Let me just repeatedly bash this random pipe with my heavy machinery...

Ok, new post.  Here's what's been going on lately.  I've started P90x and it's really hard, blah blah blah, let me get to the thrust (I just said thrust) of my entry- the asshats that are building the unnecessary roundabout near my neighborhood.  Now this project is already beyond annoying to begin with, because they closed the main way for us to get downtown, or basically anywhere.  They also have the second best way to get anywhere closed.  So, basically we have to chug along down a two-lane road with all the other suckers who decided to live up here.  Then, you add the disastrous events of these week.

Father's Day night Scott and I were driving home from St. Louis and I got a phone call from a 573 (Columbia) number at about 8:30.  They didn't leave a message, so I had no idea who was calling me.  Meantime, we go about our business.  On Tuesday, I get another missed call from the same number, again no message.  And when I tried to call back it was a dead line.  So like two hours later the SAME number calls again, and this time I answer.  It's an automated message from the City of Columbia telling me to disregard the all-clear phone call that I had gotten earlier in the day, because they had broken another water main.  At this point I was like wtf is going on?  So I log into the city's website to find out that a water main broke Sunday night, and they had issued a boil-alert for everyone in our area of Columbia.  Well, since the automated message didn't leave a voicemail, Scott and I had been drinking dirty poo water for about two days.  Then, they fixed it, only to break ANOTHER water main 2 hours later.  So, we stuck to our bottled water.  I briefly worried about the dogs drinking the water, until I remembered they drink lake water and eat cat shit.  They're probably fine.

Apparently it takes two clean water samples (aka two days) before they can lift the boil alert.  So we lived like 1700s pilgrims for a few days.

It's Scott and me.  I swear.

Thursday arrives, and I wait in gleeful anticipation of the "all-clear" automated message.  And this guy doesn't disappoint.  I imagine the guy who recorded the message looked like one of these hotties:

 "Good evenin' Columbia utility customer.  The boilin' order is over.  You can resume drinkin' yur water like normal."

Hooray! We were free to drink our water without boiling it 3rd world slum style.  And then yesterday happened.

After an intense 90 minute P90x workout, and an even more exhausting 2 hours in the 95-degree heat mowing the yard, I was in dire need of a shower.  So I turn on the bathtub faucet and after a few seconds of clean water, I get the air pressure sounds, and then nasty brown water comes shooting out of the faucet and into the tub.  Oh. My. God.  It was disgusting.  I ran to get my camera, running right by the front door butt naked as my neighbor was walking her dog (awkward), and all for not.  By the time I got back the water had cleared.  I let it run for a few minutes before I showered, and as I was drying off I got another automated message call.  The twatwaffles (I owe that new fun word to my dear friend Leah...shoutout) broke a THIRD water main in less than a week.  How does that happen?!?!  How hard is it for whoever is driving the giant ass bulldozer to NOT stick the shovel thing so far into the ground that it breaks pipes?  Look at me, sitting here right now, not breaking things.  If I had the skill and mental capacity of the dudes working on this project, I would have thrown my laptop into the wall and claimed I was trying to set it on the table.  Imagine if this was ok in other professions.  "I'm sorry, I was trying to demolish Texas Stadium, and instead I blew up all of Irving.  We need two clean air samples, do don't breathe for a few days."  So, I email the city, asking if they have any idea who is working on this project, because it seems beyond ridiculous that anyone who was remotely competent would have let this happen THREE times (I'm pretty sure I called them circus clowns.  Stinging insult I know).  I guess they're embarrassed by this situation, because I got a reply at 6pm on a Friday. (can we say damage control?)  The reply assured me that they have confidence in their personnel and that they were working to resolve all issues.  But, in the meantime, I've got my revolutionary war hat on again.  Sigh.

Grand Theft Auto?

For the record, I have to write this in an email because the one time in the past few weeks that I sit down to write a real entry, "blogger service is unavailable."  Well, that pretty much defeats the entire purpose of a website called "blogspot.com" doesn't it?  Fortunately, because you're reading this, they were able to get the site back up and running so here I am.

A few years ago, Scott's car key broke so he could no longer use the remote to unlock the doors.  Instead, he had to manually unlock the door, throw it open, and start the car quickly because once you open the door, the alarm would go off.  Then, once you started the car, everything was fine.  We made up a little game to coincide with everytime we had to get into the car.  We called it "Two Horns or Less", and the goal was to unlock, open, and start the car before the alarm horn could go off twice.  Scott got really good at it, and he had it down to 1 1/2- 1 1/4 horns sometimes.  (I'm sure you're wondering how I know what 1 1/4 horns is.  I don't know how I know, I just do.  Since this is my blog, I can say pretty much whatever I want).  Anyway, the game was fun, but eventually Scott got his key fixed.  I was really bummed, but it made sense because you get some pretty ridiculous stares when you look like you're breaking into a car everytime you get in.  Little did I know that MY turn to play Two Horns or Less was only a few years off.

