Lost Angeles

Minde.

I had to title this post with an “M” word to extend the alliteration, but really this post is about all of my friends in Minnesota.

I miss them a lot.

I’ve recently been lamenting that, as hard as it is to make friends in LA, it’s damn near impossible to make real girlfriends. In fact, the only sort-of girlfriend I have here is one that I made in Minnesota and we both found ourselves here simultaneously. I had Rachel at work but she’s since moved to New York (and made me a very sad panda).

So it was very bittersweet to re-engage with my friends in MN, see how they are all moving on with their lives that I’m not around to see on the daily. Minde’s fallen in love, Jenni’s kids are both starting school, Jenny’s killing cancer, Chenney got a dog. Etc. People that I met up with wanted to hear all about me (um, I have a BLOG people!) but I just wanted to listen to them. Leaving you all is definitely the worst part of closing that book.

And I’m going to say one only and final thing about me and Travis. Several years ago we embarked on something that was magical. Two years ago we decided to stable the unicorns. We agreed that we were going to end things the way we started them: with love. And I think we did a pretty fucking outstanding job at that.

Mmmkay, wipe up your tears. It’s time for something more cheerful!

Next: Macarons

Matt’s wedding.

So lovely! Cute little park in St. Paul, very small, and filled with little touches that made the event ever so “them.” Like, for example, Matt whipping out his iPhone to read his vows from it. And the fact that they generously and selflessly made sure that Scott got a piece of vegan cake so as not to be left out. And that they brought Jenga for people to play at the reception. Because, you know, when is it NOT appropriate to play Jenga?

(However, I do need to take this opportunity to point out that it’s been YEARS, Matt, and I have not received my gallon can of cold fudge. Totally surrounded by DQ-owning Pruetts, and nobody ponied it up to me. Do you know how disappointed I am in you, Pruett clan? I’m looking especially at you, Vickie. It’s really hard to believe that you had other things on their mind on this night, like how gorgeous Beth looked or how sweet Marcus was, dancing with his nephew. No, I’m quite sure that the guilt that you all felt from depriving me of my smorgasbordal experience with cold fudge was eating you alive that night. Eating. You. Alive.)

At a later point in my visit I had a high-five moment with Minde when I noticed to her that she and I are literally the oldest people I know never to be married. But it warms this spinster’s grinchy shriveled heart to see one of the most deserving people I know take the woman he loves down the aisle. Best wishes to you guys!! 

(And, lucky me, Beth is the only Pruett I know that has the follow-through to get me my can of cold fudge. I just know it.)

Next: Minde.

Moongazing.

Who’s the pussy in that video, I ask you? Poor Ferdinand. I think his residual fear of Taco has severely overshadowed his once-affection for kitties. Mario couldn’t have given two shits about the monkeydog in the house. Ferdinand gave him a wide berth.

In fact, he gave us all a wide berth at times. My time came at a particularity inopportune moment: 2:40am on Friday night. I’ve mentioned before that my little feller likes to moongaze. He’s always let himself out in the middle of the night to have a moment under the stars. A bit of a romantic, I’d say. Anyway, his moment struck and I sleepily got up to let him out Minde’s back door, while I waited for him by the steps. He rustled a bit in the garden, and then all of a sudden I couldn’t hear him anymore! Being nearly three in the morning, I didn’t want to start yelling “Ferdinand!!” in Minde’s quiet sleeping neighborhood. But Minde’s yard is also unfenced, and moongazing and wandering go hand in hand.

So I stumbled through her garden - barefoot, in my underwear, blind - shout-hissing “Monkey! Come here!” until I was standing in some rocks in her neighbors yard. No Ferdinand. Not that I could see anyway, in the dark, with no contacts or glasses on. I stood silently for a minute, hoping to hear some faint grunting. Nope. I thought about going in the house and waking up Scott to help me look, but I had no idea how far he’d wander while I was inside. I turned around and ran around the house to the front, (yes, still in my underwear) to see if he’d gone up there. I was beginning to have flashbacks of the time when Ferdinand’s wandering bought him an inadvertent overnight at a neighbors’, while we filed a stolen dog report with the police. Suddenly, a motion detection light went on next door. I rounded the corner and there he was, sniffing the air, sitting on their patio, bathed in the yellow glow of a halogen emergency bulb.

