Seems Like About 20%; or Yeah, But How Was the Service?

The morning sky is a powdery blue, the clouds edged with a salmon color that really sets off the red in my eyes.

I don’t sleep well, a fact that I feel the need to repeat every now and then. 

Hello.  How are you?  Me, I didn’t sleep well last night.

But I do what I do, as I must, every morning.  Not only does my alarm clock demand this of me, but Dolly Gee Squeakers, formerly of the Humane Society Squeakers, relies on our routines:  the alarm clock, the slap-slap-slap of the snooze button, teeth/hair/lunch/dress/treats for the kitty and then out the door.

Monday through Friday, between the hours of 5:32 and 6:34. 

I cross a busy intersection, imagining that I look crisp and business-like, stepping smartly from road to curb.  I feel urbane and glamorous, no small feat at this time of morning.  Summer is returned, and all things are possible.  The weather has ceased its six-month-long killing spree, the birds have returned and have much to say, the sidewalk is free of ice and full of underwear…

I look down, step over a pair of pink lace and leopard-skin-patterned underwear.  They are neither old nor new.  I decide, for my own sake, to think of them as clean.

They are on the walk way directly in front of restaurant nearest the bus stop.

I stop, back up.  Whose are they?  Does she know they are gone? Were they hurled from an open car window?  Were they left here, in front of the restaurant, in exchange for services rendered?

I move on, reach the bus stop, whereupon I board the stopped bus, waving my scan-able bus card in front of the scan-able bus card reader.  I sit, as I always do, near the rear of the bus and stare out the window at the newly-leafed trees.

Have I been tipping incorrectly all these years?

And For the Finale, I'll Be Dropping a Television into the Bath Tub

When I woke up this morning, my front door was frozen shut.

After being teased with reasonably spring-like temperatures, the disappearance of 99.9% of Minneapolis’s snow, and the optimistic, somewhat risqué appearance of both my spring jacket and cap, Minnesota has again been blasted back into winter.

Hence the frozen-shut front door.

So after giving up on the front door, going back upstairs, down the back steps, to the bus (which actually skidded when it stopped for me), and arriving at work, I do what all right-thinking people do when faced with obstacles.

I call to complain to Mary.

“Mary!” I shout.

“Hallo,” she says, mildly.

Her early-morning mildness affects me not.

“I’ve had it! We were promised a spring, dammit! And you know what? We’re not getting one! No green lawns, no hot tar, no inappropriately dressed teen-agers! We’ve skipped all of it and we’re heading straight toward winter again!”

“It’s like Thanksgiving out there,” she interjects, almost audibly nodding. “Frankly, I’m thinking of making a turkey.”

Visions of turkey gravy slide effortlessly over the inches of snow that have deposited over night. “Are you really?”

“No,” she says.

“Why you little…”

“Why I oughta…” she counters.

There is silence.

“Really,” I fret. “I can’t take this anymore. Would it be wrong to leap out a window or something?”

There is a silence while she considers my cry for help. “Could we have a party?”

A party. It’s always a party with this one.

“What, so people can watch me hurl my pale, freckled body off the second-floor porch?”

“Well, when you put it that way…” she pauses. “Yes. Basically, yes.”

“Hmm,” I ponder. “Maybe I’m not the only feeling this way...”

“We need a party!” Mary is working herself up. “A theme party!”

“Can I have a I’m Going to End It All If Spring Doesn’t Come Soon Party?”

“Yes!” There is the sound of clapping hands.

“Can I make it BYOR?”

“BYO –“

“Bring Your Own Rope.”

She pauses so as to give it thought. “I don’t think that would be too tacky, do you?”

“Not at all!” I’m warming to this. “I’m going to serve plastic bags –“

“ -- not to be used as toys,” she interjects, audibly nodding.

“Right. And we’ll serve contra-indicated medications – “

“Antibiotics and The Pill!”

Now I am nodding, audibly. “And host ill-advised competitions!”

“Oooooh! Operating heavy machinery on a double dose of the good cough syrup?”

“We’re talkin’ codeine, baby!”

Now we are both nodding. “This is coming along nicely,” I say.

I feel better, suddenly. “I like it when we talk.”

“Me, too,” she says.

There is a short-lived silence.

“Are you sure you won’t make a turkey?” I say.

“Yes,” she says. “I’m sure.”

On Keeping My Eyes Open

I was very small.

“You have to keep your eyes open,” she said.

