I was accruing as each minute passed.

Sure, she got some knots out of my back and shoulders – but the anxiety ridden 50 minutes that followed left me even more tense than when I arrived.

The eerie silence made it even more apparent that I was obviously at risk of being sexually assaulted for the entire hour. It didn’t help that “Mary” was gently tucking and untucking me into a blanket every few minutes to put her oily hands on a different appendage. And by the way, turning the lights lower when rubbing my legs does not make it less weird. AND aggressively pressing on my appendages under the blanket before gingerly rolling back the blankets only made me more certain I was about to be violated.

I tried to dodge any and all humans on my way out but was intercepted with a glass of room temperature water and a pamphlet with checkboxes of each body part that was man handled and now acne ridden. I showered for like 47 minutes when I got home – to wash off the oil, and the shame.

I got an email survey two days ago and am still too squirmy to fill it out. Rewarded with a free giftcard for completion? No thanks. By the way – I still have about $40 on my gift card from last week if anyone wants to experience borderline silent assault just let me know –and be sure to bring your iPad.

Locked Out (again)

The worst burglar ever strikes again!

My family pulled the best audible of all time last week – Mama Dorn had enough of the sub zero temperatures and changed our northern cabin adventure to a sunshine getaway in Arizona with 48 hours to spare. We enjoyed hikes and poolside lounging, at this magical place where they bring you free samples of ice cream and treats. It was so great that I wasn’t even a little upset to dip out a day early on the redeye flight back to work Friday morning.

Until I got home.

I took a cab from the airport to my parents house to catch a few z’s and grab my janky car to bring to the shop (stay tuned for my updates on my badass car wreck). I encouraged the cabbie to stop at the bottom of the driveway to avoid getting stuck on the slippery incline, and mostly to prevent him from abducting or murdering me. I trekked up to the garage feeling safe, and not at all irrational about my fears spawned by our families constant discussion of the movie Taken this past week. Appropriately dressed in a sweatshirt for the sub zero 5am temps, I typed in the garage code upwards of 50 times before admitting defeat.

Locked out. Freezing. I called each family member approximately 10 times before realizing it was 4am in Arizona and they probably did not even change the garage code anyways. My next call was obviously to Australia. If i was going to suffer in the cold, I would at least use up my entire cell phone battery complaining while I did it. Plus – if the garage code pad wasn’t working because a murderer cut the power to it, at least someone would know I was in danger and would clearly be able to help save me from across the world.

Luckily this was not my first rodeo with a break-in. Flashback: Thanksgiving break 2006 – first time drinking at home after heading to college. Captain Morgan. Ride home from friends. Sleeping parents. Scared drunk freshman. Fence. Dog Cage. Dog Door. Garage. Church Pew. Mom smells booze. Lecture.

I kicked in my the fence to my back yard (sorry, Dad) and trekked through the knee deep snow to the fenced in area for the puppies. I entered the glorified cage and wedged my broad shoulders through the doggie door, followed by my wriggling body and entire purse, all while still talking on the phone (impressed?). Success! I was in the garage – able to get into the house and grab a set of car keys.

Crabby from my escapades in the frozen tundra I decided it was not the morning for car repairs. I grabbed the keys to my sisters car and successfully leapt over the sensor to let myself out of the garage from the inside. Pleased with myself, I hopped in the car – turned the key -nothing.

I was locked out…again.

Back through the fence. The snow. The dog cage. The dog door. The garage. And finally back into the house. Bloody palms and STILL on the phone (Thanks CJ). I tested all 3 cars in the driveway before finding one that would start.

Frozen, crabby, and obviously somewhat proud of myself. I finally was able to catch 45 minutes of snooze before heading to work.

My parents got home later that night after the temperature warmed up 30 degrees to a working garage code pad and 3 cars that started in the driveway, of course. They did not even feel bad that I was locked out in the cold for 25 minutes and not ONE of them answered my call. Guess who I am certainly NOT calling if I’m being attacked by a cab driver at 5 in the morning next time? Or if I am being robbed in my house now that I have told the entire internet world how to break in. please don’t?


The Grinch

The benefit of having a large family is that Christmas lasts for an entire week. Literally. It’s mostly fun and Holly Jolly – until the last day when all you want to do is lay in your new pajamas and watch all the movies you and your siblings got for Christmas – and not talk to a single human or smile even one time.

Luckily our last gathering of the season included lots of little cousins to keep things entertaining by sharing their presents (since they still actually get toys) and performing surprisingly talent-filled shows. However – they make me want to train my children to be the MOST EXCITED present openers ever. Seriously, watching them open gifts was beyond painful.

