I have enough problems of my own, I don't need more

Sometimes you just can't compete with cocaine. I wouldn't advise trying. Cocaine will win. Always.

I've already been with someone with a drug problem. My efforts to be worth more than the drugs were pointless and so was the relationship.

I can't beat cocaine, and this time around I'm not even going to try.

What the hell are they DOING up there?

I know quite a few people that live in the beautiful Maryland Courts, but I do not know who lives above me. However, that doesn't stop me from making assumptions about them solely based on the amount of noise they make.

1) They are vampires as their ideal time to stomp around begins at 10pm and stops at approximately 6am.
2) They are large, vampiric rabbits as there is no other explanation as to how the specific hopping noises moving three or four feet with each bang would occur.
3) They are large, vampiric rabbits with obsessive compulsive disorder prompting them to rearrange their furniture at all hours of the night when they are not hopping around. I guess as vampires, moving furniture in the middle of the night would make more sense then, say, the middle of the day.
4) They may or may not enjoy bowling on their wooden floors. However, it sure sounds like they do.


In response to all this racket, and because we act like a bunch of senior citizens, my sister has taken to banging on the ceiling with a broom handle. This approach has, as of yet, failed to quell the bangs, crashes and rumbles. My response is that we should just up and move to the Heights.

Movin' on up to the East Side .....eerrmm The Heights

Our apartment has had some pretty severe flaws since we moved in three months ago. For instance, there is a two square foot hole in my bedroom wall, there is a fuse broken off and stuck inside the fuse box, and there is duct tape covering holes in Courtney's room.
I have called the maintenance man about twenty times and every time he says he'll fix it tomorrow, piling up three months worth of tomorrows. I think he's a procrastinator because he's a drunk, but maybe he's just lazy.
Anyway, my boss told me that he has a house in Washington Heights (Milwaukee's ritziest neighborhood) with three bedrooms that he would rent to us for the same amount that we pay here. Hard wood floors, original leaded glass cabinets, a backyard, a driveway, etc.
I WANT that house.
But alas, upon calling the real estate company that owns my building, they actually got their act together and sent a competent (and handsome I might add) maintenance person over. He even took notes and measurements while I gave him a tour of the place. It seems like everything will be fixed in a timely manner.

So, is it bad that I'm hoping it isn't fixed so that we can move to the Heights and get a dog, have a backyard, a quaint home, free parking, and the piece of mind that comes with being 99% sure you won't be robbed at gunpoint when leaving home (some man was shot to death three blocks from my apartment last night while in his car)? I'm looking for a good reason that would allow us to get released from the lease and into decency.

Any ideas?

"You broke the shit out of that slide!"

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Camping extravaganza '06 was an absolute success. It was crammed full of danger, adventure and romance. But, most of all there were sad choices for everyone.

Sad choices all around:

The group decided that it would be a fabulous idea to go drunk canoeing. Of course, it would only make sense to turn drunk canoeing into a race and with that in mind, four teams were formed.

Randy and Nathan - Two Aryan men with a drunken competitive streak.

Abby and Mikey P - Initially thought to be a contender, it seemed they were out of the race when Mike began puking up his liquid power hour lunch over the side of the canoe while still paddling.

Courtney and John - A physically strong team that meant business when they weren't talking nonsense.

Kyle and myself - Two people out for a leisurely stroll, not bothering with any of that racing nonsense. How were we supposed to drink our Hamm's if we were working so hard?

Because the rest of the group took their canoeing seriously and were busy racing and sabotaging, Kyle and I ended up a good five minutes behind. That is when we laid eyes on a beautiful site, a lone blue waterslide planted on a floating deck, just waiting for someone to slide down and splash gloriously into the lake.

Of course, we had to do it, there was no choice. After taking a sharp right and making sure we were out of eyesight of all other persons enjoying water sports, we pulled our canoe to the side of the deck and attempted to board. Kyle successfully got out of the canoe. I, on the other hand, momentarily forgot that the deck was floating, not stationary and lost my balance while trying to reach the slide.

I swam around and climbed on from the side while Kyle was properly lubricating the tall slide by filling up an empty can of Hamm's with lake water and pouring it down the slide. Based on the number of very large spiders and bits of rubbish on and around the slide, it was clear it had not been used in awhile. I took a stick and removed the large webs from between the rungs of the ladder when Kyle prompted me to climb it.

I began a slow ascent, rocking the deck with every shift of my weight. It was at this point that I realized parts of the slide had become disconnected from other essential parts. I said, "Kyle, this doesn't look very safe." Kyle, thinking I was just acting like a 40-year-old mom of three told me that it would be fine. Being drunk and susceptible to suggestion, I climbed one more rung, at which point the ENTIRE structure gave way (most notably at the important, weight baring joints that were not connected).