I assured my grandma that I would. 

“Not everything is what it appears to be, but His eyes are always open.”

I smile.  “Agates look just like regular rocks,” I said.  “And remember those flies that look like bees?”

And in my mind’s eye, I can see her hand come toward me.  I close my eyes as she slips a work-worn hand under my chin, open them to smile at her as she bends down to give me a kiss…

I went to two funerals on Saturday.

I grew up on funerals:  The elderly, the young, babies and children.  The smell of flowers and Lutheran potluck, red-rimmed eyes and black clothing.  

I weep openly at funerals, not for the departed, but for those left behind, for the bewildered woman seated at the front who will wander into the living room next week with an unopened jar of pickles, forgetting for just a moment…

The next day, I go grocery shopping.  I pull into the parking lot, park nose-to-nose with another car.  Her grocery cart sticks out, just a little, and she smiles at me as she moves it closer to her own car, ensuring that I won’t accidentally hit it.  Overhead is a bright blue sky; and while the uncharacteristic 47 degrees is a treat, the warmest it’s been for perhaps six months, it is a somber day, a funeral-hangover of a day.

The woman in front of me is loading the last of her bags as I exit my car. 

“I hope I’m not in your way,” she says, smiling.

I smile back.  “No, no, you’re fine.”

I see the box in her back seat, and the words are out before I can stop them.  “Is that a peacock feather?”

She turns to look, then looks at me oddly.  “Yes,” she says.  “I’m not sure why I have it.  A friend gave it to me along with the rest of the junk in that box, and I just loaded it into my car today thinking I’d drop it off at a thrift store or something.”

The wind lifts, and I push the hair out of my face.

“Hey,” she says.  “Would you like it?  I think it’s for you.”

And I hear my grandma’s reminder.  And I know this woman is right. 

“Yes,” I say.  And then I laugh.  “I don’t know why, but yes.”

I approach her, and she reaches into her car.  She holds the feather out to me.  "Looks like an eye, doesn't it?"  She puts a hand on my shoulder, and I do the same.

Her dark brown eyes look into mine.  “Have a blessed day,” she says.

And for a moment, I feel my grandmother’s hand under my chin. 

Come Sit by Me; or Birds, Bees, and Exposed Knees

I would be remiss, on this fine spring day, if I didn’t slide on over, as we like to say on the bus.

Come sit by me. 

Spring!  It’s 70 degrees here in Minneapolis, and the good people of the Great State of Minnesota have gone, to judge by appearances, insane.  Arms!  Legs!  People without hats!  The woman in front of us: Didn’t know that color existed outside a block of cream cheese, did you?  But there she is, in all her pale, warm-weather glory, sporting nothing on top but a sprinkling of freckles and a strapless shirt that would’ve killed her just a month or two ago.

She didn’t get those tattoos to keep them hidden! 

But never mind her.  Look over there, on the sidewalk, where a fresh crop of unlined, smooth-limbed citizens has sprouted.  The future of America, unfettered by gainful employment, travels in boisterous, eager groups.

The guy in the tank top, the one with his pants belted at the top of his thighs, has eyes only for one girl.

Even from here, it’s obvious.

He wants her, and she doesn’t care.   She toys with him, playfully hits him across the top of his head; he reaches for her, but with his waistline just inches above his knees, he lacks true mobility.  She dances ahead of him, taunting.  Come and get me!  Come and get me!

The young man clutches his pants with his left hand, hobbles after her, laughing, his right hand raised in petition.  Slow down!  Let me touch you!

Winter is gone.

Slow down. 

Perhaps We Should ALL Have a Nice Day

It is 6:32 a.m. on a Wednesday, and I am walking in the side of the street.  The street!  Like a common hooligan!  I forgive myself quickly, the sidewalks being a heaped mess of frozen/melted/frozen topography, challenging ribbons of ankle-breaking treachery. 

And I watch for cars.

Just three months ago, this time of day looked much the same as midnight.  Today, the sun is cresting the horizon; and the world is filled with the soft, hopeful light of impending spring. 

A man walking a yellow Lab and sensibly walking on the sidewalk approaches.  It is a neighbor.  He raises an arm.  “Mornin’, Pearl!” he shouts.

I wave back.  “Good morning!”  I leave off his name, as I am unsure of it.  Embarrassingly, I rarely remember names, only faces.

He takes another couple steps, slows.  “Eighteen degrees this morning,” he says.

