Monday, October 31, 2011
Mishaps
I knew it was going to be a good day today when, on my way in on the train this morning, a lady reached out for the pole I was standing next to and instead accidentally jammed her fingernails into my face. I was so surprised and she was so obviously horrified that when she apologized I responded by saying "oh no, it's quite all right," as though it could in any way be all right to be mauled during your morning commute. Then I tried to ignore it for the rest of my journey, until I found I was in fact bleeding down my forehead. I just told all of my coworkers I was in a street fight, which they were all too eager to believe.
As it turned out, the trip home was precarious, too. They have a Halloween "parade" on Halsted every year, by which I mean a bunch of people strolling around awkwardly in costumes, and this year they apparently felt the need to shut down Addison from Broadway to Sheffield. So I got an extra twenty minutes of cab time as my driver attempted to find some way around the madness. Which was good, because there were a lot of legal questions he still wanted to ask and have me refuse to answer. And I still got to walk an extra three blocks after the dropoff.
All of which is just a roundabout way of explaining why I plan on eating this jumbo box of Nerds tonight. I deserve this happiness because I suffer so.
I knew it was going to be a good day today when, on my way in on the train this morning, a lady reached out for the pole I was standing next to and instead accidentally jammed her fingernails into my face. I was so surprised and she was so obviously horrified that when she apologized I responded by saying "oh no, it's quite all right," as though it could in any way be all right to be mauled during your morning commute. Then I tried to ignore it for the rest of my journey, until I found I was in fact bleeding down my forehead. I just told all of my coworkers I was in a street fight, which they were all too eager to believe.
As it turned out, the trip home was precarious, too. They have a Halloween "parade" on Halsted every year, by which I mean a bunch of people strolling around awkwardly in costumes, and this year they apparently felt the need to shut down Addison from Broadway to Sheffield. So I got an extra twenty minutes of cab time as my driver attempted to find some way around the madness. Which was good, because there were a lot of legal questions he still wanted to ask and have me refuse to answer. And I still got to walk an extra three blocks after the dropoff.
All of which is just a roundabout way of explaining why I plan on eating this jumbo box of Nerds tonight. I deserve this happiness because I suffer so.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Sloth, Etc.
They've recently opened a health food restaurant and a cupcake shop across the street from my office. In the six months they healthy place has been around, I've been there once, and I almost threw up some quinoa. In the approximately two weeks the cupcake place has been open, I've already been there twice. Should I just sign up for the dialysis now?
I also decided to sleep in and skip my kickboxing and core classes this morning. Last week there was an unfortunate incident where I snapped at the teacher because he told us to hold an abdominal plank for a minute and thirty seconds and then started blathering on about music in the '80s or something and still hadn't let us release after two minutes and fifteen seconds. Also I was having a lovely dream where I was best friends with Tina Fey. I did swim for a while this afternoon, though, until "family swim time" set in and I was besieged by children doing cannonballs into my lane. My new fitness plan is going to be based entirely on my good intentions.
I think as a result of my late start, I feel as though I've been spectacularly unproductive today. It also may have something to do with the fact that I keep randomly getting caught up in the Top Chef: All Stars marathon. And going out to the kitchen to eat wheat crackers with onion and chive cream cheese. Every so often, I genuinely feel the need to become the lowest form of life.
They've recently opened a health food restaurant and a cupcake shop across the street from my office. In the six months they healthy place has been around, I've been there once, and I almost threw up some quinoa. In the approximately two weeks the cupcake place has been open, I've already been there twice. Should I just sign up for the dialysis now?
I also decided to sleep in and skip my kickboxing and core classes this morning. Last week there was an unfortunate incident where I snapped at the teacher because he told us to hold an abdominal plank for a minute and thirty seconds and then started blathering on about music in the '80s or something and still hadn't let us release after two minutes and fifteen seconds. Also I was having a lovely dream where I was best friends with Tina Fey. I did swim for a while this afternoon, though, until "family swim time" set in and I was besieged by children doing cannonballs into my lane. My new fitness plan is going to be based entirely on my good intentions.