And that is the story of how I came to run around Minde’s neighborhood in my panties. Oh, I’m so proud. And he’s so contrite:

How can I stay angry at a butterball like that? And, really, who am I kidding? I’ve run around neighborhoods in my panties for way worse reasons.

Next: Marriage.

Minnesota.

Arrival in Minnesota: just early enough to locate Minde’s house before it got dark, but too late for my memory bank to reliably let me navigate the streets without a map. I got a bit confused in the 62/494/35W exchange and felt a little bit, well, homesick for a place that I knew like the back of my hand, that was comfortable and welcoming and familiar. Realizing that Minnesota, in general, wasn’t going to be it, I made a beeline for a place that I knew would embrace me in a warm hug as soon as I smelled it.

Give it up to Punch for making me feel like I’d come home.

The rest of the visit was seen through deja vu glasses. Everything: the same. Everything: different. Literally everyone I saw at Lunds one afternoon looked familiar, but I couldn’t place a name. Took a side trip to Ragstock, only to discover that Ragstock is now three stores in a row, but they all inexplicably carry the same Pippi Longstockings, acrylic man sweaters, and rotting kimonos. Tried to find a coffee in Calhoun Square, but got waylaid by the absence of Starbucks and the relo of Kitchen Window to a new spacier space. This was Saturday afternoon, by the way, where the Uptown hustle and bustle was in full effect. The effect to me, though, was one of a ghost town. After the throngs of LA, Minneapolis felt green and airy and spacious and unpopulated.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Friday’s arrival was a bit of a question mark. Minde had graciously opened her house for us though she was still vacating on the East coast. Mario the cat was the only one home, and we weren’t sure how he was going to take the arrival of a monkeydog into his abode. She had asked me to please come in to the house alone, feed Mario and give him a bit of a cuddle, and then slowly introduce everyone to each other. Mario had recently developed asthma, and we didn’t want to stress him out. We even developed a “safe zone” plan for Mario in case he felt like he needed to run and hide, and I promised that I would make sure that Ferdinand didn’t chase Mario or bother him or provoke anything. Ferdinand would at all times be supervised, behind a gate, or on a lap.

I offer this as way of explanation for the following video:

Iowa.

Ah, the Upper Midwest. Nowhere else has the knack of making me feel like a goony freak, like a total light martian, like a misfit just awaiting the next passive-aggressive application of xenophobic bias. Ah, home.

A cafe gas station in Iowa stole 60 bucks from me. Naturally, I entered the establishment to straighten out the situation, and I think I actually heard a needle scratch off the record when I walked in.

Literally everyone in the place turned and stared at me. There were snickers. And leering. And brow arching and hands on hips and dropped forks and the kind of GET OUT mentality that seems to come baked in on every chip in this part of our geography.

Okay, so I was wearing a silk dress and a fedora and big moviestar sunglasses and Chucks. So? Imma wear what I want to in your 95-degree sweatbox of a state. Silk is a natural fiber. Heard of it? It breathes! Sunburned scalp is something a body makes sure she lives through only once. Huge sunglasses are the only way to protect your eyes from UV rays coming at you from the profile. And Chucks are sensible shoes and a good way to make it through walks in sharp straw unscathed!

I actually think Iowa is kind of cool. They are politically progressive, have embraced wind energy like no other state, have beautifully paved interstates and know how to make a decent ear of corn. This is all big-picture coolness, though. If a girl and her gay dog can’t get a tankful of diesel without being made to feel uncomfortable (“Oh. California plates.” and a nice big helping of eye rolling…) then I guess you can have my $60. A small price to pay for leaving you in my dust.

Next: Mario, moongazing, marriage, Minnesota.