Last week, before bar review started in earnest, I was running some errands, and I went to Target.  I do love Target.  I went to Target for some pens or something, which naturally meant I had to start at the very front of the store and make a full loop to look at anything and everything in the store.  By the time I got to the pens, I had a basket full of random shit.  This always happens to me (see Wal-Mart examples).  Anyway, I pay for my pens and other assorted unnecessary purchases, and I head back to my car.  At this point I'm juggling about 4 different plastic bags, and trying to rummage for my keys in my purse because I was too stupid to get them out before I decided to take home the store.  I finally get them out and hit "unlock".  I had no idea it didn't work, but soon find out when I try to open the door that the car was still locked.  I try my key a few more times and nothing.  Having known what happened to Scott, I was already aware that it was my turn to play Two Horns or Less.  The only problem was my massive collection of bags.  Instead of putting them down and taking care of it, I decide I can maneuver just as quickly while holding them.  Wrong.  I manually unlock the door and throw it open, to which the alarm starts blaring.  I then try to quickly get into the car, and fail miserably when one of my bags gets caught on the door handle.  So instead of the car already being started, the alarm is still going off and I'm in a wrestling match with a freaking plastic bag.  I yank really hard on the bag in an effort to set it free, but instead it rips and the contents spill out all over the pavement.  By this point it has literally been about 17 horns, and I've miserably failed at the game.  People are staring.  Some out of curiosity, others out of annoyance that I have yet to stop the alarm.  I momentarily abandon my pavement-splattered merchandise and start the car to get the gaping to stop.  Then, just like a scene out of Liberty City, I take off.

I immediately drive to the Jeep dealership to get it fixed, because I don't want to deal with it any longer than necessary.  When I arrive at the right place (the dealership had moved without my knowing, despite the apparent mailing of several notices, and billboards all around town that I never paid attention to), I have this conversation with the service employee:

Me: Something is wrong with the remote on my key.  The key itself works fine, but the remote no longer unlocks the doors.
Man: So your key isn't working?
Me: The key works.  The remote to unlock the doors doesn't.
Man:  Let me take it, I'll be right back.

I wait.  7-10 minutes later:

Man: Well, I don't see any problem with the key itself.  It still works.
Me:  Yes, I understand that.  It's the remote.
Man:  Oh, the remote!  You should have said that to begin with!
Me: .....ok.  How can I fix it?
Man:  Well, usually it's just the battery, or it needs to be reprogrammed.  That should fix it right up.  I'll be right back.

I wait.  19 minutes later (I counted):

Man:  Well, it was neither.  Turns out you need a whole new key.
Me:  Soo, it wasn't the easy to fix thing?
Man:  Nope, isn't that funny?
Me: Hilarious.

So, I need a new key.  They don't have the key in stock so I have to play Two Horns or Less all weekend (and Monday since it was Memorial Day).  Tuesday morning, I come in for my appointment and of course none of information about my appointment or what I need is in the system.

SAME Man: How can I help you?
Me:  I have an appointment to fix my key.
Man: Oh yes, hi! What was your name again?
Me: D-R-A...
Man: Ah yes, Nikki.  Hmm, your information is in here but nothing about your appointment.  Who did you speak with to make the appointment?
Me: ....Um, you?
(Long pause)
Man:  Oh, ha.  Yes.  Well let's just look this.  Hopefully we got the key ordered, amiright?
Me:  Yes, hopefully.  (At this point I give him the "Nikki stare."  People who know me well know what it is.  For those that don't, it's a combination of exasperation/total bitch).
Man:  Ah, here it is.  Looks like this was just not entered properly, but we're all set!

And turns out, we WERE all set.  Despite having NO recollection of me making an appointment with him, the service guy managed to order the right key and have it waiting for me.  And now I no longer have to play Two Horns or Less.  Nor do I have to look like I'm stealing my own car.  Hooray!


Pic 'o the Day (on a more serious note):

I know I'm a day late, but I don't think it's ever too late to remember what happened on June 6th, 1944.  I'm pretty sure I took this picture while in tears, and I will never forget my emotional experience visiting the cemetery and the beaches.  To all who fought (and still fight):  Thank You.

I like pictures.

It's Friday!  I've just numbed my brain with almost four hours of a commercial paper and negotiable instruments lecture (it's definitely as exciting as it sounds).  Sigh.  I guess it's good that I at least now know what commercial paper is.  So that's a step in the right direction. 

On another note, I got a brand new camera for graduation.  Here are some pics I've taken lately.  They're mostly of my dogs, because the dogs make excellent photo subjects, being all cute and playful and stuff.  These are also on my facebook, but since some of my loyal readers have released themselves from the vice grip of facebook addiction, I will post them here too.  Enjoy!

