Wednesday, May 22, 2013

Or, Vacation: Days One through Five ...

We get to the rehearsal at the same time and walk toward the not-church.
"I haven't seen your new car yet," he says.
"Really? Because I gave you a ride home in it during Homegrown," I say.
"Man, Surly Furious."


The groom's dinner is at an downtown space that has been converted from city hall to a big old haunted bar with a grand staircase, a super secret sand stone basement, and official Duluth doorknobs bearing a D insignia.

The groom thanks everyone for coming from great distances and for being related to him and then says that the officiant told them that having a preggo in the wedding party is considered good luck. He directs attention toward me, a squat ball busy baby brewing, and unsure what to do with all these eyes and knowing that I'm prone to quick bursts of tears I say: "Actually, it's his fault." Head nod and thumb point  toward Chuck and golf clap in an attempt to start a mini chain of applause.

It doesn't take. None of it. And, in fact, no one moves, coughs, or even shuffles uncomfortably. It's just ... silent. So I just quietly turn purple and take a sip of water.

The bride has climbed to the back of a party bus and is holding a glass of wine, taking a few minutes to decompress. She looks down at her left had and says, dizzily, something like:

"Holy shit. I'm married."

We watch at least 15 consecutive episodes of "Lost," stopping only to order Taco Pizza. Two days later Chuck will still be feeling the burn of leisure pains.

I drop off some paperwork at the hospital and a woman answers all of my questions mid-sentence in a way that I would ordinarily find disconcerting and maybe ... rude. Except that she has an accent so the whole thing feels like being admonished by Julie Andrews. Which is a little pleasant.


Chuck paints the trim of the PBG's bedroom. He does this while drinking a can of inexpensive domestic beer, which I call "American Dad Painting." Meanwhile, I clean. I come across what is either a mouse latrine or some sort of larvae colony. Either way, it is the worst thing that has ever happened to me.

We wake to crews chopping the bunches of branches that were ripped from the trees lining our street. It's 8 a.m., a little early to be thinking about the wood chipper scene from "Fargo."


I'm standing in our bedroom wearing just a robe. When Chuck walks in, I open it in classic flasher mode. He stops and says:

"Man. Science."


We take a big ass shopping list to the Ikea near Minneapolis, primed to fill the back of the space shuttle with so much Swedish. "We're going to have to pull the trigger while we're there," Chuck says and I agree that since we're driving so far, we'll totally have to pull the trigger. We leave with an impractical (albeit adorable) dresser that will allow the PBG to feel like she's living in a comic strip. We also get an end table. It's just normal.


We meet Fannie for dinner, share a bunch of meat. We walk outside and I lift my shirt so she can see my belly. I lift it again when she says she wants to push my belly button. We drive back to Duluth.


Chuck assembles a new end table while drinking a can of inexpensive domestic beer, which I call "American Dad Assembling."

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