Orange-Strawberry-You're-A-Jerk, Dude.

We move to Pittsburgh! YAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!

On the 18 hour drive out here, I was listening to a comedy album by Michael Ian Black, who maintains that everything sounds less negative if you put “YAAAAAAAAAY!” after it. Packing up all your stuff, YAAAAAAY! Moving it all into a storage unit and then being told that unit was actually already rented to someone else and that you’d have to move everything, YAAAAAAY!

Our second day here, the DNB and his mother walk to a local convenience store. We’ve spent the last 36 hours loading and unloaded, and we need a mixer to go with the vodka I all but stashed in my purse to make sure I knew where it was.

The store stocks everything that costs more than $2.00 behind the counter. “Yes, I’d like a box of Cocoa Puffs, please. No, not that box, the one above it. One to the right. Nope, too far, the one to the left. Yes, that one.” WTF, Pittsburgh?

The employee must have heard the DNB and his mother debating which beverage under lock and key would make the most delicious mixer.

“You know what you folks need?” he asked. “Orange-strawberry-banana juice.”

“Oh yes, yes we do,” the DNB replies.

“That would go great with vodka,” the employee continues.

“We have vodka!” shouts the DNB excitedly. “Where’s the orange-strawberry-banana juice?”

“Oh no, we don’t carry that,” responds the employee. “But it would be delicious with vodka, if we had it.”

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!

"Drink the Fat"

We are moving from the Great White North!

We've been married, what, 3 years now? It was a joyous day, made more joyous by the fact that we could supply our own alcohol at affordable prices. The problem is, we had a martini bar, which involved a vast variety of liqueurs. The other problem is, we've moved 4 times since then. Every time we pack a house, after I try to figure out when we acquired so much STUFF, I ask myself WHY I AM STILL MOVING 17 BOTTLES OF LEFTOVER CREME DE CACAO??

This time, have I wised up. My mission, which I have chosen to accept, is to Drink All Of The Random Liqueurs Before Moving Day. Oh yes, it will be done. The question is, just combine them all and hope mixed liqueurs end up as Long Island Iced Tea like liquor does, or take a sip of each every 2-3 hours for the next 3 days?

Here's what I have:

Peppermint Schnapps

Root Beer Schnapps

Creme de Cacao (in bulk)

Creme de Menthe

Melon Liqueur

Razzmatazz Raspberry Liqueur (side note: don't ever buy this)

Limoncello

Chambord

Triple Sec

Butterscotch Schnapps

Frangelico

Irish Cream

Absinthe (less liqueur and more Please Let Me Live, kthxbai)

Another complication for how this all goes down, no pun intended, is that I'm also trying to empty our chest freezer. What pairs best with a bag of spinach and some freezer-burned Bagel Bites - a 2005 Root Beer Schnapps or a 2006 Frangelico?

How the box spring got upstairs

The Second Worst Day of My Marriage, Part 2

"You can't drive a truck on this street," the cop tells the DNB. "Turn right and go down to the truck route."

The DNB is two blocks away from our house and unfamiliar with the neighborhood. The cop is not understanding.

"If you don't turn right immediately, I'm going to give you a ticket," he orders.

Fifteen minutes later, the DNB pulls up in front of the house and we begin to unload. I feel twinges of pain in my knee as I carry box after box up and down the stairs. The DNB feels it in his knee, too. He calls it something-tendon-ligamentitis-ocityishness-ly. The guys we've hired are scheduled to be done in 30 minutes, and the truck has to be back in an hour.

Sheldon, Cuz, and the Freaking Maniac are charging us an extra $100 to move our piano, even though it's the Smallest Piano Ever that was Free On Craigslist. But we get the last laugh because they didn't know that the DNB's shop is full of the Heaviest Items in the World: a homemade workbench made of solid lead and inlaid with uranium, a table saw, a jointer, and a drill press. Suckers.

The guys agree to stay until we reload the truck at the old house. There, Cuz and Sheldon begin arguing. Sheldon accuses Cuz of being on his phone the whole day and threatens not to pay him. Cuz walks off, the n-word flying, nursing his bad shoulder.

