Lost Angeles

The Long Haul.

So then we drove back to LA and there were buffalo. Not in that order, I guess.

Okay, let’s talk about you all for a second. I have Google Analytics. I know how many of you read this blog. I know there are more regular readers than people I can name off as friends. And maybe that’s telling. Because exactly three people - and I am related to two of them, so there’s maybe a legal obligation there - have emailed me since I did this little test to see what was up. 

Three. In a month.

What’s with the rest of you? Because, I gotta say, you guys, it’s kind of creepy. And it hurts my feelings, frankly. In four weeks, you couldn’t be bothered to say hi? Because, what, you don’t really like me and you’re just reading this to congratulate yourself on knowing I’m a horrible person? Or, you like me only enough to tolerate our completely one-sided relationship, where you are not obligated to give anything back to me? Or, you don’t know me as a meat person and you somehow stumbled on this blog and think it might be weird to be a stranger and post a comment or somehow reach out?

(Last category people, you are forgiven.)

So I’ve been thinking, maybe I don’t blog anymore. I started this so that my people could keep up with how I was doing, funny fish-out-of-water style, and writing has always helped me process difficult situations. I suppose I also deluded myself into believing that I would be so loaded down with email correspondence, that a blog would be a good way to loop everyone in and alleviate the guilt of not responding so fast. Well, okay, I was super wrong about that. Nobody email(ed)(s) me at all, really. And now I feel foolish, like I’ve long overstayed my welcome. Plus it happens that my most difficult situation, at present, is to decide whether I keep exposing myself here. Hence, this post.

I know this sounds sort of ultimatum-ish. Tough. I pretty much totally resent you guys. I spent my entire vacation with one thought in the back of my head: remember this for the blog! And, as it turns out, you couldn’t give a shit. So, why are you reading this? If it’s the you-think-I’m-a-horrible-person thing, please keep that info to yourself and just, you know, go away please. And the strangers from Colombia and Germany and Spain and Japan, you can keep being strangers. I know there is comfort in anonymity. But the rest of you… the rest of you owe me.

Macarons.

The food! We ate like kings!

People of Minnesota, get down on your knees and thank Odin that you’ve got the food you’ve got. It’s good. It’s plentiful. And it’s CHEAP. You know why people in LA are so skinny? They can’t afford the 10% tax on their food. Plus dine-in tax in restaurants.

So, the food trends are a little slower getting to MN. (Get excited Mpls - in 16 months you’ll have the influx of gourmet food trucks on every corner!) And macarons (the little sweet pastel hamburger things) had just arrived in Minneapolis this summer, much to my delight. If slower means that I can buy two huge breakfast burritos, a fresh squeezed OJ and a large latte for under $20, I’m all about slow.

So yes, we ate well and often. I had little salty cubes of fried tofu. I had tender spicy shrimp, and an apricot danish mostly made of butter, and a tender beef sandwich that had been marinated for 72 hours. And an eggplant tagine that sung. And, the revered Punch pizza. Sure, sometimes Minneapolis decides that putting pickles in salsa is a good idea, or that lefse might be delicious. I forgive you for that, Minneapolis. You’re cheap and you’re awesome, and don’t you ever forget it.

Next: The long haul.

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.