I think as a result of my late start, I feel as though I've been spectacularly unproductive today. It also may have something to do with the fact that I keep randomly getting caught up in the Top Chef: All Stars marathon. And going out to the kitchen to eat wheat crackers with onion and chive cream cheese. Every so often, I genuinely feel the need to become the lowest form of life.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Word Whomp
I've decided that every time I have trouble thinking of a topic to write about for the blog, I'm going to just grab the book that's nearest to me, open to a random page, point at a random word, and write about that. Of course, the book that's nearest to me right now is "Federal Civil Judicial Procedure and Rules," which is bound to result in fun times for all of us. But at least it beats sitting here staring at the screen and trying to think of something interesting I've done in the last 72 hours. It turns out I'm a lot less interesting than I generally tend to think.
Okay, so here we go. Page 391. The word is "court," perhaps unsurprisingly. This is good, because I've actually been to court a few times. It's much less glamorous than Drop Dead Diva would have us all believe. In Cook County, it mainly involves waiting endlessly to cram yourself into an elevator with sweaty, vaguely washed out looking people, many of whose idea of courtroom attire includes crop tops and/or sweatpants. Then once you're there you sit endlessly waiting for your case to be called, struggling to remember whether this is the opposing counsel is the one who has kids or the one who takes improv classes so that you can make pained small talk. Then you head up to the bench and generally answer no more than two or three questions before filling out your own order (which involves the use of carbon paper, which I frequently put in upside down) and handing it to the clerk. You're back on the street in no time.
Federal court is a little bit less like a city bus -- at least there aren't as many people -- but the exercise is much the same. Unless you have a trial, of course, which involves a lot more of people yelling. But today's word isn't "trial," for heaven's sake, so I won't get ahead of myself.
I've decided that every time I have trouble thinking of a topic to write about for the blog, I'm going to just grab the book that's nearest to me, open to a random page, point at a random word, and write about that. Of course, the book that's nearest to me right now is "Federal Civil Judicial Procedure and Rules," which is bound to result in fun times for all of us. But at least it beats sitting here staring at the screen and trying to think of something interesting I've done in the last 72 hours. It turns out I'm a lot less interesting than I generally tend to think.
Okay, so here we go. Page 391. The word is "court," perhaps unsurprisingly. This is good, because I've actually been to court a few times. It's much less glamorous than Drop Dead Diva would have us all believe. In Cook County, it mainly involves waiting endlessly to cram yourself into an elevator with sweaty, vaguely washed out looking people, many of whose idea of courtroom attire includes crop tops and/or sweatpants. Then once you're there you sit endlessly waiting for your case to be called, struggling to remember whether this is the opposing counsel is the one who has kids or the one who takes improv classes so that you can make pained small talk. Then you head up to the bench and generally answer no more than two or three questions before filling out your own order (which involves the use of carbon paper, which I frequently put in upside down) and handing it to the clerk. You're back on the street in no time.
Federal court is a little bit less like a city bus -- at least there aren't as many people -- but the exercise is much the same. Unless you have a trial, of course, which involves a lot more of people yelling. But today's word isn't "trial," for heaven's sake, so I won't get ahead of myself.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Friday Night Lite
Is it weird that I now officially love spending my Friday nights going to the gym and the grocery store? Let me stress that I fervently desire not to receive an answer to that question. It's just so relaxing to be in both of those places when they're not packed with angry, sometimes dirty people. I can actually take my time, say, doing a long run or picking out tomatoes, although generally not at the same time. And then I get home and feel very productive, as though it takes some sort of actual ability to engage in physical activity and buy foodstuffs. Next I'm going to start congratulating myself for watching TV.
