A dose of reality...

Sometimes we're all guilty of getting caught up in what's going on in our own lives, we forget about what our life means in the grand scheme of things.  Yep, that's right.  I'm going serious on everyone tonight.  It's really easy for me to lament my misfortunes and challenges in my life, because it's my perspective and my definition of good and bad is based on the parameters set by my lifestyle and upbringing.  When I was nosedeep in books, or when I worry about my future, it seems like the most important thing happening.  That being said, sometimes it's good for me to get a healthy dose of reality.

I'm blessed.  No, I didn't grow up living in a mansion and my first car wasn't a Mercedes (RIP Party Prizm...with your two A/C knobs, requiring the removal of one to use on the knobless A/C control), but I never knew I was missing out.  My parents (the best in the world) made sure I had everything I could possibly need to thrive.  I didn't care that my playhouse was made out of a giant wardrobe box.  My dad cut a door and window shutters in that thing, and I was set.  I never missed out.  And even today, I might not yet be living the highroller life I imagined when I started law school (thanks economy!), but overall I'm surviving.  I live in a great place, and I have the whole world ahead of me.  It's easy to get caught up in the negative, but sometimes all it takes is a walk in the park to really remember what fortunes I do have.

Everyday in the park there are a variety of homeless people that come and go.  Sometimes they hang out on benches; sometimes they just go for walks.  When I first moved here, they made me nervous because they were part of the unknown.  Now they make me feel safe.  Granted some are probably sex offenders (I've looked it up and a vast majority in my zipcode are listed as homeless), but most are just people that have fallen on hard times and are making the best of it.  One in particular has really had an impact on me.  He is an older guy who often brings his little dog to the park.  His dog is this cute black dog that's well-nourished and not missing out on anything.  If anything she's well-taken care of, getting to go to the park all the time.  Everyday, this man brings his dog to the park, and he watches her as he sits on a bench.  His soft eyes have a quiet wisdom behind them, and the laugh lines that cross his face silently tell his story.  He never frowns, and no matter what, he always has one eye on his beloved dog.  I've never had a lengthy conversation with him, but when I do, there is so much I want to know.  People like him make me wish I could do more.  I've already promised myself that I'll never forget where I came from, and I'll never forget how fortunate I truly am, but it's people like him that will make sure I keep my promise.  It would be so easy for him to turn inward, and stumble along through the confusion and despair of living without.  But he doesn't.  He smiles everyday, and even on my worst days his quiet happiness and love for his dog make me stop and watch.  And when I do watch I can't help but smile too. 

On a different, but equally important note, I want to send a quick shout out to everyone who has believed in me all these years.  Thank you to my parents as always, who have made me their world since I was barely a plan for their future.  Thank you to my family, who have always supported me, even though we're separated by time zones.  Thank you to all my friends, who have always made me feel like a rock-star, and never doubted me, even when I doubted myself.  And even though he doesn't read this, I have to thank my love, who never fails to tell me and show me how much I mean to him.  If you DO read this, never doubt that the feeling is mutual.  Look out for us, because we're going to take on the world together.

Anyway, that wraps up my serious side.  Back to the regular programming.

I tried to get into someone else's car today.  A Jeep Libby that looked a lot like George.  The disconcerting part of this whole event is that a) I've done this before.  I tried to get into a grey Jetta a few years ago, failing to notice the BABY SEAT in the back, and b) my Jeep has some distinguishing features that you'd think I would notice.  Like, for instance, the fact that my Jeep has New Mexico plates.  Or the fact that my Jeep has an A&M and a Mizzou emblem on the back.  Or, perhaps the most obvious, the fact that my Jeep is BLUE, not BLACK.  "Wow Nikki, how do you not notice that this car isn't even the right color?"  I don't know, but if I were to pick an excuse, I'd go with the dimly lit garage.  Also curious about this situation is that I got off the elevator on a completely wrong floor of the garage and had no idea.  So when I discovered that I was essentially attempting grand theft auto, I panicked while frantically looking around for my own car.  I started pressing the lock button to hear the horn honk, and was baffled when it was coming from the floor below mine.  Sigh.  Some things never change.

And now, I've exhausted all my creative juices for the day.  So I bid you adieu, leaving you with the pic of the day.

Aww look at her go!

I've been doing this for over half my life...

