THE BOOK 

I was temping in downtown St. Paul around the same time I was dating Jay (see previous post). I remember very little about the job itself--the details of mind-numbing temp gigs tend to blend one into the other over the years--but I do know I was working at The Ramsey County Government Center on Kellogg, next to the Science Museum. I remember having to walk through a metal detector every day, and needing to wear an ID badge to go anywhere in the complex. Our supervisor was a goofy, genial guy who was the spitting image of Dan Fogelberg and frequently quoted old cartoon characters (Mr. Peabody, Underdog, etc).

My old boss, before he got a government job.

I became friendly with another temp, a lady named Reva who was in her mid-40s. Reva was a bookworm like me, and we often traded paperbacks. One day she came in with a novel called Spilling Clarence by Anne Ursu, a book she'd started reading but was "not really feeling it," so I said I'd give it a try. 

Spoiler alert: I never read it. The job assignment ended later that year, I lost touch with Reva (one of the folks lost to the mists of time in the days before social media, back before everyone was trackable) and I never read the damned book.    

Guess what, though? I still have it. 

It's like it was with the mug: I didn't plan to hold onto this book all these years later, I just did. Although, there was some intentionality with this one. See, I have to regularly do sweeps to pare down my collection and get rid of any books I don't plan on reading again, otherwise I wouldn't have room for anything else.* The books I end up keeping are either signed copies, or ones that have sentimental value (if it was a gift from someone dear, I'll usually hold onto it). But all the books in my "slush pile" get dispatched to Half Price Books and various Little Free Libraries around town. 

I've kept Spilling Clarence for over twenty years now. It's been on the chopping block every time I've done a book purge, and every time, it manages to stay. 

Why have I held onto it? The main reason is, well, because I never read it. As a book lover, I cannot---will not---get rid of a book that I haven't read yet. I mean, what if it's amazing? I'll never know if I donate it. 

Also? Spilling Clarence sounds intriguing, if the description on the back cover is anything to go on: 

"What if you could suddenly remember everything that ever happened to you? Would it be a blessing, or a curse? This is the fate of the residents of the town of Clarence, who fall under the spell of a strange and powerful drug that unlocks their memories. The past comes flooding back without the buffer of time, and the townspeople, young and old, find themselves awash in their own reminiscences--of love and death, of war and childhood, of happiness they've experienced and sins they've committed. Beautifully rendered with a light comic touch, Spilling Clarence is a beguiling exploration of our relationship with our histories, the seductive pull of regret, the unreliability of memory, and the bliss of forgetting." 

Hey, look what I found stuck in the pages! 

It's the passport card from my very first passport, which, judging by the date, was issued on July 2, 2006 (ten years before the expiration date listed). Cool!

Without further ado, I am reading it. Yep, today's the day. 

Let's do this, bitches.

* I have to periodically do the same with clothes and shoes, or my closets would overflow. 

THE MUG

There's a scene in the novel Wonder Boys where Grady Tripp, at the end of a chaotic, debauched weekend, looks down at his feet to see that a tuba which showed up early in the story appears to have "followed" him throughout his adventures. 

Does anyone else have something like this? An item that has followed you from place to place over a period of time, even though a.) you never made a conscious decision to keep it, b.) you're somewhat ambivalent about hanging onto it, but c.) still, it's just....there? 

I do.

When I moved to the Twin Cities, I rented a cute little studio apartment in the Cathedral Hill neighborhood of St. Paul. I was living there when I briefly dated a younger guy whom I'll call "Jay." I was 32, he was 23. We used to laugh about the numerological juxtaposition of our ages. 

Going out with a youngster was funny; by our second date Jay was calling me his girlfriend. It wasn't creepy or anything, it seemed kind of natural since we clicked right away and we both dug one another. I didn't mind it. 

Jay had his own apartment in the St. Paul burbs, but--being 23--he was frequently at his mother's house doing laundry and getting free meals. Jay also spent a lot of time at my apartment, and soon he was leaving personal items behind: a hoodie here, a toothbrush there, a towel hanging in my bathroom. Then one day, this mug appeared.  