Speaking of which, I saw an excellent Lifetime Movie today. It was called Betrayed at 17, not to be confused with Accused at 17 or Dead at 17 or, for that matter, 17 Again starring Zac Efron. I watched a lot of it with the sound off because I was on the phone with my parents, but I'm pretty sure I got the gist of it. It starred Alexandra Paul of Baywatch jiggling as a single mother crusading for justice after her daughter is exploited in a secret sex tape and then gets hit by a car. (The synopsis online says that she commits suicide, but I saw it, and she really just commits negligence, running out into the street without looking.) There's lots of brow furrowing and triumphing over things and running for no reason. Kind of like my work week, actually.
Speaking of which (again!), the Sunday dread is definitely in high gear. Why won't anyone just pay me to sit at home and eat Wheat Thins with chive cream cheese?
Is it weird that I now officially love spending my Friday nights going to the gym and the grocery store? Let me stress that I fervently desire not to receive an answer to that question. It's just so relaxing to be in both of those places when they're not packed with angry, sometimes dirty people. I can actually take my time, say, doing a long run or picking out tomatoes, although generally not at the same time. And then I get home and feel very productive, as though it takes some sort of actual ability to engage in physical activity and buy foodstuffs. Next I'm going to start congratulating myself for watching TV.
Speaking of which, I saw an excellent Lifetime Movie today. It was called Betrayed at 17, not to be confused with Accused at 17 or Dead at 17 or, for that matter, 17 Again starring Zac Efron. I watched a lot of it with the sound off because I was on the phone with my parents, but I'm pretty sure I got the gist of it. It starred Alexandra Paul of Baywatch jiggling as a single mother crusading for justice after her daughter is exploited in a secret sex tape and then gets hit by a car. (The synopsis online says that she commits suicide, but I saw it, and she really just commits negligence, running out into the street without looking.) There's lots of brow furrowing and triumphing over things and running for no reason. Kind of like my work week, actually.
Speaking of which (again!), the Sunday dread is definitely in high gear. Why won't anyone just pay me to sit at home and eat Wheat Thins with chive cream cheese?
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Blown Away
Last night I went to the Shakespeare Theatre, which necessitated a trip to Navy Pier. Now, Navy Pier is not a place I relish going even under the best of conditions; there are just too many kiosks and novelty t-shirts. But when the weather is bad, it's downright spooky. Everything is empty and all of the employees seem really sad. Even the McDonalds of the Future just has one guy standing there letting your fries get soggy. On the plus side, you get really easy access to the bins at the candy by the pound store. No one wants to have to fight for their Sixlets.
The weather yesterday was so bad that I actually felt myself beginning to lift off the ground when I got hit by the wind as I crossed onto the pier. I had to grab onto the giant sculpture of a wagon to steady myself. It would have been really funny had I not been gently sobbing. I kept picturing my body being found by the Coast Guard, or whoever it is that guards Lake Michigan. Oddly enough, in my vision they were making fun of my sweater.
Anyway, the show was great, as usual. It was Sondheim's Follies, which is not exactly musical comedy in the tradition of, say, Anything Goes! But somehow spending two and a half hours reflecting on relationships and my own mortality ended up being more than a little entertaining. And not just because I was happy to be indoors and filled with several pounds of candy.
Last night I went to the Shakespeare Theatre, which necessitated a trip to Navy Pier. Now, Navy Pier is not a place I relish going even under the best of conditions; there are just too many kiosks and novelty t-shirts. But when the weather is bad, it's downright spooky. Everything is empty and all of the employees seem really sad. Even the McDonalds of the Future just has one guy standing there letting your fries get soggy. On the plus side, you get really easy access to the bins at the candy by the pound store. No one wants to have to fight for their Sixlets.
The weather yesterday was so bad that I actually felt myself beginning to lift off the ground when I got hit by the wind as I crossed onto the pier. I had to grab onto the giant sculpture of a wagon to steady myself. It would have been really funny had I not been gently sobbing. I kept picturing my body being found by the Coast Guard, or whoever it is that guards Lake Michigan. Oddly enough, in my vision they were making fun of my sweater.