"I know I'm cute."

 In addition, she should probably play basketball.  She could dunk for sure.  

(Maybe not, but I'll pretend).

 She eventually caught the ball, and showed it who was boss.

The best-behaved dog.  Pretty much ever.

 So coy.

Aww.  Love.

So, I actually took this a while ago when I studied abroad for a summer, but

I edited it with my fun new editing stuff.

Hope everyone has a good weekend!  I know I said last entry that I'd be back soon with actual entries...and that's still true.  For the moment, I need to unscramble my brain.  So I'm off to do that.

Do it!

Ok, so this isn't a fun entry.  Sorry.  BUT, it will be fun for you to vote for my dog in the Cutest Doodle Contest.  So, do it.  5,4,3...vote for Cherry.  Do it.

Vote for Cherry!

I promise I'll be back soon.

What's in my Brain...

So, I don't really have enough material (or at least have a coherent story from a childhood experience) to make a complete entry, so I'll give you an exclusive "in my brain" look at my week.  You're so lucky.

Monday AM: After taking the 100-question simulated MBE- Wow, I'm going to completely fail the bar exam.
Monday PM: Oh my God.  It is eleventy-billion degrees out and I'm out here trying to learn how to swing a golf club.
Monday a little more PM: Holy crap!  I just hit the ball right onto the green!
Monday even more PM: Baskin Robbins...mmm.  
Tuesday: It's so beyond hot I don't even want to go outside.  How did I live with this for 13 years in Texas?
Tuesday PM: Taking the dogs out- Wtf is that?  Omg it's a giant toad.  And Cherry is trying to eat it.  Shit.  What if she actually succeeds and drags mutilated toad parts into the house?  Run, toad!  I'm retarded.  Toads don't run.  But he's certainly not making any real effort to save himself.
Wednesday:  Empty head.  Completely. As in, cue the crickets in my brain.
Thursday late AM: Wow.  I can't believe I slept until almost noon.  I'm a complete failure.  
Thursday Afternoon: What the hell is this guy doing trying to walk across the highway?!  In front of MY car?!  I literally almost crapped myself just now.  
Thursday (later) Afternoon: I love Target.  Hmm.  Why isn't my car unlocking?  Because the remote is broken.  So, I guess I have to unlock it manually and...yep it sets of the alarm.  Now there are people staring at me thinking I'm trying to steal my own car.  
Thursday Evening: $25 for an average manicure?  I won't be coming back here.
Friday Afternoon: So the remote in my key isn't just out of battery.  Nor does it just need to be re-programmed.  It's completely broken.  Of course it is.  Because it's MY car.  And this kinda stuff happens to items I own. 

And now here I am on the brink of the weekend.  My last weekend of freedom.  Ever.  

Nascar on the Loose

Hey you!  It's been quite a while.  I apologize for the delay, but I was busy finishing finals, graduating, and getting engaged.  Quite a big few days if you ask me!  You didn't ask me, but this is my blog, so I'm going to TELL you it was.

This next little ditty comes to you courtesy of my experiences on my neighbor's swingset when we lived in Ontario.  Yes, the town with the terribly small-bedroomed house, school bus drivers that don't let you cross the street to board, and schools with TABLES so we sit like cattle.  With all of Ontario's apparent downfalls to a spoiled seven-year old, my neighbor's swingset was the highlight of my life.  I had a tire swing in my backyard.  The tire swing was fun, until your idea of fun no longer included winding it up and spinning yourself around until you were about to vomit.  When that lost its luster, I'd head next door where there were two swings, a swinging see-saw thing, a fort, a slide, and a swinging monkey bar (that would later cause my first broken nose).

Can you say baller, shot-caller?

Anyway, one day during my admittedly many forays into their backyard, I got way more entertainment than I bargained for.  To set this up properly, I have to tell you about our crazy, white-trash neighbors across the street.  The lady was a single mom who looked and acted like Tanya Harding, and her two sons were often the ones who got in trouble for shooting their Nerf guns at random wildlife in the neighborhood.  I'm fairly certain they also set several small fires in their driveway.  Basically, they were legitimate butt-plugs.  In addition to that, their yard was dotted with several pink flamingos, as a means of "classy" lawn art, and there was a bird fountain that was covered in bird crap that served as the piece d'resistance of the whole yard.

Shortly after we moved there, Tanya got a new boyfriend.  Take every stereotype about car racing, mullets, and guys that drive shitty pickups, and you have Billy Ray Cyrus 2.0.

This is pretty accurate, minus the "authentic" Nascar crew jacket.  Shirt unnecessary.

This dude pretty much moved in with Tanya...and that resulted in more than one visit from the local police.  I'm sure this was about as much activity as the police got, since most calls probably involved livestock blocking traffic or someone trying to write the word "Poop" on the side of the school.  And then came the day and Billy 2.0 and I would cross paths.