It's 9pm before we pull up to the new house again. We've been up since 6am, and the move has taken ten hours. The DNB and I will have to unload the final truckful by ourselves, but we decide to wait until morning. I manage to yank our mattress and box spring out of the truck, and we carry them up to our master suite. Except we don't, quite. The angle of the stairs and the walls and the floor makes it completely impossible to get a queen-sized box spring to our bedroom.

BECAUSE EVERYTHING HATES ME TODAY.

At first, I'm not convinced. "Maybe if we just push it like this and try to bend it some...." I say. The DNB shakes his head. "No, it'll work!" I insist, crying tears of exhaustion and frustration and tugging on the box spring. "It has to work!"

It doesn't work.

Defeated, we drag the mattress upstairs and somehow find sheets and pillows for it.

"Did you know that Cuz has a bad shoulder because he got shot?" the DNB asks me as we collapse into bed. "He showed me the bullet hole."

"WHAT?" I holler.

"But don't worry," he continues. "He was just minding his own business."

The Second Worst Day of My Marriage, Part 1

After, of course, the first day of my honeymoon. Fortunately, both have less to do with the DNB's womanly ways and more to do with circumstance. Horrible, horrible circumstance.

We've rented a UHaul truck and hired three guys. It should all be over in four hours or so.

The DNB picks up the truck. Except that UHaul has "lost" our reservation. The DNB shows our confirmation email. More than an hour after our rental clock was supposed to start, the DNB parks in front of our house. When we open the back, he's pleasantly surprised.

"Oh, the guy must have included a dolly in the rental since they messed up our reservation," he says, naively optimistic as he tugs on the dolly. It doesn't budge.

Turns out, the dolly and a large bag of blankets have been affixed to the inside of the truck, mini-bar style. Break the seal and you'll owe UHaul an extra $10 or $15 dollars.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?" the DNB shouts. "THAT'S VALUABLE CARGO SPACE!"

He's right. The dolly and the large bag of blankets are mounted in such a way that they cannot be moved, not even to find a more convenient spot for them as you don't use them.

P.S., UHaul: I paid for a full 24' truck. You owe me $1.12.

The guys we've hired show up promptly and we begin loading the truck. One guy works like a Freaking Maniac. He's carrying giant pieces of furniture on his back up and down stairs. He drops an air conditioner, but he was carrying two, so it's difficult to fault him. The leader of the bunch, Sheldon, packs the truck. The third, Sheldon's younger cousin ("Cuz"), spends a lot of his time answering his phone and explaining to no one in particular that he has a "bad shoulder."

Three hours in, it becomes apparent that we have WAY TOO MUCH STUFF. We cram what we can into the truck and take off for the new house. The DNB drives the truck, while the Freaking Maniac and Cuz ride shotgun.

And then he gets pulled over....

All Dinghies Go to Heaven

"Where's my rubber dinghy?" the DNB asks accusingly.

It's not unlike the pasta maker, this rubber dinghy. Except it's heavier and takes up more space. Both were equally unused. So I decided to leave it as a parting gift for the people who bought our old house.

"Your rubber dinghy went to live on a beautiful farm," I say cheerfully.

"Noooooo!" he wails. "Where is it really?"

"In dinghy heaven?" I try again.

I didn't think of it at the time, but what I should done was use a classic distraction technique: "I sold it for lots of money which will fund the new flat panel television you would very much like to buy. HAPPY SHOPPING!" Instead, I tried to soften the blow and ended up having to listen to the DNB pout about the rubber dinghy he never once used and about how much I hate anything good that he loves. Which is totally not true because I also hate many bad things that he loves.

Moving is just another excuse to LABEL!

My OCD reaches new heights!

"Don't judge me," I say peremptorily as I come upstairs from the basement.

The DNB looks at me suspiciously.

"Don't do it," I reiterate.

He rushes over to where I'm kneeling by a stack of boxes. "BABY NO," he says in disbelief.

He watches as I attach computer print-outs to label each box we will be storing in our new basement.

"I can't not," I try to explain. "It's a sickness...."

Heard

"The Twin Cities is the largest metropolitan area in which the weather tries to kill you."

Snow EMERGENCY!

It took me nearly two hours to get home last night. It usually takes me 25 minutes. It was like driving with a bunch of people from Indianapolis.

