The past few days have been dog-centric, terrifying, and emotional.
Saturday, I adopt the most perfect dog on the planet. Shes two years old, doesn’t bark, loves everyone and is just generally adorable. My roommates and I spent the rest of the weekend falling/being in love with her all over our neighborhood.
Meet Belle, my new baby girl.
Her and I had quite the interaction with a drunk man who I should not have let pet her. It was Saturday night around 8, I myself am a little drunk and decide to take Belle out to do her business before more people start arriving at our place. A block into it the drunk man I mentioned before stops to pet her and then asks me what her name is. When I tell him it’s Belle he aggressively responds, “One syllable? Really?” to which I respond, “Yeah” while really want to respond, “Yes fuck you, you’re alone and drunk at 8pm please go away right now because you have probably killed a living organism in your life.” After this little exchange Belle and I go to make our exit and as the drunk man stumbles to wherever he’s off to terrorize next, he shouts from 1 foot away, “Get your dog a new fucking name!”
Run, Belle, Run!
Monday night, Belle and I get back from a walk and I see that Jennifer, the dog sitter who is watching Luna, my parents dog who is somewhere in the range of 100-200 years old, had a seizure. My parents are in northern Michigan, hence the dog sitter, and are therefore totally unreachable at 10pm. So, Jennifer and I take off to the doggie ER with an extremely limited knowledge of the specifics of Luna’s medical history. Pretty much every question I’m asked gets a response of, “Uhm, I’m not sure. But I know some stuff has happened to her, you know she’s old, so probably everything has? I don’t know I’m sorry where’s my mommy.” I decided to check Luna into the hospital overnight so that 1) They could run necessary blood work and then talk to my parents directly about what was going on and 2) I could go home and go to sleep without worrying about her. I say goodnight to my grandma dog and then as I take a right onto the street one block from my home the police pull me over.
OH OK SO THAT’S HOW TONIGHT IS GONNA END
Turns out my parents car that I am driving for the first time in months don’t have working headlights. Luckily I react so pathetically to being pulled over the policeman take pity on my cause and let me off with a warning.
What a nice little cherry on top of a horrifying 4 hours.
Thankfully Luna was able to return home the next day and according to Jennifer has been seeming better than ever, eating properly and begging for treats. She basically pulled the dog equivalent of “Got your ass.”
Though Belle has had some bathroom accidents in the house, she is overall remaining an incredible dog. That is until this morning when she decided to give Anika, Ana and I a heart attack and run full speed out the door and into oncoming traffic on Chicago Ave. Thankfully she can’t pass up a good dog hang and stopped to greet a yorkie whose owner held onto her until we could frantically run over and grab her.
It’s all uphill from here.
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For the last two, going on three, years I’ve been debating whether or not to get a dog.
Do I have time? Do I have money? Do I have energy?
I of course rarely have one, let alone all three, of those things. But, lately I’ve had a little bit of each, so I’m getting more serious about my search.
Been on the phone with a lot of middle aged women who are foster dog moms and getting scary glimpses into a possible future for myself, as well as talking about dog habits for an hour at a time. Just another exciting week in the world of No Blaise.
In addition to these lengthy phone calls, I’ve been perusing Petfinder and AdoptaPet which are basically search engines for shelter dogs. Of the some 600,000 available dogs in Illinois, about 1% of them have normal names.
By normal names I mean things like, “Jack” or “Spot” or “Sunny” or even “Toodles”.
The “Toodles” I came across was a white chihuahua wearing a fedora which lowered his rating on the normal scale.
Apparently shelter dogs don’t live under shitty enough circumstances, but the majority of them need obscure names.
“Silent Sunday” was possibly the weirdest I came across, followed closely by “Ms. Frankie Blue Eyes” ”Jack Black” and “Figo” Figo!? What is a Figo? Did someone just throw four letters together? There are then the very hilarious, and usually human, names given to these cuties. Some good ones I’ve found are “Elliot” and”Dan”. Then there’s “Sherri” and “Peggi”, because if you put an “i” instead of a “y” it’s automatically a dog name.
If you’re still not with my on the hilarity of obscure dog names, just imagine yelling one of them out loud.
“Jack Black shit in the house again!”
“Dan, stop licking your butt!”
and if you want your neighbors to think you’re in a cult:
“Silent Sunday, come here!”