What you might wonder?  Watching Brett Favre play football.  Including right now.  He hasn't thrown an interception yet, because, well, he hasn't thrown the ball yet. 

So, how are we all?  I'm doing just dandy. I went to Target yesterday because I got a giftcard as a belated graduation present, and I needed a few things.  I walk up to the checkout counter (with the "I'm open" light on), and set my items on the conveyor belt.  The cashier finishes with the guy in front of me and then she turns to me with a look of pure annoyance on her face.  She simultaneously switches off her lane light and begins this conversation:

Her:  I'm closed.
Me: (pause) I just walked up and your light was on.
Her:  Well it ain't anymore and I'm closed.
Me: (with a curious expression on my face) It didn't even blink to let me know you were about to close.  You just turned it off right now.
Her: Yea because I just decided to close my lane.
Me: I have 3 items.  You can't just ring me up really quickly?
Her: No.  I'm closed.
Me: ....but you were just open?  And then you just decided on a whim to close.
Her:  Yep.
Me: Ok, I just wanted to make sure I had your inexplicable actions straight.

At this point I'm starting to get fairly irritated that she can't take the less than 2 minutes to ring up my chapstick, binder, and shampoo.  She then CALLS OVER the manager to complain that I'm being unruly.  Are you serious?!  Yes, I am serious.  I calmly explain what actually happened to the manager as Cashier McPanties-in-a-Wad rolls her eyes and tries to interrupt me.  Finally the manager leads me to an open lane, to which I ask her if this cashier is also going to make up her own schedule, and she assures me that the new cashier won't.  And I go on my way.  I'm still not sure what happened in there, but I do know that I got my chapstick, binder, and shampoo home safely.

Let's see, what else.  Ah, yes.  The blood drive.  They had a blood drive at work a few weeks ago, except unlike the blood drives at the law school, this one didn't happen in the middle of a common area.  They did the actual drive on the Red Cross mobile lab outside the office.  Yet somehow, the office STILL managed to smell like blood drive.  The scent makes me nauseous.  And the thought of being stabbed and drained makes me slightly light-headed.  I admire and praise people that donate their blood.  My dad is one of them.  Every time he can, he does.  And it doesn't even phase him.  I pass out.  Literally.  I have to be near cool wet cloths and orange juice/crackers every time I need a shot or blood test at the doctor.  I'm pretty sure that during a TB skin test the bubble in my skin made me faint on sight.  I just can't do it.  If there is every anyone I know specifically that needs my blood, I wouldn't hesitate, but I just can't do it for fun. 

Anyway, so the whole office smells like blood drive.  Latex, and blood...matter.  I can't really explain what exactly the smell is, but it's very distinct.  And then, somehow the blood drive smell infiltrated the air vents in my car, and EVERY TIME the air is running now it spews out blood drive odors into my car.  And this was weeks ago!  I don't get it.  I can't escape it. 

I suppose I'll finish with a count of things Cherry has eaten lately.

1. A dead bird off the sidewalk (she didn't eat it, but she really tried, necessitating me actually prying it from her mouth).

2. A frisbee.

3. Clothes hangers.  I don't even know where she got them.

4. My clothes.

5. Scott's contact case.

6. My almost-empty old shampoo bottle.  (???)  She actually walked INTO the shower to get this, took it to the guest bed, and went to town.

7. Cat litter.

8. The stuffing from one of her massacred toys.

9. Another pen.

10.  Truman's fur...that she pulled from his body while playing tug-o-war with his tail.


So, there you have it.  Have a good night everyone!

Holy crap it's September?!

Wow.  Time flies, does it not?

I'm getting married in less than a year (cue coos and "aww"s).  I'm the antithesis of bridezilla.  The thought of all that planning and detail sort of makes my head hurt.  I apologize to those who thrive on deciding whether the napkins should be folded like a pocket or an origami bird, but thats' not me.  And chair-back ties?!  Who in the world decided that there should be 1736482991 ways to TIE A BOW on the back of a chair?!  That's just ridiculous.  Just make a bow.  Or a knot.  Or wrap it around the chair straight-jacket style.  I don't care.  Just point me to the food and the cocktails.  And the cake.  I like cake.  Speaking of cakes, I came across this atrocity a while back and then saw it again today in one of my picture folders:

Are you serious?  When I see this cake, I think of Easter Bunny vomit.  And murdered flowers.  It honestly looks like an old disastrous bedroom/bathroom color palette I had in Frisco.  Add in yellow and you've got the "Clown Puke Display" (as my dad liked to call it.  He obviously wasn't a fan).