C'mon, Minnesota, I expected more of you.

600 Miles

We clean the basement!

It's not a glamorous task, but someone's got to do it. Paolo the Pool Boy is nowhere to be found, so it's on the DNB and I to straighten, unpack, and organize. We work for hours and hours, until just one box remains untouched - taped shut, it's the only thing standing between me and an afternoon of leisure.

It's labeled in the DNB's handwriting: "sandpaper and rachet set." What it contains is a mixture of dryer lint, used napkins, and crushed cardboard.

"Are you telling me," I ask in amazement, "That you sealed a box of trash . . . and then we moved it all the way from Indiana?"

He gazes down into the box. "Huh," he responds, not at all surprised.

Ageism

As we drove through a quaint part of town this weekend, we spotted an interesting-looking Mexican restaurant. Hungry and looking for a good meal, we decided to try it. It wasn't Mexican, it was Southwestern, and it wasn't just interesting, but also fairly swanky. No matter, the menu looked fantastic.

As we were seated, I noticed that most of the patrons were older, silver-haired couples dressed in business casual. My shirt and capris were a little dressed down, but we were seated in a quiet corner and settled in for a delicious meal.

Our server took a while to arrive, and when she did, wasn't particularly friendly. Our waters weren't refilled, and our appetizer was delivered after the table next to us got theirs. Which wouldn't have been too terribly concerning, even though we both ordered the same item - except we placed our request ten minutes before the other patrons were seated. Our "table-side" guacamole was prepared in front of us without a single word, while, again, the Joneses were given a lively description of the ingredients. The whole night, they got better, more friendly service, despite the fact that they shared an entree and drank iced tea. We both ordered full meals, and I had Sangria. Our server wasn't following the big spenders.

Ageism.

We were young and a little under dressed. But we were polite to a fault, giving a server no reason to ignore us so completely.

What's unfortunate is that we've encountered this too many times before. Not to get hoity-toity, but our server ignored a doctor and a (soon to be) attorney, new to the city and looking for places to spend money and have nice meals. Not only that, but we're loyal to a fault when we have good shopping or dining experiences.

This is why I shop exclusively at Lund's, instead of the cheaper alternative down the street. This is why I choose Nordstrom over Macy's. No matter what I'm wearing (and believe me, when I stopped by Nordstrom after taking a final last fall, I was not looking good), or what preconceptions the employees may have about me, the level of customer service I've come to expect has never wavered.

Because it's the right thing to do and because you never know.

Before I moved to Minnesota, someone joked that there are two seasons here: winter and construction. When you think about it, it makes sense, especially in a place that gets as winterish as this Great White North.

But now, today, I've had enough.

A main thoroughfare has been under construction since I arrived. But I am the master of the Alternate Route and found a better, faster way to get where I needed to go. Until, construction began on my Alternate Route. And now the Alternate to my Alternate is similarly blocked with orange barrels, and I think I hate this place just a little bit.

It's Good to Know All State Governments Are Equally Inefficient, In Their Own Ways

We go to the Midtown Services department!

This is, strangely, where we will register our cars and get our driver's licenses. Of course, the lines are long and the employees are disgruntled, so despite the name we feel right at home.

We have to take a written "knowledge" test to get our licenses. We knew this, and I took time to read through the Driver's Manual to review. The DNB did not, and he looks at me nervously.

"What do I need to know?" he asks in a low voice.

"I don't know," I respond truthfully. "It's all pretty much common sense."

"This is why," he reveals, "I've delayed coming to get this done. This is too stressful! I'm not a good test-taker!"

I'm surprised that he's serious. And I thought the reason was his RAMPANT ADD.

My studying pays off - I get one wrong and wait for my turn to get my picture taken. The DNB sits at his station for a long time. I start to get nervous for him. He finally emerges, face expressionless. He sits down beside me.

"I passed," he breathes. "Barely. I got an 82%." I'm glad, especially since we've planned to go out for happy hour afterwards. Mommy needs her medicine.

When our numbers are finally called to complete the process, the employee cuts the corner off our Indiana driver's licenses and hands them back to us, along with a small stack of paper.

