Well that was no fun. The dumpster is already gone. Oh well.

Anyway. I have no work coming in right now. Which always makes me nervous. Anyone need a website?

Hm. A large dumpster has shown up outside my livingroom window. Which is nothing new. For the year and a half that I've lived here maybe 4 dumpsters have shown up and been filled up with stuff from the apartment next door.

Which begs the question: who the hell lives there? It's like everyone that moves out throws everything out. Beds, furniture, clothing, etc. Or maybe they don't actually move out. Maybe they're never seen again. And the owner can't just keep their stuff. Hm...

It could happen.

I'm taking odds on whether or not the power's going out again tonight. It's been flickering on and off a bit. I'm getting tired of power outtages.

I'm out of rants. They're all gone.

I was thinking about turning this rant page into streaming video of a rant as told through interpretive dance, but my internet connection just isn't fast enough. Maybe I'll start an interactive game of tic-tac-toe or something.

In other news: anyone else heard the newest "I'd like to buy the world a Coke" ad? It's been updated so it's really cool and street now. They now sing, "I'd like to buy the world a Coke and chill with it awhile." Accompanied by some freestyle rapping from the white bread John Mayer wannabe on guitar.

What marketing idiot came up with this crap? Some days...

In other other news: the Inferno II aftermath special was on tonight. And CT explaining his trouble with telling if Jodi was lying based on her eyebrows cracked me up:

CT: Either you're really sheisty, or you're really cool, or you're on Botox.

I am in an exceedingly bad mood this Sunday. I'm hot and I'm allergic to the world.

Which means my skin itches like crazy. It doesn't help that I'm allergic to my cat.

Well, Dan and Steve, I tried voting for you two at the Food Network site and couldn't get on. So good luck on becoming The Next Food Network Stars. I did what I could.

I was beginning to think I was—perhaps—not prophetic about high school reunions, but I was wrong. We've got one coming up in November.

I honestly have yet to decide on my attendance. I foresee only unhappiness. But I am rather dour and paranoid.

I'm cleaning house today. Which means I've been finding a bunch of random things from my varied past.

Hm. Not much use for a backstage pass for an "all male review" (long story). Why do I keep these things?

Lost power again.

It was only for a few hours this time, but still annoying.

I had my flashlight. I had my laptop batteries charged. I was prepared, dammit.

But I still ran into rude neighbors.

I give up.

Once the power went back on I was flipping channels and I ran into Late Late Night Show with Craig Ferguson.

His first guest was John Waters. Who he explained was a phenomenal director and a guest voice on his favorite Simpsons episode (both very very true).

I've read negative reviews of the John Waters' episode of The Simpsons, but it has always been one of my favorites. Not only because I adore John Waters (who incidentally appeared on Homicide: Life on the Streets several times) but because the episode is just funny.

Bad day.

A few months ago in an attempt to piss off people who were taking my quotes verbatim and not giving me credit, I fought back by changing an image they were hotlinking to.

And forgot to update my pages. So I had a rather... unfortunate... image on one of my quote pages.

Serves me right for trying to fight back.

I give up. Thieves are thieves. Idiots are me.

Quiet day. I treated my cousin to lunch. I didn't mean to, frankly. I missed a call on my cell phone and checked the last incoming number, which was him. Turns out he hadn't called me, but he did ask if I wanted to go out for lunch.

So I met him at his work (the family hardware company) and we headed across the river to the Times Bar and Grill. A lovely restaurant that was relocated from downtown Minneapolis when the new Target corporate headquarters went in. They kept the original bar.

Anyway, when the time came to pay, I reminded him that he paid last time. So he let me me pay, and said he supposed it was appropriate since it was his birthday today.

Oops.

In other news, I got a postcard yesterday from my favorite Swedish Oz fan. She's on vacation and thought she'd send a quick note. Which reminded me of a book I found buried in my bookcases a few days ago: The World's Tackiest Postcards. If I have your address, consider this fair warning.

One of the postcards is of the Weiner Mobile. My mom grew up a few blocks away from the Oscar Meyer plant in Madison and she would see the hotdog shaped vehicle all the time.

In other other news, I passed a vehicle today with a bumper sticker that said "Visualize Whirled Peas." Get it? Visualize World Peace?! Whirled Peas?

That's so hilarious! What a clever play on words! In 1987! And only in 1987!

Seriously. If you're thinking of adding a bumpersticker to your car: don't.

Rant deleted. See, if you don't check it every 15 minutes you might miss some incredibly insane rant.

'Cause I'm full of those.

Anyway: I've been watching Operation Homecoming. Soldiers coming home to their family and their stories.

I like it. I have two grandfathers that served in WWII and an uncle that was in Vietnam.

I don't know much about my grandfather's military history. He was in the US Army Air Force in WWII and I believe was in Military Intelligence. As the story goes, his job was to recognize planes flying overhead from their engine sound.

Since I was a history major in college, my grandmother gave me some memorabilia from his tour of service. I have a cloth map of the area that I think was used to direct pilots, a two-dollar bill signed by his fellow soldiers, and two sets of his dog tags.