Nebraska.

I guess Colorado didn’t get its own post. Hm. Okay, quickly:

Colorado: Of course there was a double rainbow for the entire lighted drive of Colorado. The scenery is unparalleled. It’s just one gorgeous stream next to a grandiose mountain by a waving field populated by, like, gamboling fucking sheep. Give it a rest, Colorado. You’re making the other 49 look bad.

Okay, anyway. I’m pretty sure the shitass Wal-Mart truck was on its way to Lincoln, Nebraska. Yikes. So Lincoln is just about the most terrible place I’ve been to with no redeeming qualities, and it makes Minde’s internal fortitude for living there for 8 months so strong I would believe it if she pooped out diamonds. Also, holy humidity. And the crickets there know no god; they are the size of plums.

By this time it had become apparent to me that Ferdinand is truly the greatest, most patient, sweetest and best monkeydog that has ever lived. That little dude sat nicely in his car seat, safely buckled in, for hours and hours without complaint. He peed when we told him to, ate what he was given, and kept his snoring soft so we could hear the audiobook. Every truck driver at every diesel stop was enamored of him. In fact, we had to make a sudden pit stop because he had yakked up some water onto his car seat (I think he felt the presence of the Wal-Mart driver). We pulled over into a gas station and there was a Mini rally going on. A lady came over to where Scott and Ferdinand were walking and actually requested that Ferdinand be brought over to the Mini lineup for a photo op! (Normally, I charge for these services, but since I was wiping up yak, I allowed it. ) I only have blurry pictures of him from the car, but check out how cute he is:

He’s wearing a coolie coat. It’s all the rage with the smashedface crowd. I think the fact that my dog owns clothing from REI means that he’s officially more sportiv than I am. I’m fine with that.

Next: Iowa and Minnesota!

Utah.

Utah is damn pretty. And full of Mormons. And, they have a town called Panguitch. 

Please take a moment to say that aloud: Panguitch. I know, right?

So by the time Utah rolled around, I was starting to relax a little bit about The Beast and its Damocles’ sword called “limp home mode.” I was able to enjoy the scenery, watch the green start to creep back in to the world, appreciate the warmth of summer, and keep a keen eye out for wild Mormons. 

The goal this day was to make it to Denver. There had been a discussion with the Redmen in regards to meeting up in Colorado and caravanning back to Minneapolis together. This plan ultimately fell through — the allure of car-to-car walkie talkies isn’t what it used to be in this age of cellular telephone technology — but my driving map hadn’t changed. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me that driving through literally the highest mountain range in the US in The Beast, which threatened to start limping or overheating without any provocation, might be a good idea. Nevertheless, we pushed on!

Right in about Grand Junction we started chasing a storm. Uh-oh. However, a magnificent double rainbow presented itself. (Do I even need to post the meme? Didn’t think so. Just trust that there was much “What does it MEAN???” happening.) We stopped for diesel and dinner, and I snapped a picture:

Now, this is probably the most unflattering picture of Scott ever to be committed to pixels, and I’m sorry to him for posting it. But I have to please draw your attention to the sign in the background. In case you can’t see it, it says “Outlaw Ribbs.” That’s two b’s, and no irony. Kathleen, everything you ever said about Grand Junction is true.

So we made it to the mountains, just in time for it to start raining when it became my shift to drive. Picture: steep mountain passes, stiff Beastly suspension, rain, and the biggest menace of all:

The Wal-Mart truck.

The Walton’s have crap taste in delivery drivers, I’ll tell you that much. This mf’er was speeding, careening through construction zones, forcing me to cut over some rumble strips multiple times, pushing me right up against a pre-harvested granite countertop, and tailgating like his life depended on it. I’m double (rainbow) not shopping at Wal-Mart now. Do people really need polyester and plastic that quickly, you a-hole?

Next: Nebraska. Lord help us, Nebraska.

Nevada.

I pretty much don’t remember Nevada. Scott drove. I slept.