"You are legal to drive until your new Minnesota license arrives in 6 weeks," she instructs. "But only if you have these papers along with your I.D."

I try to fold the papers up and put them in my wallet. They don't fit. 6 WEEKS? Dang, Minnesota.

At the bar, later, our server cards us. When she notices the corner of my license, she demands, "Papers please."

It feels very World War II, and I don't like it.

damn it feels good to be a gangsta

I leave the city!

I haven't been out since I got here, and although Savage isn't exactly the wilds of Minnesota (despite its name), it's nice to travel far enough down the interstate that the HOV lane ends. The purpose of my trip is to find Gjerdes Solar Shield, a company which will have the sad task of removing the tinting from my car windows. I've rather liked feeling like a Pimped Out Gangsta in my super tinted vehicle, but Minnesota won't allow any tinting on the windshield, and only very little on the other windows.

Since Gjerdes closes at 5:30, long before the DNB could ever get off work to pick me up (although he's promised to leave by 4:30), I'm anticipating a long wait and am hoping to find a Starbucks close by to kill time.

Inside the store, I explain what I need done - "I need the tinting removed from all of the windows of my car."

"All of the windows? The windshield too?" the customer service representative asks.

"Yes," I reply.

"Is the windshield actually tinted completely, or is there just a sun visor tint at the top?" she confirms.

"Completely tinted," I say, quite sure. I have, after all, been inside my car.

"Let's take a look," she says, walking to the window. I have no idea why she doesn't believe me.

"Oh my goodness!" she exclaims upon seeing my car. "Did you get a ticket for that?"

"No," I tell her. "But I will once I get Minnesota plates . . . which is why I'm here."

She runs to the back of the store and comes back to the window followed by a string of employees. They all make Norwegian-accented sounds of surprise.

"Oh geez!" says one man. "Where did that car come from?" A few customers get up to take a gander as well.

"It wasn't me," I try to explain to the assembled group. "The guy I bought it from did it! He had an eye problem!"

Everyone laughs.

I sigh and head for the door. "I'll be back on Friday to pick it up."

S Grocery Shops in Her Unmentionables

There is a knock at the door!

It is the Lunds & Byerly's delivery man, and he is bringing me my groceries. You needn't have been in a close personal relationship with me to know how much I hate grocery shopping. It's right up there with eating olives and being bitten. Of course, the real reason we had to leave Indianapolis was that no one there would bring me my groceries! And believe me, I checked.

The prices are the same as the regular grocery store, but there is a small delivery fee (no gratuities accepted). For me, the cost-benefit analysis plays out something like this: a trip to Lunds requires me to actually drive through Twin Cities traffic (ack), wander the aisles trying to find where the bruschetta is hidden, deal with the Ridiculously Slow Cart Pushers Who Block Entire Aisles Without Thought, wait in long check-out lines, and make a separate stop at the Super Skeeztastic Liquor Store*. Home delivery, on the other hand, costs $6.95, I can direct my personal shopper as to the specifics of my grocery needs ("My husband won't use anything other than the top-of-the-line butt-rash cream, so please don't substitute for generic"), I don't have to carry anything heavy, and, oh, they will bring me alcohol, too.

I think we're all in agreement here.

* What is truly amazing about this website is that it in no way imparts how junky this place really is. The DNB remarked the other day that he's never sure during any trip through the parking lot that he won't be either shot or run over. And that's just the outside.

Block Party

Ka Liko is barking at The Big Bobber Floating Cooler again.

I can't blame him, being terrified of the thing. It's big and, well, looks like a bobber. See below.

The DNB had the great fortune to win The Big Bobber Floating Cooler at our neighborhood Block Party. I have a sneaking suspicion that the raffle gift wasn't entirely new when donated. According to the company website (www.thebigbobberfloatingcooler.com, wouldn't you know?), the thing has "Thousands of Uses" and is currently on sale for $39.95 - they're practically giving it away.

I won an Ikea wine opener (do they know about our drinking?), which, presumably, comes pre-assembled, but you never can tell. "There's bound to be an extra dowel in there somewhere," suggested our next-door neighbor.