Anyway, the show was great, as usual. It was Sondheim's Follies, which is not exactly musical comedy in the tradition of, say, Anything Goes! But somehow spending two and a half hours reflecting on relationships and my own mortality ended up being more than a little entertaining. And not just because I was happy to be indoors and filled with several pounds of candy.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Lord of the Dance
So we got a dance game for the Wii. I was always sort of opposed to getting one because in my experience they just involved a lot of lame arm waving, but I underestimated the extent to which that could be an amazing thing. You see, the utter ridiculousness of people rapidly convulsing to the sounds of Baby, One More Time is something that simply cannot be beat. Photo evidence of this phenomenon follows.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Phoneathon
Well, I got one of the new iPhones on Friday and, predictably, it has more or less taken over my life for the past couple of days. I spent Friday night activating the thing, which was not made easier by the fact that the box included a slip that said to "simply follow the instructions in the Activating Your iPhone booklet included in this box," but no such booklet. Then yesterday afternoon I transferred over my contacts, resulting in the fun biannual game of "who is this person?" And the rest of the afternoon yesterday I spent copying CDs to the phone, apparently gripped by a fear that I can no longer live my life unless I have the Black Eyed Peas with me at all times. I also downloaded several apps, including a really creepy one that lets you see your friends' current locations. It's good to see someone is finally working to alleviate the serious challenges faced by stalkers in this information age.
And speaking of creepy, this version of the iPhone has a little lady who lives inside it and handles your various requests. For instance, I can just say "send a text to my sister telling her Sister Act 2 is on," and it will do so, although likely not without serious emotional reservations. Or I can ask it to find the nearest Wendy's, and it will give me a map and directions, although the technology has apparently not yet reached the stage where it will also schedule coronary bypass surgery for three years from now. There isn't even any attitude involved, unlike when I ask my secretary to do things. If I could get the iPhone to take two hour lunches and spread malicious gossip, it could have a real career ahead of it.
Well, I got one of the new iPhones on Friday and, predictably, it has more or less taken over my life for the past couple of days. I spent Friday night activating the thing, which was not made easier by the fact that the box included a slip that said to "simply follow the instructions in the Activating Your iPhone booklet included in this box," but no such booklet. Then yesterday afternoon I transferred over my contacts, resulting in the fun biannual game of "who is this person?" And the rest of the afternoon yesterday I spent copying CDs to the phone, apparently gripped by a fear that I can no longer live my life unless I have the Black Eyed Peas with me at all times. I also downloaded several apps, including a really creepy one that lets you see your friends' current locations. It's good to see someone is finally working to alleviate the serious challenges faced by stalkers in this information age.
And speaking of creepy, this version of the iPhone has a little lady who lives inside it and handles your various requests. For instance, I can just say "send a text to my sister telling her Sister Act 2 is on," and it will do so, although likely not without serious emotional reservations. Or I can ask it to find the nearest Wendy's, and it will give me a map and directions, although the technology has apparently not yet reached the stage where it will also schedule coronary bypass surgery for three years from now. There isn't even any attitude involved, unlike when I ask my secretary to do things. If I could get the iPhone to take two hour lunches and spread malicious gossip, it could have a real career ahead of it.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Taylor Made
I had a dream last night that I was hanging out with Taylor Swift and it wasn't all that bad. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't good either, but I wasn't contemplating self mutilation or anything. At least not in the dream. We were just kind of sitting on couches and not really talking to each other. I think we had bagels with cream cheese. Not the really good kind of cream cheese with chives in it or anything, just the regular kind. I remember feeling a lot of anxiety that I would somehow accidentally mention how she looks like a poodle in the dream. (I do mention it occasionally when awake.) That was about it, though. I woke up sweating profusely and humming the chorus of "Love Story" through my gritted teeth.
It's the last time I read a New Yorker profile right before bed, I'll tell you that. I'm just lucky it wasn't about Charlie Sheen.