We were having coffee one morning, and I told Jay how much I loved this literary-themed mug he'd brought over, pointing out Oscar Wilde, Edith Wharton, James Joyce, Nabokov, and some other famous authors I recognized. Jay was like, "Yeah, it belongs to my mom. She works at Barnes and Noble." I told him it didn't seem kosher to swipe his mom's mug and leave it at my place, but he waved away my concerns. "Ah no, it's fine. Believe me, she has a collection of these." 

A few days later, we were drinking wine and laughing at my cats Shelby and Riley. They were crouched on the windowsill, chattering at the squirrels outside. "You know," said Jay, "my mom has this thing for her cat. It's like this carpeted ledge that fits onto the windowsill, so the cat has room to stretch out. I'll bring it over." 

I was like, "Dude, seriously? You can't do that." If Jay nicked the cat's ledge, I would not only be stealing from Jay's mom, I'd also be stealing from Jay's mom's cat. Nope, no way. I couldn't have it on my conscience. 

Jay kept trying to convince me it would be fine, and that his mom could just buy a new window ledge for her cat. I put my foot down. "Fuck no, I'd be pissed as hell if someone did that to me." After going back and forth for a bit, Jay finally relented and agreed that he wouldn't bring the thing over to my apartment.  

We dated for about six weeks. It was hardly an epic romance for the ages, but we had a good time. Jay was funny and quirky, a computer animator who played the theremin and was obsessed with pirates. We went to a lot of movies together; March of the Penguins and Jim Jarmusch's Broken Flowers are two that I remember, just to place things in a historical context. 

One thing that bugged me? Apart from going to the movies, a lot of our dates consisted of me, Jay, and like thirteen of his buddies hanging out at various hipster bars around St. Paul. While I liked his friends--they were a fun, creative, diverse group of people--I began to balk at the frequency of these types of outings. Jay didn't see why I'd have any issues, since I liked everyone, and they liked me. 

It was becoming an annoyance, though.

The last thing I recall happening in our short-lived relationship was Jay coming over with his DVD player (I didn't have a DVD player; I barely had a working TV at the time) so we could watch Kill Bill, a film he was adamant that I see. I fell dead asleep about 20 minutes in, and Jay was miffed. I often fell asleep when we watched movies at home; I was also temping full-time in downtown St. Paul during the day and posing for drawing classes a few nights a week at the College of Visual Arts. I was exhausted much of the time.    

Still, for him, it was an annoyance.

Not long after, Jay and I made a mutual decision to call it a day, and we parted amicably. He remembered to take the DVD player, the hoodie, and the towel. I tossed out his toothbrush. 

We both moved on. 

A few weeks after Jay and I split, I noticed that I still had his mom's Barnes and Noble mug. By that time, I felt awkward about contacting him to see if he'd pick it up, so I didn't.

More than 20 years later, that mug has traversed the country with John and me, living in the kitchen cupboards of six (Seven? Eight? A dozen ? I've lost count.) different residences. I've kept it all this time, for reasons I don't understand. 

Well, one reason. I mean, it's a cool mug, you know? I still use it when my favorite mug is in the dishwasher. 

Wanna see my favorite mug? Sure ya do!

My stepdaughter and her kids sent me this during the lockdown. 

Of course it's my fave! 

 Election Days of Yore: 

A Retrospective of the Last 20 Years

Presidential only -- I'm not counting the mid-term elections.

 2004 -- This was the year I learned a valuable lesson -- don't listen to the echo chamber. Take any predictions with a grain of salt huge fucking barrel of salt. Huge.

I was living in my studio apartment in St. Paul and working at the temple. I was pretty psyched as Election Day approached, because I thought G-Dubs would be defeated. All my friends and coworkers seemed sure of it. They were all like, "Yeah, Kerry's got this. Let's face it, everyone is sick of this Bush/Cheney bullshit." I knew exactly one person who was voting for Dubya (a single-issue voter whose issue was Israel), and even she thought that Kerry probably had it in the bag. That's what the mood was like in Minnesota; nobody really thought Bush would get in again. 