And I hold and appreciate these dog tags for their significance. They have his name, some long number that I'm guessing is his... what? Serial number? And the address of his mother. I think it also includes his blood type and ranking.

And as I hold them, I think about them. These tags were worn around my grandfather's neck as he fought in a war. A war.

And I'm holding them, maybe 50 years later.

I miss my grandpa.

I attended a wedding today. Two former co-workers were getting hitched. I didn't know who exactly was coming from the office, so I was pleased to pull into the lot at the same time as one of the designers. Within a few minutes the two bosses and their wives and another ex-coworker appeared. Which I thought was nice of them.

My old work and co-workers are all Evangelical Christians. Except for the bride, who is Catholic. Evangelical and Catholic ceremonies are actually quite different.

I grew up with a step-family of Irish Catholics. In other words, lots of people, lots of weddings.

If you've never been to a Catholic ceremony, here's the rundown:

• It's long. I've been to Catholic weddings that went over three hours.

• It could potentially be in Latin. For three hours.

• There's a lot of audience participation. I forget if it's called Call and Response or what, but there's a lot of peace unto people and amens and other responses the audience is supposed to know.

So I dutifully responded with the ones I could remember. I was glad for once that I knew more about what to do than the people I was with.

About halfway through as they were about to do Communion, the person sitting next to me indicated that she was surprised that they didn't just have the bride and groom take Communion. I told her she was just lucky there weren't many people there.

I was curious, actually, to see if my companions would go up there. I never take Communion (for a variety of reasons) but I wasn't sure what the protocol was. Often a priest will invite anyone who has been baptized to participate, regardless of faith. But he didn't today.

Now I get that transubstantiation is the divisive part of the equation. But I wouldn't think that taking Communion from a priest instead of a pastor would make the ritual any different. If you don't believe that the wine and bread are actually the blood and body of Christ, then you're not doing anything against your chosen sect of Christianity, right?

Eh, I don't know.

Anyway, long story longer: they didn't go up.

Nice ceremony. Groom looked dashing, bride looked lovely. I only teared up once when she walked in. Mainly because she was crying.

Unfortunately I forgot their gift at home. I felt a little stupid about that.

After the wedding I drove over to my mom's house to hook up her computer. And along the way I passed a decommissioned ice cream truck.

Do they still have ice cream trucks? I haven't seen one in years.

There was nothing better in the summer than hearing the ice cream truck.

But see, it was not a simple event. Oh no. Because the ice cream trucks in my neighborhood had no rhyme or reason to their pattern. So when or if they showed up was anyone's guess.

And when you heard the ring of the truck, you had to act immediately or it would be too late.

Step one: Locate the ice cream truck's general location.

Step two: Figure out if he's heading your way.

Step three: If previous steps have you believing that said ice cream truck will be passing nearby, run like hell to find a parent with some money. At this point, any parent will do. Your own, your friend's, a neighbor who thinks her cats are her children...

Step four: Run like hell back to your front yard and triangulate the ice cream truck's new location. At this point, it might be all over. The truck may have disappeared, not to be seen again for days. If you're lucky, he'll be bogged down with other neighborhood kids, buying you some time.

Step five: If all goes well, you've caught up with the guy and are ready to buy some treats. But if you think the challenge is over, my friend, think again. Now you have to choose. So you spend what seems like forever staring at the side of the truck, going over your options.

First, you eliminate all the stuff that's too spendy for your budget. Then you eliminate all the themed treats. Because the Scooby Doo pop or the He-man ice cream sandwiches usually suck.

After that, you've got the basics: your Bomb Pops, your ice cream sandwiches, your orangesicles, your push-up pops... that's where the quality is, man.

Now myself, I was mainly a push-up pop girl. Something about being able to gauge your progress by the packaging. Plus once it was gone, the remaining plastic stick and platform deal would make a good toy in a pinch.

It's time for another Summer Season episode! Ready? Begin!

I lived with a woman for two years that I like to call Nightmare Roommate (NR for short). She didn't immediately earn that moniker, but it certainly didn't take long, believe you me.

A few personality details to give you a general idea about NR:

• Very racist, very judgmental, very snobby
• Very obsessed with money and those who had it
• Very oblivious as to how her personality came off to other people (something that hindered her in her job—she got passed up repeatedly for promotions)
• Very demanding of her parents (she lived at home until 28, made her mom pay part of her rent when she and I moved in together (and I paid more rent than she did—yes, very stupid). In fact she had a habit of telling her mother that she would be paying NR's credit card bills that month.
• Very overweight (I watched her pound down a box of Krispy Kremes within the course of 12 hours on several occasions, and I don't believe I ever witnessed her eat any fresh produce)
• Not very bright or sophisticated but thoroughly convinced otherwise
• Obsessed with buying things

So—finally—in honor of Nightmare Roommate, I suppose I ought to finally post all the NR stories. Some are long, some are short, some aren't all that interesting or funny to anyone but me. So, heretoforewith:

THE NIGHTMARE ROOMMATE YEARS

Enjoy.

Or not. Free country and all.

And keep in mind that they're rough drafts. Sometimes they work, sometimes not so much. I personally recommend The Butter Story.