Tuesday, April 30, 2013

It was last weekend and I was boring ...

Save for a 6-inch crack in my windshield, I had a commitment-free Friday. At some point I would have to drive to Rochester, but between dropping my car off at a glass-fixer and skirting free of the city limits, the day was my oyster.

We looked at paint samples and considered the nuances of various greenish shades.
I raved about the state of the bathrooms at Home Depot, while working up a frothy lather, seemingly to someone who felt personally responsible for the way they shimmer and smell even more like baby aspirin than the ones at Target.
We went to a record store.

By the time we stood on a street corner, coatless, walked across the street to the pizza place, and ordered a slice of pepperoni, I truly believed we were on accidental vacation. It doesn't take much.

I bought the new Depeche Mode CD because sometimes buying CDs is just so novel.


The trip to Rochester took me 3 hours, 40 minutes. I want to say my world record is like 2:57:00. This trip was unremarkable, aside from two things:

1. When I left the windshield-fixer's place, they told me to avoid a power-wash for 24 hours and to not slam my car doors for an equal amount of time. At various points in the drive I imagined that this front plate was going to just tip out of position. That my hair would sparkle with shards, and then blow free in the wind from the highway. That I'd smile and a June bug would be stuck between my front teeth.

2. Blue Diamond Almonds: Bold Wasabi & Soy Sauce flavor. Ho. My. Gah. (Also not bad: Smoked Jalapeno)


I settled into my parent's guest room, which is decorated in the art of my late Grandfather Smittley. He favored Native American themes, but from an almost cinematic perspective. A chief surveys the horizon. A woman with a long braid and dressed in skins sits on a horse.

He also has some wild life pieces, like this one. I call it: The Stately Portrait of Hal's Great-Great Grandcat.

Just before burying myself in a super-sized marathon of "The Stand," I noticed a subtle movement in the off-white, woolish carpeting. IT WAS THE BIGGEST BUG I'VE EVER SEEN. I sent a photo to Chuck, who did some recon and determined that this leggy beast wouldn't wrap itself around my neck and squeeze. This bug, apparently, is responsible for killing all the other less-terrifying bugs that might be skulking around the perimeter.

And then I saw another one.

(In the morning, my mom lost her mind over this. She was all "NOT IN MY GUEST ROOM!" "It's ok," I told her. "These bugs kill all the other bugs." "They can kill them from outside the house," she told me. Although, later my niece Mel congratulated me on not committing murder).


On Saturday we went to a wedding shower for my cousin Bergen West, who would be your favorite person if you knew her. Consider that she uses her bra as a purse. I studied her confident stage presence and witty repartee. I would be the subject of a shower the next day. She would be a tough act to follow.


Ma Pista took me to my elementary school, for purposes that I won't bother explaining because it's funnier to just think she took me there willy-nilly.

My two best friends tied me up in an oversized hooded sweatshirt and left me blinded on the playground. I did not narc them out.
The Monday after my First Communion, Jason F. knocked into me and sent one of my new crucifix earrings into the parking lot, lost forever. I cried and had no idea that I would forever be losing one earring or the other.
In fifth grade, I was on my hands and knees and lifted my leg on the telephone pole, a fake dog-peeing scene that was made more realistic because there was a puddle right there. Mr. K. didn't fail to mention this incident at conferences.
When I was in eighth grade, Jeremy M. and I made out in the pine trees on the side of the church.


Brother Pista brought the Pistas to town to give me prezzies and go to dinner.

Mel, who favors the geeky side of smartness, handed me a rubber stress ball. I swore that I got a jolt of electricity from her.

"Did you just shock me?" I asked.
She looked at me like I was a fool.
"This isn't a conductor," she said, indicating the ball. Like, obvi.

Here she is sitting at the bar for the first time in her life.

The bartender warned her to behave so he didn't have to 86 her. 


Ma Pista planned to make a frittata for breakfast, which I ixnayed in favor of eggs and hash and Pillsbury orange rolls, the Sunday brunch of my childhood. This is not unusual. I'm super into a lot of stuff I liked in the 1990s (like noodles with butter and parmesan cheese, Herbal Essences). I'm assuming this is some sort of pregnancy regression. Anyway: So. Dang. Good. 


I made a huge (pink) haul and returned to Duluth.


The "It's (Insert Day of Week) and I'm Boring" is a series that Jodi and I do to pay homage to the beauty of old-school blogging.

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