Election Day came, and it was clear early on that Bush was ahead. I was flabbergasted. "But....but....what about the war no one wanted? The phantom WMDs? Bush is an idiot! Cheney is evil! I thought we were all on the same page? Hello?" 

I went home that day and didn't bother to turn on the news. Instead I smoked some herb and watched a DVD I'd checked out from the library, Novocaine, a black comedy starring Steve Martin as a dentist and Helena Bonham Carter basically reprising her character from Fight Club. It was a distraction. When the movie was over, I switched on PBS to see that Bush was fucking winning the election. I was beyond bummed, so I decided to watch Novocaine again. (I didn't have cable, so PBS was pretty much the only station that came in on the antennae. Needless to say, I rented a lot of DVDs back then.)

2008 -- A much better year all around. When Election Day arrived, I stopped off to vote after work, then came home. I was invited to my friend Katy's election party, so I texted and said I'd be there a little later, I just wanted to lie down first. You know how it goes, I didn't think I'd fall asleep, but I did. Two hours later I woke up, like, shit! It was dark and my windows were open, and I could hear what sounded like cheering and celebrations outside in the distance. I threw on a sweatshirt and sprinted the few blocks to Katy's. As her house came into sight, I ran up looking all wild-eyed and disheveled. There were some partygoers hanging out on her porch and I just yelled, "HEY! Did Obama win?" They responded with raised cups and "woo-hoos," and I was like, "YES!" 

The party was awesome, by the way. Katy's parties always kicked ass. After a while we all walked over to 26th and Lyndale to join a massive crowd of people who were celebrating outside Treehouse Records, holding Obama signs, cheering at cars who honked in support, and basically just looking at one another and going, "Holy shit, it's happening!" 

It's one of my favorite Minneapolis memories.  

2012 -- This election was pretty boring compared to the others. I mean, I remember the jokes and soundbites: Mitt Romney's dumb "binders of women" comment in the Presidential debate and Biden openly laughing at Paul Ryan throughout the VP debate. But other than that, it was all rather even keel. I miss uneventful elections like this one. Give us more of those, please, where we're not all out of our minds with terror. 

One notable fact--it was John's first time voting in a Presidential election (he became a citizen in 2009). So that was something. After we got home from the polls, I changed into my swimsuit and hit the pool, since we were living in Baton Rouge and it was like 85 degrees outside. 

2016 -- Oh, fuck that. Fuuuuuuck that. I'm not going there.

2020 -- I thought Trump was going to win and I refused to look at my phone or watch TV or listen to any news at all. I popped some Xanax, made a cup of Tension Tamer tea, and took to my bed, where I binged episodes of Mr. Rogers Neighborhood on YouTube for the entire day. I highly recommend this method for dealing with stress. It does help. (Xanax is optional, but Tension Tamer tea is essential.) 

And Trump LOST the election, just like he deserved. We still didn't get rid of him, but at least the fucker was out of the White House.

2024 -- Oh shit, I don't know. I'm tempted to do what I did last time: unplug my brain and spend the day in the Neighborhood of Make Believe. I did get invited to some watch parties, so I may hit those. 

Why this song? 

'Cause I dig it, baby.

NOTE: This post has been a long time coming, obviously. I started to write it months ago, then had to put it aside because everything was too raw and painful. I was only recently able to come back and revisit it. I still feel like it's rough and unfinished, but such is life. Here's my long overdue tribute to the girls.

ALICE JANE 

Alice came to me in Minneapolis when she was a year old. Her first owner, a friend of mine from work, was moving out of state and couldn't take Alice with her. I was living in a small apartment and still had Shelby and Riley at the time, so I was worried that a third cat might be a bit much. My friend was 21 years old and....not the most responsible pet owner (not judging, just saying). She informed me that if I didn't adopt Alice, she planned to "put her on Craigslist." That sealed the deal for me. I said, "Fuck that. I'm taking her."

