And they both reached for the gun.

So this past weekend brought yet another trip to the Cities, which I feel as if I blogged about not so long ago. Then again, the last year feels like the blurriest of blurs, so what can you do?

My week leading up to Minneapolis began in the shittiest of forms. During the weekend I’d learned that my lung-cancer ridden grandfather had run out of treatment options and had begun hospice, so a detour to my hometown was planned…..just in case. Monday through Wednesday included double shifts–work from 8 a.m. till 10 p.m at both jobs, all the while feeling like crying. Thursday I finished work at 4 and got to experience two cities worth of rush hour plus getting pulled over for going 76 mph in a 65 mph zone (though thankfully it only resulted in a warning–my third, but who’s counting??) and arriving at my parent’s house half an hour later than I should have. A night of gin and shots with my best friend from high school cured the first of the week, but going to have a goodbye breakfast with my grandparents the next morning was still no picnic.

Cut to Friday evening: I have a pleasant drive up to Minneapolis, singing wildly to tunes from Mamma Mia!, Chicago, and Across the Universe, and greeting the welcoming St. Paul skyline through the glare of the setting autumn sun. However, once I arrive, I realize that my bestie Xenia has gotten her car towed due to pesky street-cleaning procedures. On our way to the impound lot, I run over a giant block of wood or some such thing while going 55 or so on 394…..a highway it turns out we didn’t need to be on in the first place, thanks to faulty Google directions. I see my hubcap fly off, and we quickly pull over to check for a flat and bend my front plastic mudflap back into place. All seems well, and we continue to the impound lot where Xenia is then slapped with a $42 parking ticket IN ADDITION to her $140 impound fee.

With FOL (f our lives?) echoing in our brains, we head out for a nice dinner and more than a few glasses of Skyy Melon + Cherry 7-Up, which raises our spirits in so many ways. Now cut to Saturday morning: I walk out the door to find my rear driver’s side tire completely and utterly deflated. With no time for repairs due to the Gopher vs. Illini game (fuck the FIBs!), we slug a couple Fat Tires, and head over to the newly built TCF Bank stadium. But OH HAI, apparently I need my old UMN id card to get in with my student ticket. After being shot down by scalpers for a regular non-student ticket, we end up spending $50 on a general ticket that will let me sit in any section anyhow. Copious amounts of coconut Malibu fix this issue, and we have a superb time at the game, followed by buffalo wings, chicken tenders, and the Fire Pit burger at Applebee’s which all makes my mouth water just thinking about it.

Later on in the afternoon I call around to local garages who all tell me they are closed for the day or the weekend period.com, so Xenia and I roll up our sleeves, bust out the jack, and change us a fucking flat tire. About five men pass on the street wanting to know if we need help, and we deny it every time. By the time the grease has soaked into my unbroken press-on French nails, and the little spare donut of a tire is fixed securely to my chassis, Xenia and I feel strangely empowered and independently feminine, and celebrate this with Chipotle, pajamas, and vodka.

Fast forward to 9 a.m. on Sunday. The Tires Plus near Xenia’s apartment doesn’t have any openings until 1 p.m. despite my pleas about this being an emergency and how I don’t even live in the city and need to be home by that evening. Luckily with some perseverence and a bit of Googling by Forth, I find a Tires Plus in my old neighborhood of Falcon Heights/Roseville that gladly take me and I’m on the road with a newly plugged tire by 11.

Around 11:07 a.m. my Dad says he’s proud that I know how to change a flat and at 11:47 I’m getting gas in Baldwin, WI and suddenly the pump decides not to stop and gas begins to guzzle over my poor, gimpy, hubcapless Lola, soaking my black studded Madden Girl flats, but these things do happen.

So, the moral of the story, kids? Drink. It can solve any problem–especially when you’re supposed to be having a stellar, stress-free girls’ weekend in the city you should have finished college in.

**Back.

I-94 W.

Last weekend, I returned to Minneapolis: the location of the optimistic start to my college career, the height of my days of independent living, and the cold, miserable drudgery that forced me home to greener pastures.

I’ve gotta tell you: I was stoked for the car ride. I used to make that 5.5 hour bitch at least once a month for two years and I had my playlist all picked out, my coffee mug at the ready, and visions of gas station doughnuts in my mind. Of course when I took off at 7:30 in the morning, my car encapsulated in a block of ice, I realized a few miles out of the city that my cruise control had broken, and my windshield wiper blades were too frozen to even bother sweeping away the slush, salt, and melted snow leftover from the previous night’s storm. Fan-tastic.

However, I did not let that deter me. I got my black-booted right foot situated in the most comfortable pedal-to-floor position,  gave myself a great impromptu concert featuring all of my current favorite songs, and did not mind pulling over to wipe the crust of salt off my windshield every half hour or so. Unfortunately, when I reached the longest stretch of the trip, between Eau Claire and St. Paul, I was forced into bored, random thoughts of which celebrities I would want to adopt me if I was a wayward orphan. Immediately Samuel L. Jackson popped into my head for a dad, but I couldn’t pick a mom that I wouldn’t either A.) Want to be best friends with or B.) Have wayward lesbionic thoughts about. Instead, I decided on Honor Blackman circa. 1965 in Goldfinger. Afro Samurai and Pussy Galore? Quite the pair.

Not much had changed along the highway in a year. There was considerably less construction and a huge new hotel outside of Eau Claire, but otherwise pretty static. Of course, the Twin City skylines were familiar scenes, and boy was it good to be back. I believe my relationship with Minneapolis is like that of a woman with a pair of insanely hot high heels. You put them on at the start of the night: you look great and feel like you can take on the world. But by the end, you have five blisters, your legs hurt, and you never want to wear them again. Yet the next time a special occasion rolls around, you dig them out of the closet with undaunted enthusiasm.

I love and hate that city.

What was different about this trip was the number 21. As in, age 21. What was also different was that one of my best lifelong friends transferred to the U after I left, and thus gave me an intense sense of comfort and familiarity in a place I used to simply not fit into. Together “Xenia” and I visited my old coffee shop where I met up with old friends, was recognized by old regulars (wtf, right?), had a mini-party in the old house where I used to live with one of my bridesmaids who still lives there, and drank up a storm in Dinkytown. As I sat in the Library and downed a Long Island with Xenia, I looked at all the UMN memorobilia on the walls and felt a twinge of regret about leaving.  I remember driving up to the city on moving day, 9/4/05 and looking at the skyline with all these romantic freshman thoughts in my head–I specifically said to myself, ” This place knows where you’re going to end up. Who you’re going to be, what you’re going to see, and who you’re going to meet.” Kind of lame I know, but it was a big life day, okay? And as Forth and I drove away from the city on 12/15/07 in our loaded vehicle caravan, I couldn’t even look at the skyline in the rearview mirror. I had conceded defeat and was retreating tail between legs.

However, when Sunday morning rolled around, city seen and fun had, I was eager to toss the empty whiskey bottle into the recycling, pack up, and head home. A ton of fun was had, and what’s the point in sticking around if visiting is so fucking awesome? As far as the Minne-apple goes, I enjoyed the dance, but simply have to give my feet a rest until the next time around.

**Back.