So Minneapolis.
I declared on Thursday evening that we would be leaving at 6 am. Which was admittedly a bit insane. There should be a rule that if you take a vacation day, you cannot wake up earlier than you normally would on a work day. Thus, when the alarm went off at 5:20 am, the validity of my early start argument suddenly seemed very small and the bed very warm. However, we persevered and were in the car and out the door at 7:00 am. Because if you’re going to be insane, your spouse should at least be in agreement.
We stopped at the Snooty Deli, which added another half an hour to the trip because the workers at the Snooty Deli work at glacial speed. What is more, my guy completely forgot to make Esteban’s egg bagels with green olive spread, so I had to go back into the store, wait in line again, and have them amend the situation. Gah. Fucking hippy mafia. But my mocha was, dare I even say it, better than Sbux and soon we were pointed into the shrinking night with the sun rising behind us, warming our back ends. Or maybe that was the heated seats of the 300M. Hard to tell.
We forgot to make the turn in Wausau, which happens literally every time we embark on a trip to the west half of the state. You’d think we would learn. We managed to wind our way back to the correct highway and then continued west, making each other laugh and generally having an enjoyable ride. Esteban was in prime form. I should have written some of it down, but it is all lost to the ether. But it was funny. Trust me.
Three weeks ago, I had called and asked if I would be able to speak with either the program coordinator or some faculty about the program. The admin named Adam, who I suspect is a graduate student himself, assured me that it would be no problem’ just let them know when I was coming. I firmed up the details at work and with Esteban about making the trip on Friday and then called them back on Monday to make an appointment. He had to check with his boss and would call me back. I didn’t hear from him, so I called him again on Tuesday. He then informed me that his boss would be busy because they were having a poetry reading or something on Friday, but he was going to try to find me someone else. He left me a voice mail asking me to send him an email so that he could put me in touch with someone else, which I did on Wednesday. And then nothing. I called him again on Thursday and listened to his voicemail which stated he wasn’t in the office on Thursday, but would be in on Friday morning. I left him a message asking him to call my cell phone and let me know who I was supposed to contact, as I was going to be on the road on Friday. And then nothing.
After we hit the Minnesota border and went over that big river that I always think is the Mississippi, but I suspect is not, I mentioned to Esteban that I wanted to stop at the Woodbury outlet mall, where there exists a Spiegel outlet. Esteban reminded me that I still had not received confirmation from my contact at the University of Minnesota Twin Cities that I would be able to talk with someone about the creative writing graduate program there. And commented that if we came all of this way and the thing at the University got screwed up, he was going to be pissed. So given the fact that Adam the shit swiller had not yet called me back, it was with great trepidation that I sighed and called him again. I had a horrible feeling about the entire thing. When I got his same voice mail message from Thursday, despite the fact that he said he would be there on Friday, I grew despondent. Graduate students are notorious for being flakes, mostly because they are in their mid-twenties and have never had a real job, jumping from high school to college to grad school. In fact, for some people, graduate school seems to be an excellent way of avoiding responsibility, therefore I have a hard time trusting career students. And this Adam had already pissed me off and now he was in control of my potential future in that program.
I left him a terse voice mail, reminding him that I had essentially planned my trip around his assurance that someone would be here to talk to me and now I hadn’t heard anything from him. I asked him to call me again. Then I called the program director, who, in a surprising turn of events, answered her phone. I explained my situation and she reiterated that she herself would not be able to talk with me because she had to go to the auditorium and coordinate the poetry reading. I offered that I understood that she personally would not be able to meet with me and that I really just wanted to get a feel for the program. She said that as far as she was aware, Adam was going to send an email out to all of the graduate students, looking for a volunteer to send an email to me and tell me about the program. And then she made it clear that no one would be available to talk with me that day. I thanked her for the information, wished her luck with the poetry reading, ended the call, whipped Esteban’s cell phone at the floor, and then proceeded to be incredibly despondent and cry for five minutes. Which freaked Esteban right the heck out because he is very accustomed to me being on a very steady emotional keel. It takes a great deal to make me upset and to go from nothing to crying in on breath was very unusual indeed. But he made me feel better and reminded me that the entire trip was NOT for nothing and that we were going to have fun with Kitchenlogic and Akkelly that evening and also go shopping the next day, so it was good, it was all good.
And it was. We checked into our hotel and then I noticed that my lovely new car was completely destroyed by the rainy drive across the state, therefore I sent Esteban out to find a car wash, figuring that we were very near a mall, therefore carwashes would be everywhere. An hour later, I called him and he had finally found a car wash, after driving up and down the road many miles in both directions. At that time, I tried on the outfit I had planned to wear (jeans, brown boots, striped button down) and decided that I didn’t like the way it looked, as apparently the five pounds I’ve gained in the last four months have all settled in my breasts. Luckily, I did have a secondary option of a pinstriped red French cuffed button down, so I freestyled. The tragedy of course was that my blood red nails (Romeo & Joliet) did not match the cherry red of the shirt. And I hadn’t thought to bring red lingerie. Not to mention, the shirt I brought for Esteban was a dusty sage color, which complemented the sage details in my original shirt, but now, it was kind of a strange Christmas thing going on. So close, and yet, so far.