I had a dream last night that I was hanging out with Taylor Swift and it wasn't all that bad. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't good either, but I wasn't contemplating self mutilation or anything. At least not in the dream. We were just kind of sitting on couches and not really talking to each other. I think we had bagels with cream cheese. Not the really good kind of cream cheese with chives in it or anything, just the regular kind. I remember feeling a lot of anxiety that I would somehow accidentally mention how she looks like a poodle in the dream. (I do mention it occasionally when awake.) That was about it, though. I woke up sweating profusely and humming the chorus of "Love Story" through my gritted teeth.
It's the last time I read a New Yorker profile right before bed, I'll tell you that. I'm just lucky it wasn't about Charlie Sheen.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Movie Fever!
I saw Contagion last night. I made sure to cough loudly throughout the movie to give everyone that real "you are there" experience. And I think people really appreciated the humor, if indeed throwing an empty box of Jujubes at someone is a sign of appreciation. I'm sure that, like me, everyone was just relieved to have a distraction from the long series of horrible deaths. It was like a tragically unimaginative celebrity snuff film.
Overall I guess I thought it was pretty all right, though. I could have done with less of Chubby Matt Damon, and at times Marion Cotillard was off the screen for such a long period that I sort of forgot that she was in it at all. They've either done something to Jude Law's teeth for the character or Jude Law has always just had bad teeth that I somehow failed to notice. Laurence Fishburne is... I guess I just have a hard time feeling anything at all about Laurence Fishburne.
I think the writing was pretty decent for the most part. I did laugh out loud at the part where Chubby Matt Damon is supposedly so badly in shock that he asks to talk to his dead wife, but I have a long history of laughing at allegedly dramatic moments. That's why Sean Penn yelling "Is that my daughter in there?" repeatedly in Mystic River has become my ringtone.
It must be a pretty convincing movie, though, because about five minutes in I seriously started to feel like I was surrounded by dirty, disease-ridden animals who very likely were the source of that odd soreness at the back of my throat. And afterwards I actually had to lie down. I mean, it was 10:30 at night, so I would have been headed to bed anyway, but still.
I saw Contagion last night. I made sure to cough loudly throughout the movie to give everyone that real "you are there" experience. And I think people really appreciated the humor, if indeed throwing an empty box of Jujubes at someone is a sign of appreciation. I'm sure that, like me, everyone was just relieved to have a distraction from the long series of horrible deaths. It was like a tragically unimaginative celebrity snuff film.
Overall I guess I thought it was pretty all right, though. I could have done with less of Chubby Matt Damon, and at times Marion Cotillard was off the screen for such a long period that I sort of forgot that she was in it at all. They've either done something to Jude Law's teeth for the character or Jude Law has always just had bad teeth that I somehow failed to notice. Laurence Fishburne is... I guess I just have a hard time feeling anything at all about Laurence Fishburne.
I think the writing was pretty decent for the most part. I did laugh out loud at the part where Chubby Matt Damon is supposedly so badly in shock that he asks to talk to his dead wife, but I have a long history of laughing at allegedly dramatic moments. That's why Sean Penn yelling "Is that my daughter in there?" repeatedly in Mystic River has become my ringtone.
It must be a pretty convincing movie, though, because about five minutes in I seriously started to feel like I was surrounded by dirty, disease-ridden animals who very likely were the source of that odd soreness at the back of my throat. And afterwards I actually had to lie down. I mean, it was 10:30 at night, so I would have been headed to bed anyway, but still.
Sunday, October 09, 2011
Running Man
Yesterday I went to a baby shower in the suburbs. Well, actually it was something called a "sip and see" as opposed to a baby shower, since the baby's already here, but I feel really awkward using the phrase "sip and see," so I'm sticking with baby shower. I've previously made my feelings about babies clear, and this was no exception. Cute, yes, but a great conversationalist, no.