Alice was not happy that first night. She'd been plucked from the only home she'd ever known by some random lady who stuck her in a carrier and brought her to a strange new place with two resident cats who were not exactly thrilled with this new addition to the family. After cowering in the bathroom for a few hours, Alice emerged and started hissing and spitting at me, clearly terrified. I grabbed her, scooted her into the second bedroom, and closed the door. Then I tiptoed in with some water, a bowl of food, and an extra litter box and left her in there to decompress by herself.

She lived in that second bedroom for about a week. I went in to visit with her every day after I came home from work, and I was able to get her to play with some toys and snuggle next to me. I read her The Rachel Papers (Martin Amis’s first novel, which I was re-reading for the umpteenth time) and she seemed to enjoy it. We watched some movies I'd rented from my neighborhood video store (streaming services weren't a thing yet, at least not for me), including an indie flick called Half Nelson, which we both liked.

By the time Alice was released from the second bedroom and made her official debut as a permanent member of the household, she was confident, playful, and affectionate. Although Shelby initially did the typical hissy pissy "I don't like you" thing that cats do with new siblings, she calmed down soon enough and began "allowing" Alice to groom her and even occasionally cuddled with her. Riley was pretty old and infirm by the time Alice came along, so he didn't have much of an opinion one way or another about this new cat. Still, he let her sniff him and gave her a brotherly headbutt once in a while.

Chilling on top of the kitchen cabinets in Minneapolis, 2007.

Simon Reid bought me this cat condo during our two month "relationship."

And check out my old iPod! (Minneapolis, 2008.)

Alice and her favorite teddy bear in Reno, 2013. 

Alice once broke Twitter with this photo. 

My favorite comment (from Anna Maltese): 

"I feel like this cat has called me into her office 
to ask why my productivity levels have dropped."

***********************************************************************

Riley passed away in 2008, and Shelby followed in May 2009. I was heartbroken and wanted to wait a little bit before adopting another cat. Alice, however, had different ideas. She'd gotten used to having other cats around and hated being on her own when I wasn't at home. I decided to go ahead and start looking at the Humane Society for a possible feline companion for my girl.

Enter Audrey.

AUDREY JOY 

 

Audrey started life as a stray and was found living on the streets of St. Paul. She ended up being rescued by the Woodbury Humane Society in March 2009, and two months later that's where I found her. I walked into the cat room of the shelter and immediately spotted a gregarious little patchwork tiger tabby reaching through the bars of her cage, beckoning me over. It took me about five minutes of petting and talking to her to realize that I'd found my new baby. The shelter staff told me she was approximately two years old and her name was Darby. I loved everything about her, except for that name. I decided she needed a more fitting moniker, something classic and feminine, but sassy. And so Darby became Audrey, and she came home with me the next day.

The first photo of Audrey in her new home, May 2009.

Alice wasn't exactly over the moon about this interloper. As much as she hated being alone, she was not keen on having to adjust to a new cat. (I think she was somehow hoping to get the old ones back.) It took Alice about two months to relax and embrace Audrey as a sister. When she finally accepted her, I breathed a sigh of relief. The era of "The Tabby Twins," (a.k.a. "The Minnesota Twins,") had officially begun.

Audrey was an amazing cat from the very start; a ray of sunshine in feline form. I could wax poetic about her forever, but mere words can't do her justice. You just had to know her. And everyone who knew her absolutely loved her. I always said she could make a cat lover out of anyone. And one day....she did.

Witness John's conversion:

"Hey human? Stop pretending you don’t like cats. I can see right through you."

That look says, "Yeah, I got him."

“Pfft, whatever. This human was easy.

Give me a real challenge next time.”

Audrey on his shoulder makes him happy.

"Silly human, you know you can't resist me."

And so it went. Over the years we moved our little family from Minnesota to Louisiana to Nevada to Utah to (again) Nevada and then to Texas. Alice and Audrey hated traveling but always settled in fairly quickly once we reached our destinations. 

The Minnesota twins in Utah, 2016

Along the way our quartet became a quintet when we adopted Cassie, a “cow cat” John fell in love with when he spotted her at a Petco in Reno back in 2014.