Before leaving the hotel room, Esteban remarked that he planned to fart in the elevator. I warned him that I did not want to die in a Hampton Inn off the freeway, but when the doors began to close, Esteban let off a round of ass fireworks. My hand shot out and stopped the doors and I exited the elevator. ‘Where are you going?’ ‘I’m taking the stairs.’ I replied. ‘Oh yeah’ as if!’ He snarked as the doors began to close. ‘You know, if they’re down there, they’re going to recognize you. They know what you look like.’ Suddenly, the doors were stopped by Esteban’s hand and he jumped back out of the elevator. The doors closed and then we heard someone call the elevator from a lower floor. Esteban remarked, ‘We just sent a stinky elevator down to some unsuspecting hotel guest!’ as I tried not to pee my pants from laughter.
K.Lo arrived first and we hugged, but I didn’t learn until later that hugging was to K.Lo the way feet are to me. Don’t let K.Lo’s stories about momhood and minivans mislead you’ she’s all cute and sassy and hip. And her jewelry? Is the best stuff ever. I coveted everything she was wearing. We chatted until AKKelly arrived in grand style, looking way more fashionable than any pregnant lady has a right to be in slimline trousers, a leopard print blouse and a black leather jacket that was like buttah. We hoped into the Logic Van, where K.Lo deftly guided us to a Vietnamese restaurant, where we were disappointed that the serial killer guy wasn’t on his porch watching us, but were thrilled that we arrived just in time to secure the world’s smallest booth. Given the line of people that formed immediately after our arrival, we were glad to have it.
We ordered a huge selection of food, including spring rolls, egg rolls, a very large dumpling with quail eggs inside, ginger chicken, something with caramelized chicken, and two orders of soup in mixing bowls, complete with accoutrements that included a house plant. I was a bit freaked by the quail eggs, but according to reports, it was quite tasty. Although, as AKKelly mentioned, it would require 40 or more of them to make a decent omelet.
Also, K.Lo and I braved the latest trend in iced beverages, the bubble teas. Which, by the way, was disgusting. At best, it could be described as very liquidy tapioca pudding. At worst’ well, let’s just say that I don’t have it in my powers as a writer to describe the little black balls of horror sitting in the bottom of my glass. Quite honestly, the whole thing tasted like an accident. Like someone accidentally spilled pasta into my drink. Maybe it’s just me but it feels weird to suck from a straw the circumference of a cigar’ and then chew. So yeah, friends don’t let friends order bubble tea. It’s just not right.
We then traveled further downtown, driving by the club where Purple Rain was filmed (yes, we all had an acid-washed jean flashback for a moment) and also spotting the world’s ugliest cross-dresser glancing nervously over his shoulder to make sure no one recognized him. We ended up at Nye’s, which is apparently quite the hot spot piano bar slash polka bar. We sat in another booth and ordered drinks. I got my standard Malibu and Diet coke, which was delivered in a teeny tiny glass. I ended up schooling the waitress later, asking her to bring me a double in a pint glass. In Wisconsin, drinking is a sport. In Minnesota, they don’t even sell liquor on Sundays, which boggles the mind. What do you when you’re tailgating on Sunday mornings and you run out of vodka and schnaaps and it’s only 10: 30 am? I shareed with AKKelly (whose very flattering recap is here) the worst picture ever taken of me, pre-Operation Hottie, from my work badge. Also, Esteban regaled the girls with tales of Dutch Ovens (which K.Lo alluded to in her hilarious entry) and computer stuff and other things because he was indulging in a glass of scotch on the rocks. Actually, two glasses. His first hard alcohol since the diagnosis of anemia. Given how a simple beer affects him, I’m surprised he indulged but was quickly completely schnocked within a half an hour. Although our lovely hostesses apparently couldn’t tell the difference. Quite honestly, all doubt should have been erased when he told a joke that make all of us scrunch up our faces and say ‘Huh????’ because it made no sense whatsoever. I suspect that it was funny in his head, so that was all that mattered.
We all started getting yawny, so Kathy gave us a lovely tour of the lake district, including a verisimilitude of house of Imelda Marcos, and then navigated back to the hotel. Esteban took some vague pictures in the parking lot (which I will post later today) and then we called it a night because our tummy’s hurt from so much laughing. Or possibly quail eggs.
We slept late on Saturday compared to Friday, and checked out of the hotel early to hit the Mall of America. The weather was sunny and already starting to warm up, a distinct difference to the rainy 42 degree highs we saw in Green Bay all week.