Kyle saw my life flash by his eyes as I fell off the ladder and the slide collapsed on top of me. I wasn't worried about being injured, I was only concerned with running away.

We climbed into our canoe as quickly as possible and began rowing our little hearts out at which point we realized that we had not disconnected our rope from the dock. We spent precious getaway time undoing ourselves and rowed back to shore with three inches of water in the bottom of our canoe and one hell of a story to tell.


*Although that is not a picture of the particular slide we broke (my camera and cigarettes became casualties of the mission, overtaken by the lake's fierce, watery depths), it is the exact model and color. It, however, is in much better shape and probably still standing.

For a time log of the entire weekend, visit A little more sense, a lot less tact, Nathan's fabulous blog.

Gearing Up for That Mirror Maze

As I look forward to camping this weekend, I am fondly remembering an incident from two years ago. As always, we camped for the weekend and then went to Noah's Ark (America's Largest Waterpark). Because we spent the weekend endurance drinking, we decided to continue drinking at the waterpark, especially since all those signs told us not to use the slides while under the influence.

Noah's Ark had just come out with "Noah's Incredible Adventure," a waterless (lame right?) ride. However, sneaking away from the tour guide, my party decided to "ride" the plastic animals, cause a ruckus, but most importantly, master the mirror maze.

Once the maze was sufficiently mastered, it only makes sense to race through it.

That might have been okay had everyone not been wasted off their asses. At a full sprint, my friend Randy ran right into his own reflection, bounced off the mirror and completely laid himself out. It was a speed at which no one could consciously force themselves to run into a wall and it was marvelous.

We have big plans for a spectacular repeat performance this year.

We never learn our lesson.

Why does everyone I walk past seem so damn annoying?

Because I picked the worst time to quit smoking, the time when I was aggravated enough to NEED a cigarette, I lasted two whole days before caving in. Desperate to get some nicotine, and with the perfect excuse of needing to go to Tim's to pick up my shit - a block from the perfect cigarette vendor, I decided to take a late night walk to Open Pantry.

Of course my aggravated walk could not be free from further stupidity however, which I guess is how I came across the two shady-cell-phone-men trying to pick up girls.

These men were clearly not students based on their age, lack of personal hygiene, and eau de perfume of alcohol and marijuana.* At first, I thought they were two strangers that just happened to be sitting on windowsills about 20 feet apart both talking on their cell phones. That all changed when a girl walking a considerable distance in front of me was approached by the first man who hung up his cell phone in order to hit on her. The second man then hung up his phone as well and became very interested in creepy man one's conversation. The girl was not having any of man one's "baby girl this and baby girl that" and promptly blew him off at which point creepy man one sat back down, took out his cell phone and dialed. Creepy man two's phone began to ring and was quickly answered. By this point I was walking past man number two who was saying something like, "that white girl just turned you down?!?" Creepy man number one started laughing and was yelling into his phone ..... Even though the other guy was right next to him.

I've seen a lot of stupid things, but talking to your fellow lady stalker via cell phone from 20 feet away to appear what? Single? Harmless? Why couldn't they just sit together and maybe approach a pair of ladies? Do they have free nights and weekends to warrant this ridiculousness?

Anyway, I'm really glad neither of these two tried to talk to me, as they were too busy complaining about the girl who had just walked past. Because I am fed up with the men in my life, I did make a plan to give my phone number out to the next man who asks with all of his teeth and a job. Maybe I can claim that I will only do that while I'm at the gas station (see previous post), absolving me from giving my number in any other geographic situation.



*I'll admit that I know a few people with hygiene problems that reek of marijuana and alcohol, but these men were at least 30 years old.

Uggghhhh, Men

Because all the men in my life have chosen to be 1) assholes, 2) idiots, or 3) completely unreliable, I've developed a new plan to find someone to pay me some attention in a consistent manner. This is why I've decided to pick up a black boyfriend from the gas station. Every time I fill up my tank at the local gas station (27th and Wisconsin), I get hit on and asked for my phone number. Previously I've developed elaborate stories involving my pretend boyfriends to keep these men from bothering me. But now, it almost seems reasonable to hand my phone number out to men at the gas station. In order to find the best possible gas station boyfriend, I've developed a list of minimum, very low standards.

1) Must have all of his teeth, no grill
2) Must have some sort of job, really doesn't matter what kind of job it is, as long as it is a job
3) Must be under the age of 28
4) Must not drive a hoopdee
5) Potentially has a matching black friend for Courtney to date, as she is equally fed up with men

That's really it.