Anyway, what else.  Ah, yes, I'm brainstorming a novel.  Any ideas would be appreciated.  I hope to make it as a best-selling author as a back-up plan to my dreams of being an attorney.  It's good to have options.

Short entry, I know, but I'm tired.  Night!

Air Delivery

Every now and then, I like to throw in childhood stories, to keep you guys on your toes.

So, as I've said before, my family moved to Ontario, NY when I was about 7.  After getting over my initial despair and disgust about the desk and bus-boarding situation (see "Meltdown in Ontario"), I settled into a nice little life there.  Part of my excitement stemmed from having my own bathroom for the first time ever.  And because it was my first bathroom, my parents gave me free reign to choose all the fixtures and colors.  That was a terrible choice on their part, because when we moved I was in the middle of my "I love pink" phase.  And not cute pink either.  As a result, we ended up with a bathroom that included a sink, toilet, and bathtub that all resembled Barbie's vomit.  I guarantee if we had stayed there longer than 3 years I would have insisted, and thrown an only-child tantrum, to have those changed.  But, at the time, I was in love.  I also happened to have the only bathtub in the house.  The other two bathrooms only had shower stalls.  NY didn't do Texas-style master baths in those days.  So, I would charge my mom to use the bathtub. I was a savvy businesswoman even then.  Now, before you go all "wtf?!" and call me terrible for charging my mom to use something she and my dad paid for, it was her idea.  Everytime she wanted to take a bath, she paid me something like a nickel.  I don't understand how I never got rich that way.  I should have played my cards better, I wouldn't even need a job now!

Another hobby of mine was riding my bike.  My bike with the HANDLE BAR brake.  Not the slam your feet backwards, child bicycle.  This thing was amazing.  The pads on the bike were purple, with neon yellow lightning bolts all over them.  Slick.  You probably think I took that bad boy off-roading, and raced cars through the neighborhood.  Well, you'd be wrong.  Instead, I liked to pretend I was a mail-lady.  Yes.  You read that right.  I liked to ride my bike down the street, stopping at every person's mailbox, and pretend to give them mail.  After I did this a few times, I got the mail handling lecture from my dad.  He warned me to never actually touch the mailbox or whatever was inside, because that was a felony.  I had NO idea what a felony was at the time, but I certainly didn't want to go to jail.  I was only a wee lass!  So, to make my hobby even more lame, I didn't actually deliver anything to my neighbors, or touch anything.  I just stopped in front of their mailbox and made delivery motions in the air.  I even had friends that did this with me.  We'd split up the neighborhood and then make small talk like adults do when they run into one another out and about.  Don't you wish you had been part of this?

During one of my many mail delivery air-motion sessions, I was coming up on a house, and I was super excited about their fake delivery.  That day, they were getting a giant air box, and even though I made this whole thing up, in my game I didn't know what was in the box.  I was just excited to deliver it.  Anyway, I got distracted on my mail-truck phone (probably one of those crappy grocery store "cell phones" that used to be popular until kids actually started using real cell phones), and before I knew it, I was flying end-over-end through mid-air, landing in someone's front yard.  I had actually plowed into someone's mailbox, flew off my bicycle, and came to a stop some 10 feet away in their grass.  The mailbox post snapped in half (wooden post, not brick mailboxes), and was laying on the sidewalk next to me.  I FLIPPED OUT.  Having remembered my dad's warning about touching the mailboxes, I was convinced I was a felon.  I still didn't know what that meant, but I was certain I was going to jail.  Imagining being in a cell with dirty drug dealers and murderers, I burst into tears.  (Obviously, in my mind, ALL criminals were kept together.  Murderers with mailbox felons).  With no other ideas, and terrified of being detained by the neighbors while they waited for the police, I got on my bike and raced home, running into the house sobbing.  I might have even begged my dad to keep me out of jail.  And then ensued what was I'm sure ANOTHER embarrassing conversation between my dad and someone on account of something I did and/or wanted.  We went back to their house where we knocked on the door.