I have to say that it was altogether a very classy and enjoyable event, however. There were delicious cucumber sandwiches (well, I took the cucumbers off, but the cheese and the bread were delicious) and prosciutto bruschettas and we all drank wine at three on a Saturday like Real Housewives. Everyone talked about child care and property taxes and home remodeling and I felt like I should smoke a pipe and join the rotary club. Oh, and I mentioned the "fall colors" on at least three occasions. I can wasp with the best of them, you better believe me.
Today was the marathon, which meant that I got up at 7:30 to go squint out at the street while holding crudely-made signs for friends I would never actually manage to spot. I took pictures of myself holding the signs on the street afterwards just so I would have proof that I was there. And then I went back to bed.
Yesterday I went to a baby shower in the suburbs. Well, actually it was something called a "sip and see" as opposed to a baby shower, since the baby's already here, but I feel really awkward using the phrase "sip and see," so I'm sticking with baby shower. I've previously made my feelings about babies clear, and this was no exception. Cute, yes, but a great conversationalist, no.
I have to say that it was altogether a very classy and enjoyable event, however. There were delicious cucumber sandwiches (well, I took the cucumbers off, but the cheese and the bread were delicious) and prosciutto bruschettas and we all drank wine at three on a Saturday like Real Housewives. Everyone talked about child care and property taxes and home remodeling and I felt like I should smoke a pipe and join the rotary club. Oh, and I mentioned the "fall colors" on at least three occasions. I can wasp with the best of them, you better believe me.
Today was the marathon, which meant that I got up at 7:30 to go squint out at the street while holding crudely-made signs for friends I would never actually manage to spot. I took pictures of myself holding the signs on the street afterwards just so I would have proof that I was there. And then I went back to bed.
Thursday, October 06, 2011
Brainstorms
I've decided that I'm going to be a legal commentator, but my commentary will be based only on what I've seen about the cases on television and heard secondhand. For instance, about the Amanda Knox case I could say that one of my co-counsel from another firm told me that they didn't have much evidence against her and that Hayden Panettierre looked kind of weird with brown hair. Actually, on Lifetime, the case seemed to be primarily about A Mother's Love, with that mother being played by Marcia Gay Harden, or maybe it was Jeanne Tripplehorn, because sometimes I have difficulty telling them apart. There was also a lot of emphasis on fake Italian accents.
I also think it would be a good idea for them to make a TV movie about my pro bono trial last year, which they could call Deliberate Indifference On Trial In Urbana. It would be quite dramatic, what with my opposing counsel having a handlebar mustache and all. Perhaps he could be played by Burt Reynolds. The role of my client would be the really tough one to fill, since it would have to be someone who both knows his way around an off-color anecdote and can pull off double face tattoos. To play me it can only be Whoopi Goldberg.
I've got a lot of great ideas, I think.
I've decided that I'm going to be a legal commentator, but my commentary will be based only on what I've seen about the cases on television and heard secondhand. For instance, about the Amanda Knox case I could say that one of my co-counsel from another firm told me that they didn't have much evidence against her and that Hayden Panettierre looked kind of weird with brown hair. Actually, on Lifetime, the case seemed to be primarily about A Mother's Love, with that mother being played by Marcia Gay Harden, or maybe it was Jeanne Tripplehorn, because sometimes I have difficulty telling them apart. There was also a lot of emphasis on fake Italian accents.
I also think it would be a good idea for them to make a TV movie about my pro bono trial last year, which they could call Deliberate Indifference On Trial In Urbana. It would be quite dramatic, what with my opposing counsel having a handlebar mustache and all. Perhaps he could be played by Burt Reynolds. The role of my client would be the really tough one to fill, since it would have to be someone who both knows his way around an off-color anecdote and can pull off double face tattoos. To play me it can only be Whoopi Goldberg.
I've got a lot of great ideas, I think.