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Some of my friends and I went to Michigan this weekend. It’s a trip we start planning in February and build up the excitement during the months in between. This years trip did not disappoint, and may have even surpassed previous years because I discovered a beer made with blueberries that is the most delicious thing on planet earth.
However, I’ve spent the days since we returned being very concerned with the speed at which time is moving.
When did the Fourth of July happen?
When did I turn 26?
When did my nanny baby Calvin go from being a lil pea in a pod to crawling and throwing things at me?
When did Robin Williams get so depressed that he killed himself?
This last one is still something I can’t figure out. Seriously though, if someone I grow up watching and idolizing as one of the funniest people ever can get so dark what the heck are the rest of us going to do? Plenty of people use comedy to deal with and mask the sadness that happens in their lives and around them so at what point does it stop becoming funny and start getting way too real?
I realize there are several factors that led to the demise of the legend that is Robin Williams so I should stop thinking all people who use comedy to deal with life’s tragedies end up getting too overwhelmed with a happy face and just end it, but you can tell I’ve been thinking about it, right?
And I’ve got a head cold so shit is really hitting the fan.
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Today marks the one week anniversary of my turning 26. Luckily for me, I have parents who care about my well being and so today does not mark the one week anniversary of the day I no longer had health insurance. They signed me up for Obamacare weeks ago as I just sat in front of my computer googling things like “how to make almond milk” and “low carb meatloaf” rather than worrying what would happen to my prescription of crazy pills and birth control if I no longer had coverage to help with the costs.
So far this week has been pretty on par with the last weird year of my life, got a lot of happy birthdays from online dating sites and food ordering services as well as an email from something called “Nautical Networking”. As someone who is pretty terrified of open water, I do not understand how I got on their listserv and am assuming I was put on it as a practical joke.
To this practical joker I say, “That was actually funny but also cruel, are you single?”
The day of my birthday I ate about five cupcakes, and a captain crunch donut. And basically shouted YOLO all over Wicker Park, as my mother pushed the boys I nanny in a stroller so shit got real wild.
Later my family and I went to dinner at a restaurant I was convinced was new and so I thought myself very socially knowledgeable, but upon arrival I quickly realized this place had been around for at least five years and so all I was was late. After dinner I met friends at a bar in Bridgeport called Marias where I got way too into something called a “mystery shot”.
If it only costs two dollars and you’re not allowed to know what’s in it, you should probably avoid it unless it is forced upon you. But in typical No Blaise fashion I bought multiples and tried to convince my more sober friends that it was the coolest.
I then finished the night with one beer at a bar near my house and woke up with my headphones on and The Shins playlist up on my Spotify.
Here’s hoping that my 26th year is easier than my Thursday July 31st was.
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Pitchfork was amazing.
Before you ask, I saw:
SZA, Beck, Pusha T, Tune-Yards, Danny Brown, St. Vincent, Neutral Milk Hotel, Schoolboy Q, Real Estate, Grimes, and Kendrick Lamar.
Although I thought Grimes may have been lip syncing and that she was much better when I saw her two years ago, everyone else was amazing.
Anika and I live close enough that we decided to walk home Friday night, which was lovely. Perfect weather, etc etc.. And Sunday Ryan had driven so she gave us a ride home which was perfect since I am still, on Wednesday, in extreme energy recovery mode from the weekend. But Saturday we decided to try Divvy for the first time as our method home.
My first Divvy will be my last Divvy.
Initially it takes about 15 tries for the machine to read Anika’s card, but once it does we bike our 8 block journey and then park with great success. After a brief stint at home where I get refreshed with a beer, we decide we’ll Divvy to Soul Summit at Double Door which is again only about an 8 block journey.
Though we are at a different Divvy station, the machine again is a real dick about reading Anika’s card. It turns out that this station has also decided to be an a-hole about accepting the little code thing Divvy spit out at me to allow me to take a bike. I try pressing the six numbers into several different bike ports, and although none of the lights turn green signaling my ability to take the bike, I somehow manage to pull one from it’s parking spot.
Maybe my workouts are paying off..
We finally are able to make our way 8 blocks north and find a station that has two spots open.
Anika jams her bike in, no problem. I roll into the last spot just as confidently and am met with a big fuuuck youuuu. The bike didn’t click in so I’m standing there with these unethically heavy bike and no where to put it.