Neighbor:  Yes?
Dad: Hello, we live down on Centennial.  I'm not sure if you've noticed, but your mailbox is, um, a bit messed up.
Neighbor (looks around us into the yard): Oh my God, what happened?!
(Dad looks at me)
Me (sniffling): I hit it with my bike.
Neighbor: I'm sorry?
Dad:  She was...."delivering mail" (I don't know if he made air-quotes, but for this he did), and she lost control of her bike.  Obviously we'll pay for the repairs.
Neighbor:....ok.  Thanks, I guess. 
Me (still sniffling): I'm really sorry.
Dad:  Yes, she's sorry.

At this point, I was waiting for the neighbors to call the police and report me for touching their mailbox, but they didn't.  Instead, the whole thing blew over and after my parents paid for them to get a new mailbox.  All was well. 

I continued to "deliver mail" after that incident, but I was completely focused on the road. 

I promise I'll post loft pics soon.  We're almost completely unpacked....finally!  And now, I'm out.

A week!

I've officially lived in St. Louis for a week now.  The loft is slowly starting to look like a loft and less like a federal disaster area, so that's promising. 

For the most part, the animals have adjusted to their new life.  Cherry seems completely oblivious that anything has changed, and happily rides the elevator and plays around in the park across the street.  Truman was another story.  For the first few days he absolutely refused to go to the bathroom anywhere but the park, and even then it took several minutes.  He preferred to walk around with pee literally dripping out because he had to go so badly than submit to this new life.  But, after a few days him not having his good old backyard, he finally caved.  Except he still won't go to the bathroom at night.  Whatever, it's not my problem.  He'll stop being a diva eventually.  This coming from the dog who refuses to walk on wet grass because he doesn't like getting his feet wet.  He'll stand safely under an overhang, while Cherry beelines for the nearest mud-puddle to roll around.  Quite the contrast. 

I like having the park across the street.  It makes it much easier having two dogs in a downtown loft when I don't have to go far for them to be taken care of. 

The upstairs part of our loft is pretty much always 10-15 degrees warmer than the downstairs.  As a result, I sleep with a fan pointed directly at me, like some sort of sweaty old person.  Don't judge.  The upstairs consists of our bedroom, a bathroom, and an open office area that looks out over the living room.  I'll try to post pics of everything once we are fully clear of the mountains of boxes and newspapers. 

Back to the dogs for a second- I'm amazed at how many people are completely terrified of them.  They're a great self-defense mechanism.  I'll be walking along and some people will walk up to pet them, noticing their excited bounce.  Others think the excited bounce is a sign of impending death, and make a giant arc around me to avoid them.  Others jump back into stores they've just exited.  I'm glad my completely harmless and defenseless animals can provide such protection!

And now, I make dinner.  Have a good night people.

New City

Well, you will all be pleased to know that I survived my first night in St. Louis, and I didn't get murdered, raped, or robbed.  I call that a victory.  Here are a few things I've learned in my brief 24 hours as a resident of downtown St. Louis:

1. While I've been given reliable directions, I'm still not sure how to get to any major highway from my loft.  I do, though, know where the Arch is, and if I can find that, I can get places...albeit the long way.

2. The radio stations here play maybe 4-5 songs.  Among those are Katy Perry, Jason DeRulo (sp?), Mike Posner, and Rihanna and Eminem.  That's it.

3. The shootings near my building happen on Sunday nights.  This is because of a certain nightclub that's open, and that nightclub attracts a certain kind of clientèle.  So, that being said, I won't be going out much on Sundays.

4. My parking garage reminds me of a particular scene in "Saw."  Those who have seen it know what I'm referring to (where the guy gets abducted in the shady parking garage).  I will be investing in some excellent pepper spray, and perhaps even a rape whistle. 

5.  There is an "elite" dog park group.  I didn't even know those things existed.  But, there is a park across the street from our building, and there are two fenced in areas- one is fine, but the other one is far cooler.  It has sprinklers and toys and stuff, and you need a key to unlock the gate.  THAT one is the elite one.  It's like $50/year to join, and they have meetings and stuff.  (For example, the next meeting has an agenda that includes talking about new benches).  Apparently the elite park is kept cleaner, and it drains much better after a rainstorm.  We will be looking into this.  I like being part of something elite.