I will take this time, though, to tell you of the audiobooks that I bought. (Thanks for your suggestions! I’d already read pretty much all of them, and congratulate you all on your good taste.)

1) Sh*t My Dad Says. I guess this is going to be a tv show? Based on this book? Which is based on a twitter feed? How does that even work? Wait, don’t answer. I know this one: William Shatner. The Shatner makes everything okay.

2) Youth in Revolt. No, I hadn’t seen the movie. No, I will not see the movie.

3) The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. (Give it a few more chapters, Sam.)

Next: Utah.

Start: California.

Scott had picked up The Beast from the dealership the day before, fresh off being rid of some terrible turbo issue that had cause it to go into “limp home mode” (that’s actually an official Sprinter mode. Cute, Germans. Real cute.) on our last long drive. “Limp home mode” means that you can’t drive more than 58mph, with the pedal floored, at any point. Even if that point is going uphill in the Grapevine with a few semis trotting past you. Even if that point is during said uphill climb, with a mad pickup truck passing you on the right as you try to hug the shoulder as much as possible, hazards blinking. Even if that point is during said uphill climb, with mad pickup event, and adrenaline pumping and tempers flaring as you calculate the number of additional hours that “limp home mode” is going to add to the drive, putting you back in LA at 1am, and you have to work the next day. But I digress. So fixing that issue was Preparation Priority No 1. (Hereby known by the acronym PPN1.) Also, a new radiator was called for. Which, incidentally, you all understand, is of course really fucking cheap.

PPN2 was carefully packing The Beast to allow for the westward transport of all my remaining items from the Minneapolis house. The amount of remaining items was nebulously described as “around 10-15 tubs and the chaise.” Plus, I remembered the bookshelves that Dad and I had made, which I thought still lived in the basement. So the back end of The Beast needed to be pretty much empty, as I calculated that packing extremely light for the trip was going to be less painful than having to leave my report on loons and the china angels that Grandma gave me in the alley.

However, packing light isn’t really an option when you’re toting a spoiled and exacting dog who needs two kinds of food as well as cooling equipment in order to survive anything higher than room temperature, and a vegan who must be fed every two hours and literally carries his own hot sauce with him wherever he goes, who has also decided that a 4x5 camera and a professional tripod would be a neat thing to have with him, across the county. Luckily, neither the dog nor the vegan change their clothes, which allowed me two full cubic feet of space to cram in my personal stuff. (I jest. I had about 2.24 cubic feet.)

So the night before takeoff consisted of me just throwing everything I own into a box and a bag and hoping that I had what I needed to survive 1) an outdoor wedding with a 40% chance of thunderstorms 2) seeing my old coworkers whom I wanted to devastate with the illusion of how happy and healthy and tan and well-rested and highly paid I now am (ha) and 3) potential bear attacks. Each of these events needed a thoroughly researched and peer-tested clothing and makeup plan with coordinating shoes. (PPN3).

PPN4 was managing to work a full day and still have the wherewithal to put a few hours into the drive that evening. Caffeine dosing was carefully monitored throughout the day. I tried to keep my day light, so many rounds of online Scrabble were self-prescribed.

PPN5: making sure my office plant from Randy survived my absence. I wrote instructions down and prophylactically bribed my freelancer with chocolate so that he would remember to water it.

All PPN’s finished, Scott and Ferdinand picked me up at 6, I did a quick Anthro return (nb: I said that PPN3 was thoroughly researched), and we were on the 10 by 7:30, despite Scott’s worry that the 10 at that time “sucked balls” in a very misdirected email to my mother. (Sorry mom. Scott’s very embarrassed.) Luckily, the 10 only sucked minor balls, so we made it farther than hoped!

And thus began a cross-country journey that will be chronicled to the best of my ability over the next few days and posts. I assure you that I have forgotten a lot - way more than 2.24 cubic feet’s worth. I also have to say from the outset that Scott, Ferdinand, and The Beast were all absolute champions from tip to tail. Thanks, men. You made this chapter ending feel like a beginning.

Next: Nevada.