Another guy rides up looking for a spot and I ask him to test whether or not his bike will cooperate, it doesn’t either. This guy turns out to be much more immune to Divvy’s bullshit and is all “Gonna go find another station, ta ta!” happy as a clam.
What a freak.
I set off much less happily to the next station which isn’t that far away but it’s far enough away that I can gripe for about 5 minutes about how annoyed I am. Unfortunately Anika stayed behind to wait for me by Double Door so I am talking to myself.
Same ol’ Same ol’.
As I approach the salvation station I hear someone yell out my name…
“Oh! Hello boy I went on a date with last week!”
At the end of the night we decide to cut our loses and walk home. But nothing without stopping at 7-eleven and McDonalds so I can drown my Divvy frustrations in gardettos and quarter pounders.
When we’re finally home I give my bike a hug and am all like, “I love you, I’m sorry I strayed, please forgive me, I just didn’t want to carry a lock in my teeny tiny purse, it’ll never happen again…”
And my bike is all, “Nora go drink some water and go to bed.”
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Summer in Chicago means there are 49058340958 festivals of one kind or another happening on any given day at any given time. I realize for most people this is one of the biggest reasons they love summer time so much but for me it’s a lot of, “Too many people, too much standing, bye.”
Lollapalooza used to be an exception to this, but now it’s pretty much the picture that pops into my head when someone mentions hell.
Street festivals are usually pretty cool. This rating goes up or down based on:
if it’s close to my house (+5 points)
if it’s crowded (-15 points)
if there will be good music (+25)
if my ex will be there (+/- 10 depending on how tan I am & what I’m wearing)
if it’s the taste of Chicago (not fucking happening)
I went to West Fest last weekend which wasn’t too crowded and was extremely close to my house, you can imagine how pleased I was with both of these factors. Got to walk around, be part of the West Town scene, and buy a very cool bracelet made by a local artist. Just browsin’ my way right into the hipster demographic.
As most of you probably know, Pitchfork is this weekend. I didn’t buy tickets out of pure laziness and so was getting into the mindset of “oh no, I’m not going, I’ve got some other stuff going on.”
This other stuff being sitting on my porch and attempting to make almond milk in my kitchen while hoping no one comes over to notice that I’m still wearing my pajamas from Friday or that I’m wearing lipstick I’ve been trying on while sitting on the couch watching the food network.
But as it turns out Anika won two three day passes to Pitchfork and she is taking me.
Me me ME!
Though it will disrupt my highly productive and utterly sexy plans, I’m working myself into full blown excitement.
+ 25 for good music
+5 for it’s proximity to my house
+100 for it being free
The other side of this excitement coin is the extreme outfit anxiety. Skirt? Dress? Shorts? Tank top?
Well, one things for sure, I will not be wearing a crop top.
P4K 2014 here I come!
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I ended my cleanse with a bang.
For all of you that care about my well being, you’ll be happy to know I don’t mean that literally, although I did consider offing myself on Day 6 and then on Day 7 was sure I was going to.
But here I am!
Looking altogether not any different, but feeling much less like my insides are at war with my outsides.
The week long health marathon ended last Thursday and was promptly followed by fourth of July weekend at a friends lake house. Or “Lafen” for those in the know. By “those in the know” I mean my friends, and they are more than likely the only people who read this so the last few sentences were probably irrelevant.
What else is new.
The three days of Lafen are spent drinking, eating a lot whenever you want, and walking to Libertyfest which is pretty much the mecca of both of those the previous items on this list, but I guess with more dancing.
Reuniting with day drinking and bratwurst after a week long hiatus was interesting. It was so interesting I decided to jump in the deep end and finish my first day on the lake by ordering a large pizza with 5 toppings for myself and Ryan, which was then consumed in bed. Woke up with alotta bacon and mushrooms on my pillow.
Get in line, fellas.
The next day was equally as glorious as we got to have our traditional fried chicken feast for dinner, this was all I dreamed of for my entire cleanse. And for the 51 weeks before that.
***Shout out to Steve and Sandra Norton, for both the chicken and putting up with a large group of twenty somethings roaming all up in their space.***
Saturday night ended with me eating cold chicken directly from the fridge and then falling asleep on the couch while everyone else was social. This again cannot be blamed on my re-adaptation into normal diet and drinking because it is something I do at pretty much every house party we throw.
So so many reasons why I’m single.
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