I got to sit at the kids table this year, and chat with my six-year-old cousin George over some Christmas pasta as he told me his dream of being a cash register (read: cashier) at ToysRUs. I asked him what made him realize that this was his dream job? The answer was obvious: cuz the cash register gets all the peoples moneys. (insert dream crusher here) I quickly corrected him that he would have to share the money with the store – the cashier doesn’t get to keep ALL the money.


He cried. And hid under the table – still crying. Until he emerged to ask if he would get a store discount. I told him he definitely would – and did not even correct him when he thought it would be a 500% discount. This stopped the tears a little, plus some ice cream bribery.

Just to continue wrecking Christmas, I walked in on my aunt in the bathroom. Instead of just closing the door and saying nothing – I screamed how sorry I was, using her name to be sure that she knew I looked long enough to recognize who it was.

Great work all around on my part.


Well by now you are probably entering the lull of Christmas day…you’ve already made your family watch a fashion show of all your new clothes, and tried to use every cosmetic item and gadget in your stocking (well at least I have). You are likely wishing you had one more present left to open…and in fact, YOU JUST DID! My gift to you – the valiant return of My Blue Boyfriend. You’re welcome, seriously.

The last few months have consisted mainly of me forcing my awkwardness into every inch of my human boyfriends life – which as you can imagine was only about 40% bloggable and 60% too uncomfortable or “O.M.G Look at me and my boyfriend”-esque for your eyes.

A few highlights include: I got my nose pierced in an attempt to be cool since I am now a cougar – but it was infected for all four months that it was in my nose and affectionately referred to as “Blood Diamond” daily. I went to a wedding where I held a goat and touched a chicken.  I discovered a gluten free brownie you can make in the microwave. I conned my way into a captive audience to test jokes on twice a week by becoming a yoga sculpt teacher. I bought a new car in the dark and later found out it had a racing stripe and aftermarket sub in the trunk. I tried wearing lipstick that wasn’t the same color as my lips once. I became addicted to old fashions. My boyfriend moved to Australia for a bit – and only scraped the ice off my car one time before he left. I almost bought a dog three times. And I read one whole book.

Just play through a quick mental video montage/highlight reel of all those things – my life is still as thrilling and interesting as it’s always been – you’ll see.

Now get on with your holiday celebrations, have your next glass of whiskey (or whatever), and get ready to feel better about your life by reading consistent updates on mine from this day forward.

Merry Christmas!

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2 Wheels 2 Dangerous

I have recently taken a firmer stance on my belief that everything with only 2 wheels is 2 dangerous. I have always silently judged motorcyclists. Not in a mean way, in a …I fear for your life, you have no box of metal around you to protect you kind of way. I never knew many people who rode a motorcycle consistently, and those who I do know are generally cool enough (with enough leather products) to do so appropriately.

In Minnesota, its apparently cool to ride the lesser, yet equally as dangerous version of motorcycle…the moped. I mean, I am a big fan of the round weird looking helmets and safety goggles. And until a month ago, I thought these “motorcycle-minis” were safer and well balanced like an elderly woman’s scooter in a nursing home.

One Saturday night, I was sitting in front of two mopeds, and an empty parking lot…how could I NOT try to ride one?! I was with three humans – two of them encouraging me to ride (clearly for their own entertainment – they were on a first date type scenario and needed some new talking points – what better than my complete lack of coordination?), the last human continued to warn me that I could barely walk a straight line, soberly, and that operating a two wheeled motorized vehicle was probably a poor decision. That OBVIOUSLY just made me want to do it more and prove my skills.

I donned my safety goggles and impatiently listened to a lecture of instructions. Don’t pull back on the throttle…stand up if it gets away from you…blah blah blah. Welp, a straight shot of 20 feet, a narrowly avoided brick building, a jumped curb, and a ruined landscape of mulch later I was on the ground under the moped…bleeding profusely and laughing hysterically to avoid crying in front of everyone.

I mean, my legs usually look like a scabby 8 year old – but this was to a new extreme. I was bandaid-clad and in too much pain to wear pants to hide the wounds for a solid 3 weeks. My coworker asked me to switch seats in a meeting because my cuts were “looking at him,”, and I would consistently make my desk mates check the status of my scab healings…begging them to help me apply Neosporin.

I decided to switch to un-motorized modes of transportation and acquired my mothers 27 year old bicycle. My dad made me test it out in the driveway in a too-small helmet and knock-off crocs that I stole from my mother. Let’s just say it was a rockier start than when he first took off my training wheels. HOW are you supposed to operate ghetto gear changing switches down low on the bike AND maneuver at the same time?! He made me do practice laps in my driveway until he felt comfortable enough for me to take the bike home – only to bike with a helmet and under supervision of my man friend biking behind me to block me from swerving into oncoming traffic.

I thought I found a genius solution of biking the opposite way down a one-way so I could see the cars that were about to hit me ahead of time…that is apparently illegal. I’m trying, people.