Cassie "helping" with the laundry in Reno 2018

Alice had her 14^th birthday in August 2020. She’d always been a healthy eater and a rather large lady, but I noticed her appetite had started to flag and she’d lost a little weight. In September I found a lump on one of her mammary glands and took her to the vet to get it checked out. There was talk of surgery, but first I had to get her feeling better and get her weight up, so she was prescribed a cocktail of drugs, special food, and an appetite stimulant. She started to feel better but I had a hard time putting weight on her. We decided to keep her on the meds and keep her comfortable in the short term, realizing that surgery might not be an option given her age and overall health.

I spent a lot of time with Alice those last few months. She was a one-person cat, and her person was me. She also had a PhD in cuddling, so we spent a lot of time in her favorite bed (the one in the guest room with the awesome memory foam mattress) where we snuggled and had deep philosophical conversations and watched DVDs on my laptop—including Donnie Darko, one of her favorites—as I did my best to make her comfortable and help her feel safe and loved and pampered. It occurs to me now that those last months with Alice mirrored the first weeks I had with her back when I brought her home in 2007; the two of us just hanging out, having girl time, bonding and enjoying each other’s company.

We ended up losing Alice two days after Christmas. She had an appointment the following morning for an examination at the vet, where I planned to talk to her doctor about the "quality of life" decision I would be making very soon. But that evening of the 27th she took a turn for the worse, and I knew her time was near. I held her close as her breathing became increasingly shallow....and then she was gone. It was expected, but still devastating.

In the meantime, Audrey had also begun slowing down. Instead of losing weight like Alice, she started gaining weight and getting rounder, which in turn put strain on her joints, which made her move around less, which made her pack on more weight, which put more strain on her joints, which made her even more sedentary, and so on and so on. It was a vicious cycle. I took her to the vet in February, and they ran a bunch of tests but didn’t find much wrong with her aside from a mild ear infection. They gave me drops for her ears (which she hated of course—who wouldn’t?) and sent us home.

On the morning of March 3, 2020 John was working in his office upstairs. I was in the kitchen dishing out breakfast for Audrey and Cassie when John called out, “There’s something wrong with Audrey.” I dropped everything and rushed upstairs to the cats’ bedroom. John was kneeling on the floor next to Audrey, who was lying on her side in one of her beds wheezing and gasping for air. I held up her head as John and I talked to her and struggled to figure out what was happening, trying not to panic.

It happened in less than a minute. Audrey breathed in and out a few times, then sort of faded slowly away. John and I were mute with shock. I sat on the floor for a long time holding my little tiger cat, rocking her back and forth, completely shattered. I called the vet’s office, managed to get her doctor on the phone, and described what happened. The vet said it sounded like Audrey had most likely “thrown a clot,” which is is also referred to as a pulmonary embolism, something that can happen to animals and humans alike. As horrible as it was losing Audrey so suddenly, we were at least somewhat comforted that she went quickly and (hopefully?) with minimal suffering, with John and me right there next to her.

That’s the thing about pets: if all goes well, you outlive them and are there to care for them til the very end. That’s the best case scenario. It’s unbelievably heartbreaking to lose them, but it’s the way things should be, really.

Audrey and Alice were the second “generation” of cats that I’ve owned, and if anything they were even more difficult to part with than the first. Not that I loved Alice and Audrey any more than I did Shelby and Riley; you love your cats the way you love your family, and it’s not a matter of loving any one of them more or less. It’s all the same, but it’s all different, if that makes any sense.

So after a short time as a one-cat family, we decided to add two more. This past spring we went to SPCA Texas and brought home a pair of Siamese sisters we named Stevie Nicks and Sabrina. They’re three years old and still full of that goofy young cat energy, chasing each other up and down the stairs, attacking houseplants, and chattering at the birds outside. They’ve lately become lap cats who purr appreciatively when I sing to them (favorite selections include The Doors’ “Hello, I Love You” and McCartney’s “Silly Love Songs.”) I’ll write a bit more about them sometime, but not now.

This post belongs to our Minnesota twins. Forever loved, forever missed.

Shine on you crazy diamonds.