Tuesday, October 04, 2011
Flight Risk
As if the Mall of America weren't excitement enough, I got to have a three-hour flight delay at the Minneapolis airport Sunday night. I should have known it was coming because everything was really going too perfectly. I got to the airport an hour and a half before my flight, cruised through security in about half an hour, and then leisurely made my way to my gate, pausing here and there to enjoy the various stores selling Minnesota-themed sweatshirts and off-brand chocolates. I got a seat with an appropriate one-seat buffer on either side of me and was just settling in to some Word Mole on my blackberry when I noticed the departure information flipping back three hours. There was never an explanation for the delay or even a PA announcement of it; they just changed the departure time as though we might all be having such a good time buying $2.50 Diet Cokes that we wouldn't even notice the switch. I did have some words with a Cindy at the airline counter, but it was all for naught as no other Chicago-bound fights even existed. Cindy did feel my pain though, I could tell that.
The last minute delay did leave me in a bit of a pickle, since I hadn't brought much in the way of reading material with me for such a short flight. There was just a New Yorker where I'd already read everything except half of the article about IKEA and the short story, which I generally skip on principle. The only store on the concourse that was still open appeared to sell nothing but Sue Grafton and beef jerky, and neither seemed likely to hold my attention for long. And my blackberry was starting to run out of juice from too much Brickbreaker and a forty-five minute conversation with my parents about the dogs. I ended up reading a discarded newspaper, which left me with way too much knowledge of twin city politics and a sticky film on my hands.
I made it back, though, and I am just barely alive. Just three more days until the weekend (because you would be unable to calculate that on your own), during which I plan to remain as earthbound as possible.
Saturday, October 01, 2011
America, the Beautiful
I went to the Mall of America today, and it was sort of fantastic. Also sort of infuriating and sort of exhausting, but still. Isn't that the story of America?
The trip began, as so many trips to the Mall of America must, with endless circling through an enormous parking garage. We finally found a spot on the fifth level, or the "Florida" level, as it is called, probably because of the indigenous palm trees and orange groves. We entered the mall on the third floor, near the Victoria's Secret. Well, one of the two Victoria's Secrets. There are also two Auntie Ann's Pretzels. One is too many.
The plan was to shop, but that was immediately derailed when I caught sight of the Nickelodeon-themed amusement park in the middle of the mall. We briefly flirted with the idea of the flume ride, but being wet in the Lane Bryant did not exactly seem like great fun. The arcade seemed a drier idea, and we quickly won enough tickets for some excellent plastic trinkets, despite the fact that the Whack-a-Mole game had been so overused that three of the moles never managed to rouse themselves from their holes. We also checked out the Nick store, but I ultimately determined that showing up at my office with an iCarly lunchbox would not win me respect and might even get me jailed.
From there it was just plain old shopping. With no sales tax, which was nice. And the clerks seemed somehow a bit less clueless, if such a thing is possible. Also I think we walked about six miles over the course of the day. I'm counting this as my cardio for the weekend.
I went to the Mall of America today, and it was sort of fantastic. Also sort of infuriating and sort of exhausting, but still. Isn't that the story of America?
The trip began, as so many trips to the Mall of America must, with endless circling through an enormous parking garage. We finally found a spot on the fifth level, or the "Florida" level, as it is called, probably because of the indigenous palm trees and orange groves. We entered the mall on the third floor, near the Victoria's Secret. Well, one of the two Victoria's Secrets. There are also two Auntie Ann's Pretzels. One is too many.
The plan was to shop, but that was immediately derailed when I caught sight of the Nickelodeon-themed amusement park in the middle of the mall. We briefly flirted with the idea of the flume ride, but being wet in the Lane Bryant did not exactly seem like great fun. The arcade seemed a drier idea, and we quickly won enough tickets for some excellent plastic trinkets, despite the fact that the Whack-a-Mole game had been so overused that three of the moles never managed to rouse themselves from their holes. We also checked out the Nick store, but I ultimately determined that showing up at my office with an iCarly lunchbox would not win me respect and might even get me jailed.
From there it was just plain old shopping. With no sales tax, which was nice. And the clerks seemed somehow a bit less clueless, if such a thing is possible. Also I think we walked about six miles over the course of the day. I'm counting this as my cardio for the weekend.