6.  The sliding doors to our bedroom do not keep our slut of a cat Shelby out of our room.  She reaches into the crevice and forces the door open.  Once she has it open, she proceeds to jump on/walk all over our stomachs and faces, as well as play with every possible object she can...loudly.  She got locked in the bathroom at about 4am.

7. DirecTv still sucks. 


8.  At times, karma really DOES work.

I think that's all I've got for now. 

And, it's over.

That's pretty much all I have to say about that.  I have NO idea how I did; I couldn't even hazard a guess.  I will say that MBE was much harder than ANY practice questions I worked on.  I just hope I guessed right.

Anyway, the bar itself is quite the experience.  First off, we woke up around 5:15 on Day 1 to leave by 6.  We had to be there by 7:30, but I had no idea if we'd run into stupid traffic or encounter livestock blocking the highway or some other bizarre event that would ONLY happen if we didn't give ourselves enough time to get to Jeff City.  Anyway, when I say "woke up", I mean actually got out of bed, because I didn't really sleep at all Monday night.  I rolled around, staring at the clock, browsing Facebook on my phone in the dark, telling laws and rules to myself...I'm pretty sure at one point I even played the "what if I won the lottery" game in an effort to chill the eff out.  But, nothing worked.  I think all in all, I got about 2 hours of sleep spread out throughout the night.

A few of my favorite fellow bar takers:

1.  Bat shit crazy girl who told us her life story over the course of the three days.  She was one of the first people I saw on day one, and with one glance at her Shape-Ups, I knew she was something special.  According to Scott, the only people that wear Shape-Ups are old people, crazy people, or Joe Montana.

 Sup?

This girl was #2.  While we were passing time, she started talking about how she was surprised she passed her character and fitness because her husband lost his job, they had no money, they had tax problems, loan problems, and they had defaulted on several of their credit cards.  Um, hi, I'm Nikki, and I hardly know you.  And all these people around you?  They don't know you either.  Maybe you keep your real-life secured transaction problem to yourself.  She continued this for the duration of our time together, at most points just talking to the air and looking around at people to see if they were listening.

2. Meltdown girl.  I'm sure there's one (or more) every year.  This year she sat by me.  She had a constant leg twitch to begin with, and it just got worse as the day went on.  I looked over at one point and she was gripping clumps of her hair so tightly that her knuckles were ghost white, her head shaking like she was about to have a full blown-exorcism in the midst of essay number 9.

3.  The 44-year old who finished everything several hours early.  I hope it was because he sucked.  I'm a nice person, but I need to be better than some people to pass this thing.

Today sucked.  No two ways about it.  Both Scott and I were somewhat pissy during our lunch break, having just been quietly and discreetly molested for 3 hours, and facing 3 more.  We went to Chipotle for lunch, and horror of horrors, they were out of chicken and wouldn't have any for 5 more minutes.  Sadly, we didn't really have a lot of time, so Scott had to settle for barbacoa.  This did not please him, and he had some snide remarks to me about the chicken situation.  They weren't directed to Chipotle, but they were overheard by the burrito-maker.  Comments such as "they're already out of chicken and it's not even the lunch rush.  That sounds like good food management"...and the like.  He knows he was a butt, but at that point our brains weren't firing on the same cylinders as our mouthes.  Anyway, they comped his burrito, so one was free.  And then, to top it off, while we were eating an employee came over with two cards, good for two free burritos on our next Chipotle visit.  Moral of the story- be an ass, get prizes.

After making it through that, I wondered what would be the best way to illustrate my general brain function.  So I made a picture of myself.

Tiaras, unicorns, centaurs, and smeared lipstick.  A good combo.  For the record, when I was trying to come up with centaur I googled "manotaur", which is not the same thing.  But I did learn from Urban Dictionary that "a manotaur is a female that is highly fit and displaying a high level of muscularity.  A manotaur is not unattractive per se, and can still be thought of as hot to some.  However a manotaur will not fit the expected cultural norms for what a female should look like."   I know a few manotaurs myself.

After coming up with that pure masterpiece, I decided to do a representation of my dearest Scotty.

A suave man, running the rose through his moustache as he tilts his pilgram hat to one side.

As you can see, I've lost it.  I should probably stop talking.  I'm going back to relaxing now.