    

   

 

FASTER, PUSSYCAT! KILL! KILL!

Kill Walter Palmer, that is. With extreme prejudice. And while we're at it, let's rid the planet of Kristen Lindsey* and Kendall Jones because fuck them too.

Earlier this month a sunken-eyed, dried-out corpse purportedly known as Minnesota dentist Walter Palmer killed a lion because he's an evil little pindick who's fond of illegally slaughtering any creature he can get within 100 feet of; a diseased turd of a man with hideous fake choppers and a penchant for sexually harassing his female employees.

Picture this abomination of nature forcing you to engage in "unwanted physical contact" involving your
"breasts, buttocks, and genitalia." Makes you want to scream and run under a shower, right?

I've been hyperventilating about this along with the rest of the world, signing online petitions to have his lily-white Romney-supporting ass extradited to Zimbabwe and joining Facebook groups to talk about what a psychopath he is and how anyone who hunts is a cousin-banging, cross-eyed redneck scumbag, and I have nearly hit outrage-fatigue. So I thought it would be cleansing and cathartic to write a brief post pointing out what a putrid, festering hunk of undead flesh this asshole is, insult his penis size, and call him a murderer. 

And guess what? I do feel kind of better now. 

Oh yeah, there's also this:

And this....

 And I'd be remiss if I didn't include....

AND

Okay, I feel much better now. 

*Speaking of that other vile slab of meat, go here for information on filing a complaint to revoke Lindsey's vet license. (Online petitions are great, but this one needs an extra push with official paperwork.)

NICE TO MEAT YOU

Now, run along and wipe that face off your head. You're getting rancid.

Last night my husband and I had his friend and colleague Bob over for dinner. I hadn't met Bob before, but we laughed and slapped a gleeful high-five when we discovered we were both vegetarian.

Let me clarify. There are a few sub-types of vegetarians. Bob is a pescatarian (no beef, pork, poultry, just fish). I am an ovo-lacto vegetarian. No beef, pork, poultry, fish, or anything in between. Occasionally I'll eat cheese made with vegetarian rennet, and sometimes cage-free, organic eggs (and I still love ice cream). If you want to get really specific, I don't eat anything with a face. 

Except for these guys. Yum!
(Source: Happiness is Cookies by Clawson Cookies.)

If this information makes you want to scream and punch a wall, that's fine by me. I'll admit--it is a bit confusing.

Related: I've lived all over Indiana, Minneapolis, Baton Rouge, and now Reno, NV. Over the last eighteen months, I've traveled to NYC (twice), and to Tulsa, OK (more than twice). 

Of the six locales mentioned above, can you guess where I was hassled for being a vegetarian? I'll give you a hint:

1. Indiana
2. Minneapolis 
3. Baton Rouge
4. Reno
5. NYC
6. Tulsa

Yes--my beloved, progressive, Earth Day-founding Minneapolis and the Seat of the Empire, A-#1, King of the Hill, top of the heap: New York, New York.

I'll back up a bit.

I grew up on the north side of Indianapolis, just blocks away from an adorable vegetarian restaurant called The Stillwater. 

I couldn't find a photo of The Stillwater, so here's a yearbook photo of Dave 
Letterman, graduate of Broad Ripple High School, class of '65. He looks like my Dad!

My mom took me to the Stillwater once when I was ten years old, and I was baffled by the concept of a meat-free menu. You see, I was raised on a very meat-ful menu, which was down to my father, a big Irishman who loved his meat, his potatoes, and sometimes sausage for dessert. To this day he still prefers corn beef, meatloaf, and pork chops, but won't touch chicken since he was raised in Illinois during the Great Depression, when chicken was all anyone could afford.

When I was away at boarding school during my teen years, I developed a taste for beef tacos from Taco Bell, Burger King Whoppers, Big Macs, and greasy pepperoni pizza--stuff I wasn't allowed to eat at home (my parents divorced in 1983 and I was mostly raised by my mom, a health nut who ate chicken, turkey, and a ton of veggies. She now eats fish and veggies). I gave up fast food at the age of twenty, but continued stuffing my face with processed meat products--frozen cheeseburgers, Italian sausage, and corn beef--well into my twenties. 