We entered the mall through Nordstrom, which was having a one-day shoe event for sizes under 5 or over 10. Shoes that can fit my own canoe-like size 11-12 feet. It was like the mothership was calling me home. I abandoned Esteban in the men’s department and began to wander through the stacks upon stacks of enormous expensive shoes, but I wasn’t finding anything that screamed out to me. However, all around me, it was like a convention of women with odd feet. I’d look down and see perfectly normal women with these enormous platypus feet. The thudding of these hooves hitting the floor, you have no idea. I did see a particularly beguiling pair of Clarks but nothing that screamed to me, so I gave up and we endeavored out into the main part of the Mall. We started with a very calculated method. We’d do the first floor all the way around, then the second, then the third, until we did the entire mall, but two hours later, we made it to the halfway point of floor one and realized that we just finished one sixth of our goal.
I find it somewhat strange that ancient peoples built enormous awe-inspiring structures but they were churches or monuments like giant walls to keep out the Mongols or something. Ours is a giant Mall. A mecca of capitalism so large it requires two Old Navys. As though one were not enough. I’m not sure what that says about our society, but I think I’m a little frightened.
That having been said, we did a powerful lot of shopping. I bought two retro Italian ad prints for the kitchen, a shirt and a sweater, some Godiva chocolates (Must keep up energy!) a bunch of goodies at Harry & Davids (it was getting close to lunch time and I was hungry, so it looked really good), and what is very possibly the strangest part of the shopping trip, $50 worth of stuff from the Hello Kitty store. I suspect someone at Sanrio has just named their unwanted girl baby after me. Even Esteban succumbed to the siren call of capitalism by purchasing a titanium watch and a book at the Dorks & Denied store, proving once and for all that ‘if you build it, they will shop’. Midway through the second level, he declared that we had another half hour in the mall or it was going to be midnight before we got home. I acquiesced because I was starting to get a hand cramp and a pinched nerve in my elbow from carrying so much booty. We were exhausted and totally shopped out. Also, my credit card was whimpering and curling into a fetal position in my purse.
We drove home nibbling on Moose Munch (damn’ if you haven’t tried the chocolate covered variety, just don’t because it’s completely addictive) and looking forward to sitting on our asses for the next several hours. Which was lovely. I did snap some pictures of our drive home, including some in the car, which I will insert here when I have them downloaded from the camera.
So, it was a lovely trip. We got home around 10:00 pm and then occupied ourselves with placating Tilly, who was reproachful and franticly clingy for having been left alone for 38 hours. We both sacked out early and slept later than normal on Sunday morning. Esteban volunteered to fetch a paper and a Diet Coke for me, further cementing himself in the World’s Best Husband category and then we babysat the sofa while we watched the Packer game until it was time for him to go to the Dorkathalon. Wherein he removed himself from the World’s Best Husband category by openly stealing my new Notre Dame sweatshirt, declaring that it looks better on him than on me. It then occurred to me that it was Jonathon’s birthday on Sunday, so I drove to Appleton in hopes of procuring a present for him. Which I didn’t, unless he wants two pairs of Hottie jeans that fit me perfectly, to replace the previous cache of Hottie Jeans, which are two sizes bigger. And I found another Notre Dame sweatshirt. Heeee!
I then went to my brother’s birthday party empty handed, but just didn’t care. I should have cared. It was horrible of me to not care. I gave him the option of getting his gift later in the week or I would just give him money right then, and he decided to wait for the gift and is ok with that. My drunken mama was not drunk, although she was sipping a can of beer. Her drinking buddy was there, however, and kept telling me how beautiful I was and how she doesn’t see me very often but she feels like she does because she hears about us from Mom. And then she said ‘Mo is older than you, right?’ which shouldn’t make me laugh after hearing it so often, but it still makes me happy. Tipsy people do not lie.
Unless they are trying to have sex with you. Then I would take what they say with a grain of salt. Something to remember, for those of you going to JournalCon in ten days. I’m just saying.
Then it came out the my Mafia Grandma didn’t come to Jonathon’s birthday because she’s mad at someone for something, only Aunt Drusilla won’t tell who she’s mad at or the reason. And then Mom started to claim that Mafia Grandma wouldn’t have missed Skinny or Malnourished’s birthdays, and my Aunt Drusilla had a raffle with all of the kids, where in she called their names and then gave them random surprises. Like an insurance calendar. Abigail got a nightlight from a drug company. I saw an eleven-year-old boy running around wearing a blue underwire bra, so I decided that it was time to leave. I went home and read the Sunday paper, tried to catch up on the laundry, and watched some questionable television shows I’ve been recording on The Unit in the living room (I am strangely compelled by the garbage television that is Starting Over. It’s like a train wreck and fifty percent of the show is spent telling you what happened on the last show or what is about to happen and also establishing shots of Chicago, but at the same time, I simply cannot look away.) and continued to reassure the cat that we won’t leave her to her own devices anytime soon.
Good weekend. Pictures soon. You know the drill.