I was met with much anticipation as we greeted the neighbors at the party. Many of them met the DNB when he first moved in (and yet were happy to see us!), and this night has been referred to as my "trial by fire" on a number of occasions. I was pleased that it wasn't at all - the neighbors are all tremendously good-natured with most excellent senses of humor. See The Big Bobber Floating Cooler, above.

The ladies in charge planned a number of games, including egg- and water balloon-tosses, which can only ever end badly. During the egg race, the distinguished professor who lives across the street heckled the neighborhood children: "Focus, Cyrus! Stop chewing your gum and focus!" "By the time you get the egg to the other side, it'll be boiled!" "Don't look around, focus!"

It was a fun night, and I was glad to see for myself what a spectacular block we've found ourselves on. I'm off now to ponder the "Thousands of Uses" to which we could put our Big Bobber Floating Cooler. Re-gifting to the DNB's family was my first thought, any other suggestions?

Due to the Positively Rousing Demand:

Looking directly up at the ceiling of the bathroom. I shudder.


It's a horrid picture, but you get the idea. Much better.

Who Wouldn't Dig this Bathroom, Clyde?

Our bathroom is Seriously Tiled!

Floor, walls, and ceiling - the room could not be more tiled. It's a dusky rose-ish pink color, with black accents. Perfect, as my mother pointed out, if we were going ape for the sock hop, Daddy-O. But as fate would have it, we're well past the fifties and I've only recently embraced the color pink for my person. To say it's a little much for an entire room would be an understatement.

So I've researched the hell out of how to do away with the Poodle Skirt Powder Room. We could re-tile the whole thing, which would cost a pretty penny or 5,000. We could paint over it. It is possible to do this, although you have to be very careful and I have a feeling our landlord wouldn't be all about that idea. Or we could work with it. Damn.

To this latter and decidedly more fiscally responsible end, I venture out to find bathroom accessories. My goal is to complement without conceding. I am armed with the door to our laundry chute as a color swatch because yes, dolly, it is tiled too.

It is with great pleasure and a tiny "YES!" in the middle of the first store that I find what I am looking for: a shower curtain. It contains a slightly darker and less ugly dusky rose, with greens and browns in a retro-type pattern. On clearance, nonetheless. If I ignore the black accent tiles, the curtain ties the room together beautifully.

I set it up and step back to admire my handiwork. It works. It really works.

It's a sad day when your bathroom decor teaches you life lessons. I do so hate to get all cliche and gushy and whatnot, but lately I've been obsessing over a number of frustrating things in my life that I cannot change. Seriously obsessing. I guess my ugly bathroom reminded me that instead of fighting against them with such vigor, as tends to be my usual course, maybe I would find that everything can come together harmoniously in the end, if I just worked with and not against the Poodle Skirt Powder Rooms of life.

S's First Morning in Minnesota: I Did Not Drink Last Night

I am disoriented and confused!

It's 5am, and the Buds want to eat breakfast. Since this is when the DNB usually feeds them before he leaves, I can't fault them for disturbing my slumber.

Groggy, I put my slippers on and start to walk out of the bedroom. As I do, I notice a small white mound on the carpet. If not cocaine, I think, then what? I examine it closely. Aikane wants to eat it. White Dog Vomit? Still uncertain, I pick it up gingerly with a tissue and throw it away.

Walking downstairs, I am assaulted by the loud sound of a "Girls Gone Wild" Paid Program. The TV is off, but the tuner is on and appears to be playing at full volume. I stand there for a minute, trying to figure out what is going on. I come up blank.

The Buds want to eat, so I fill their bowls and let them outside. As I wait for them, I spot a pile of poo on the floor. WTF? I stare at it. The Buds have been with me all night and to-date through the morning.

The obvious conclusion I reach at last: a not-so-clever burglar has broken in, watched television, spilled his blow, and taken a crap on the floor. Unusually undisturbed by this thought, I check the lock on the front door, collect the Buds, and head back to bed.

Our Town

(used with permission)

This gorgeous picture of Nicollet Mall in downtown Minneapolis was taken by a brilliant photographer who posts his work on Minneapolis Daily Photo. He has so many beautiful photographs uploaded - I've loved getting to explore my new home from afar via his work and thought you might like to see it as well.