In 1995, when I was twenty-two years old, I got very sick and discovered that red meat made me projectile vomit. I couldn't even stand the smell or sight of it. It wasn't difficult for me to quit red meat. 

For the next two years, I ate only chicken (I never cared for turkey) and the odd vegetable. In mid-1997, I decided to try going vegetarian. It fit with my belief system (I'm a hardcore animal lover) and I knew it was healthier than fried chicken, the only meat product I found it hard to live without. The last time I ate meat of any sort was Labor Day, 1997. My last carnivorous meal was a half-order of white meat chicken from KFC. I thought "well, I might not be able to do this, but here goes nothing." 

To my surprise, I was able to quit meat altogether and I never looked back. In the last sixteen years, I've haven't had a craving for anything besides--again--fried chicken, and that was during my first year of being meat-free. I even found a healthier alternative: fried cauliflower. Same texture as chicken, wonderful when fried and breaded. It's still one of my favorite dishes ever, along with vegetable pakora. 

 Above: Fried cauliflower. It's de-lish.

       

In my mid-twenties (ca.1998), I had lunch with my Mom once a week (I miss that). She introduced me to India Garden in Broad Ripple, and I decided right then that I could probably live off nothing but their potato samosas, palak paneer, tikka masala, dal, Basmati rice, and, of course, vegetable pakora (pictured above).  

India Garden spoiled me for Indian food. I was unable to find an Indian restaurant in Minnesota that came close to their perfection. I couldn't even find anything comparable in England, either. India Garden is the BEST. The next-best curry house is a cute little restaurant in Baton Rouge called India's.

John and I have already found an Indian restaurant near downtown Reno, called India Kabob and Curry and it is YUM (still not as good as India Garden, but relatively close. And they have great pakora.)

Okay, wow. I never intended to write a food blog. That market is saturated, so now I'll just bitch about dumb things that were said to me in Minneapolis and NYC in regards to my vegetarian diet. 

The Minneapolis comments were made by acquaintances that I'm no longer in touch with. The NYC comments were those of an oddly curious waiter in Hell's Kitchen. 

I'll start with the Big Apple, then I'll take a bite out of the Mini Apple.

ON-DUTY WAITER: "You're a vegetarian? Oh my god, really? So...no turkey on Christmas?"

Oh hell no. As I mentioned, I was never fond of turkey, because turkey is prepared two different ways: Bone-dry (roasted) and slimy and wet (deli). I won't be having either, thanks.

I wish I could properly convey the astonishment in the guy's voice. He was a native English speaker, so there was no language barrier. And he waited tables in Manhattan, so he had to at least be familiar with the concept of vegetarianism. But he didn't act like it. In fact, he seemed utterly mystified, like I'd just told him I was a Roman Catholic nun and I loved the feel of old lady pantyhose against my skin. (I'm not. And I don't.)

MINNEAPOLIS, HALLOWEEN PARTY, 2009.

FRATTY-LOOKING "BRO" DUDE IN A TRUCKER HAT: 
"So, do you eat asparagus all day and then sit around and fart?"

Let me just blow your mind: I rarely need to make time in my schedule to sit around and fart. I can multi-task. I do like grilled asparagus, though.

FARMER'S MARKET, ST. PAUL, SOMEWHERE IN 2004

CUSTOMER: "Oh man, vegetarian? I could never do that. My grandfather was a proud truck farmer (or goat hoarder, or bullshit wrangler, or dog snatcher, or whatever)." 

Truck farming. Yep, that exists.

Good for grandpa. Sorry that you lack the mental resources to imagine a different lifestyle. Still, those trucks ain't gonna farm themselves....

THE GREEN ONION RESTAURANT, ST. PAUL OR MINNEAPOLIS, SOMETIME DURING PREMIER BUSH'S TENURE.

SOMEONE: "I wish I could be vegetarian. But I'm Latvian/German/Hungarian/Icelandic/Spanish/Brazillian/Italian and I need my meat."

