I, Muehlenhaus. U, Riedermaus.

Just received a call from Dr. Anderson of Boynton Health Services (that's BHS to people in the know, and now you are in the know). No more regular beer for me, unfortunately. My blood test came up positive for Sprue -- a disease that is the result of an allergic reaction to gluton and/or wheat or some damn thing that gives me the shits every time I eat pizza, pastries, sandwiches, or pretty much anything other than beef jerky, which is disgusting and I never eat. (I guess tacos and burrito bowls are safe too. Come to think of it, most Mexican cuisine is safe, as long as you don't catch some tropical disease like Birgit did.)

Kurva isten faszat (a classic Hungarian vulgarity insulting God, his penis, and prostitutes all in one)! I love pizza. Oh well... there are worse things. I could lose my arm, for example. Then I would have to write this with only one hand, and I probably wouldn't even bother to write, because I am inherently lazy. But part of my laziness probably stems from the fact that I'm always feeling bloated, because I live off of bread products. Of course, the fact that I live off of such products is likely why I became allergic -- it probably wasn't healthy to eat a loaf of bread with nothing else everyday for lunch my entire freshman year. But hell, at 99-cents a loaf, you couldn't find anything more economical than that!

So that is the big news of today. I'm now busy looking up "associations" to figure out what the heck I can do about this ridiculous disease. Kurva isten faszat!!! Komolyon, egy kicsi merges lettem!

What other news... the Minnesota Twins keep on winning. Luckily I don't have the cable channel with the Twins, so I can't watch, but their win streak is the most unbelievable thing since the Tigers win streak, which is unfortunate, because the Tigers are ahead of the Twins by 11 games. But I digress. I speak of baseball when a World Cup is going on. That is near sacrilegious, I suppose. The problem is, for the first time in three weeks, soccer/football/foci isn't on television. Yesterday morning I was all excited. I finally had some time to just watch without interruption again. I had map tests to grade, etc. I go downstairs and all they have on is some bad telenovella on Univision and four dumb, overweight, past-their-prime jocks on ESPN discussing which team will have the best receiving corps in the NFL next year. (The NFL doesn't start until mid-September for Allah's sake!) So I turned the television off in disgust, went upstairs to my office, and graded the map tests on my floor listening to Interpol -- a CD Colin Flint turned me onto last year at Thanksgiving and that I have largely ignored since Christmas. Brilliant stuff! I then was so irate that I decided to work on my dissertation. I read John Pickles "A History of Spaces," taking a lot of notes, and began formulating an outline and problem statement in my head. I chatted with my neighbor over the fence several times, played with Mette, and then went with Mette and Birgit to her first dog training class. It was a hoot. About 20 dogs running every which direction, all seeking everyone else's attention except their owner's. Mette did really well, as she can already sit, lay down, stand, and shake hands on command. We're going to teach her to roll over this week, hopefully, and teach her to stop pulling on the leash so much. I went out with her this morning and was fairly successful. Class was fun, and afterward Birgit was exhausted -- she actually had to be in the ring with the dog, I just got to look on like a pseudo-PTA parent at a concert recital. There was another middle aged man on the sideline too. His wife was in the ring. We chatted about dogs. God, whoever thought I would want to sit and chat about dogs. I always imagined myself starting discussions about life, politics, philosophy, and religion, but here I was, perfectly content to talk about canines and raising canines. Life is nuts.

My Mum comes today. She drove down from Duluth this morning to see Body Worlds at the Science Museum. It is some art exhibit made out of real dead human bodies. I guess there is one where someone is holding his own skin or something equally disgusting. I get to go on Saturday. Not because I'm that interested in dead bodies, but because Birgit and her sister arranged this double date while I was in Brazil and I agreed from there. Should be interesting, though, I have to admit I am the type that almost passes out when giving a simple blood sample for Sprue.

Yesterday Birgit sneaked away from Macalester for lunch. She came home and we went to Schuler Shoes and bought her some cool shoes that were on sale. (Her birthday gift.) Then we did the unthinkable for educated, health conscious Bobos, we went across the street and wolfed down a Whopper and Double Cheeseburger. Brilliant! Shhhh... It was fun. Felt like a discreet lunch date of sorts that ended with greasy fingers and indigestion. Brilliant!

The World Cup has let me down. No small teams are left. Spain blew it to France, which was nice to see, simply because I will always have an affinity for France. I guess I am forced to cheer for the Ukraine now, simply because Adam was there and enjoyed himself, Ukraine is the last Eastern European state in the World Cup, there are no third world countries with under 50 million people left, and the refs seem inherently biased against teams, other than Brazil, that aren't from Europe. The refs have just been outrageous this World Cup. In fact, most games have become unbearable to watch. I'm constantly just waiting for a ref to interrupt play and make an unnecessary, or worse, incorrect call. Instead I just go downstairs and check up. Ghana was the most screwed of all, I would say. Poor Ghana... I was really pulling for them. Australia might have some complaints too, though, after that pathetic Italian dove in the 90th minute for the winning penalty kick. And what was with sucking his thumb pompously at the crowd afterward? I really hope all of Italy's teams get kicked out of Division I soccer once this corruption trial ends next week. That would be a nice comeuppance. But my anger is showing through. Blame it on the sprue. Or something. That's all for today, Riedermaus. Nothing too inspirational, but contrary to what artists on drugs often opine, modern life rarely is.