I was enjoying my time on the swingset when I heard yelling coming from the general direction of the should-be trailer home.  I looked up to see Billy 2.0, aka Nascar, aka Waffle House wedding groom, come sprinting through the yard between my house and the house next door, being tailed closely by two cops.  Naturally, he was shirtless, and was trying desperately to be agile in barefeet and skin-tight jorts.  He kept sprinting right into the creek at the back of our yard and took off splashing downstream.  He took a moment to wave at me as I gaped at the scene unfolding in front of me.  I would later wonder why he waved.  I'm not sure I'd have the where-with-all to be polite to an 8-year old who is privy to one of my life's more embarrassing moments.  But maybe that's in the mullet code of honor.  Regardless, I hopped off my swing and started to follow them.  Not closely follow, but enough to where I could see what happened as they rounded a bend in the creek a few houses down.  Billy 2.0 got straight-up tackled by the cop who was obviously tired of dealing with his shit.  I bet Ontario cops don't sign up for strenuous exertion when they take the job, and this dude was furious.  Billy 2.0 didn't put up much of a fight, and after they cuffed him, I quickly ran back to the swingset so I didn't look like the neighborhood creeper who was watching the local scandal.  

I think after this final debacle, Tanya dumped Billy for good.  At least he was never around much after that.  His familiar rust brown pickup truck did not grace Tanya's driveway for quite some time, and I was secretly sad that I wouldn't get to see real live episodes of Cops unfold right across the street.  Sigh.

Meltdown in Ontario

When I was seven years old, my family moved from Wallkill to Ontario, NY.  This was exciting/traumatizing for a number of reasons.  At first, I was excited to move.  The idea of something new and fun is always cool to a seven year old.  I was, though, sad to leave my gigantic bedroom in our house in Wallkill.  I mean, this thing was huge.  It took up 1/3 of the entire upstairs of the house.  I had an entire toy kitchen/living room set up in there.  Jealous?  You probably are.  My sadness about losing my huge room was magnified when I saw my new room.  To be fair, it is a perfectly nice room.  BUT, it wasn't as big as my old one, and because I was an asshole when I was little (see earlier posts), I was completely distraught over it.  But, my parents were really good at distracting me when I was upset, so they quickly directed me to my new bike and the huge basement where I could ride around in circles when it was too cold.

Then came my first day at my new school.  First of all, I relished the fact that at my old school I got to cross the street to get on the bus, AND we each got our own desks.  Desks that you could lift up and store all your stuff under the tabletop.  Badass desks.  Imagine my shock and despair when the bus drove right by my house and went around the cul-de-sac so that I didn't have to cross the street to board.  I was outraged that the bus driver was treating me like I was incapable of crossing the street to get on a bus.  The day just got worse when I got to school and discovered that not only did we not get the cool desks where we could store our shit, we didn't get desks AT ALL.  We were herded like cattle into tables of 8.  I'm sure the look on my face upon seeing this was one of pure disgust.  Where would I store my library books?  How did I let myself get roped into this small bedroom house at a school where I neither get to have my own desk OR cross the street to get on the bus?  The horror.

I needed one of these.

After a first day of school where all I could focus on was my lack of a desk, I moped off the bus and walked inside.  My mom asked me how school was, and I just broke down.  I imagine it was beyond difficult for her to keep a straight face as I, in all seriousness, made my school out to sound like a maximum security prison.  I know if I was listening to a seven-year-old lament the lack of cool desks, I'd laugh in her face.  But, my mom is an angel, so she listened intently as I demanded to transfer to a school that had cool desks, and pleaded with her to figure out a solution to this road-crossing situation.  My parents both empathized with me.  At least they acted like they did.  They probably rolled around in bed laughing after I went to sleep.

I was not able to transfer to a school merely because I was dissatisfied with the desk situation.  BUT, my dad did talk to the bus driver (I really wish I could have heard this).  In my mind, this is how it went down:

Dad approaches the bus driver as I get on.

 She probably didn't look like this, and I'm certain our bus drivers weren't allowed to smoke, but who doesn't love Forrest Gump?!

Dad: Excuse me, I have a ...somewhat odd request for you.
Bus Driver:  Yes?
Dad: Would you mind not going around the cul-de-sac before you pick her up?
Bus Driver:  Um, excuse me?
Dad:  Well, she's very upset that she doesn't get to cross the street to get on the bus.
Bus Driver: Are you f**king serious?
Dad: ...yes.
Bus Driver:  So you want me to stop on my way in just so she can cross the street to get on and off the bus?  That's retarded.
Dad:  Yes, I know.  But could you?
Bus Driver: I guess.

So she did.  From that day on, I was always allowed to cross the street.  A minor triumph for me.  And the following year, we got cool desks.  So all was right in my world.  I also loved my new bike.  Rock on.