Don't loan your meat out to anyone else, then. I'm Irish/English/Choctaw* and I will continue to eat whatever I damn well please, including (but not limited to) a metric shit-ton of kale.

*For years, I mistakenly believed that my maternal grandfather was Cherokee. It turned out that no, he was Choctaw. But he grew up in rural Oklahoma in the 1920's, a time when people didn't exactly broadcast their Indian heritage or care to know much about it. Unlike my dad's family, who will tell anyone who doesn't run away screaming all about the awesomeness of the Emerald Isle and its people. (I do love them Irish.)

SYNAGOGUE, ST. PAUL, 2005 (I worked in the admin office).

CONGREGANT: "No meat? Is that a religious thing? What are you, exactly?"

Ummmm....a Democrat?

MINNEAPOLIS, UPTOWN, MY APARTMENT, 2010:

ACQUAINTANCE #1 (EDITED FOR CONTENT): 
"Oh, I looooove meat. How can you not love meat? That's ridiculous because....BACON!"

Enjoy being an unpaid shill for the pork industry. I'm sure they appreciate your efforts.

MINNEAPOLIS, THEIR APARTMENT, 2010

ACQUAINTANCE #2 (APROPO OF NOTHING):

"Real girls eat meat!"

Congratulations. You're in fine company. Check it out: 

Go cram a cheeseburger in your head, dipdouche.

I just need to stop and have a mild rant here. What's with the T-shirt manufacturer's creepy aversion to the word "women"? "Real girls" sounds all underage and icky. It's probably from Abercrombie and Fitch, proud proprietors of all things underage and icky. 

Sadly enough, the bizarre comments I've listed here are just the tip of the iceberg. I'm still perplexed that I heard brain barf like this from randoms in one of the coolest cities I've ever seen. Also, 95% of the people I knew in the Twin Cities: friends, neighbors, countrymen, urban cowgirls, etc. were--naturally--open, sympathetic, and usually vegetarians themselves. 

The rest of 'em got more brains in their stomachs than in they heads.  

NOTE: Thanks to my John for coining the term "dipdouche" when we were out in traffic the other day. I just felt privileged to be in the presence of the original Master of Brookovian Wit when he spontaneously busted out a new drollery, one that he doesn't mind me borrowing when the situation calls for it (see above).

This Good Friday Support Planned Parenthood!

Misty, me, and Katy at the the 2011 rally in St. Paul

Aww, I had so much fun at the Planned Parenthood Good Friday support rallies! This is the first time in four years that I haven't gone and I'm really missing it. It's become something of a tradition, as Good Friday is the designated day for religious fanatics to line up outside Planned Parenthood locations around the country to wave anti-choice signs, so Planned Parenthood set up "support" teams to counter the holy rollers. Planned Parenthood didn't let people on their side bring their own placards because they wanted to keep a positive, upbeat atmosphere, but they did provide signs for us supporters to hold (see above).

At the first rally I attended (with Katy in 2010) this old dude walked up carrying a "SAVE THE SPERM" sign complete with squiggly little sperm-creatures inked in around the letters. Everyone was a little freaked, and a bit confused, as it wasn't clear a.) what the hell message the guy was trying to convey with that (was he being funny? was he serious?) and b.) was he with us, or with the holy rollers on the other side? It turned out that he was, in fact, a pro-choice supporter and his pro-sperm sign was a misguided attempt at humor. The PP organizers respectfully asked him to discard his sperm sign, and gave him a more tasteful one to carry. It was memorable, anyway.  

The awesome thing about this photo? I found it on a Google image search of "Planned Parenthood Good Friday rally" and it's from the exact same day we were there (you can see Misty's jacket and sign to the left of the woman above). We are EVERYWHERE baby!

Found on a St. Paul sidewalk.

The view outside my office.

Moon over Minneapolis.

It's a full moon kids! Time to do some howling.

Third verse, same as the first.

And we wait for spring to come...

The snow actually melted about a 1/2 centimeter today. Can Spring be far behind?



Dare I dream?