I turn to walk backwards, keep moving.  I have, after all, a bus to catch.  “You can really tell, too, can’t you?  Practically warm!”

He grins.  “I hear it’ll be 40 degrees by the weekend,” he says.

“We’ll have to set up a pool in the backyard,” I say, “just to cool off.”

 “We lived through another one!” he says, moving further and further away. “Have a good day!”

“You, too,” I say. 

And just like that, it is decided:  we will both have a good day. 

The sky seems to brighten just a little more.  

You’re Gonna Wanna Get That Ironed

It’s a little late this year, but fervent, almost ardent preparations are underway for this year’s Naked America!, Minneapolis’s yearly, giddy welcome of spring.  Like last year, there will be the parade on downtown and the naming of Miss Nekkid Pucker; the Bus Scramble, known in prior, less enlightened years as the Chinese Firedrill; and, of course, the often amusing half-keg shot-put event, named by Sports Illustrated as “both unsightly and disturbing”.

The first place prize for the most creative use of the words “The Netherlands” in the Haiku contest remains, as last year, a round-trip ticket to JUST ABOUT ANYWHERE ELSE.

The second place prize is a boot to the keester and a lecture from the aunt of your choice.

Am I making this up? 

Absolutely!  And you know why?

Because I can.  And because we just received six inches of snow.

Snow!  As I said to the television screen just last night “What the –“. 

And so winter spits ice into our faces just one last time and I am forced to return to my winter coat, AKA The Sleeping Bag, and my winter boots, affectionately referred to as “Snuggles” and “Butch”.

“Butch” is on the right.

Ladies and gentlemen, I implore you.  Is this what passes for spring in this part of the world?

And what does it say about me that I remain here, knowing this?

And so the voice of my grandma, sweet and country-seasoned, whispers in my ear:  Oh, hush now, you silly girl and run fetch me my recipe box.  We'll warm the kitchen at least...

The Lady at the Bus Stop Has Her Demands

Should we run into each other today – and stranger things have happened! – you may notice that the tip of the thumbnail on my right hand is black.

Or, you may just notice my sparkling eyes. I have that effect on people.

Then again, odds are just as good that you’ll notice the blackened end of my right thumb, because once again, in an effort to clean up Our Fair City, I’ve soiled myself.

Or something to that effect.

You see, I hate graffiti. Do what you like with your own stuff, but leave my bus stop alone.

That’s right. I said “my bus stop”. It’s mine. Mine! Through ten years of steady patronage, including my fight to actually have the structure put into place and the daily litter-picking-up service that I provide throughout my neighborhood, it’s mine.

Frankly, the whole neighborhood is mine. Just ask me.

And I’m tired of it being defaced.

So here’s what I want to see happen:

Just because someone’s written/scribbled on something doesn’t mean you have to leave it there. Cover it. Right away. If it’s city property, call 311.

That mail box hanging off the post by a nail. Maybe you re-affix it, put a fresh coat of paint on it? Even that large-mouth bass mailbox you’ve been secretly coveting would be an improvement.

I want people to sweep the sidewalks in front of their houses – not just some of us! All of us. I have a neighbor that takes a knife to the edges of his yard, runs it along where the grass meets the concrete. Talk about nice-looking! Wheee-doggie. I’m not suggesting we all do that, but really, if you do? There should be some sort of tax break, don’t you think?

And window cleaning. What’s happened to window cleaning? I know it’s a drag, but dagnabit people, I want to see my face in your window!

Which reminds me: what I do not want to see in your window is your butt. While I appreciate that you work out – and frankly, it shows! – I don’t want to know that you cook in the nude. You keep that up, you’re gonna burn something that shouldn’t get burned. If you’re not going to have respect for the people walking by, won’t you at least think of the Emergency Room personnel?

I have a list of other demands, but I think you get the picture. Every day, the snow pushes back just a little further; and under that pretty white snow are the cigarette butts, bus transfers, candy wrappers, and, perhaps, even lost gloves of this last season.

Spring is coming. Let’s greet it.

And put some dang pants on.

I Wouldn’t Say It Was Time to Put the Mittens Away, But…

The weather warms.

It’s one of the pleasures of living squarely within a four-season climate, you know.  Anticipation, that is.  Here it is February – almost March, which, really, is darn-near April.

Spring: The long-awaited and pink-hued cheek in the face of the seasons.

Summer is the dimple in that face.  But we’ll get to that another time. 

Winter, however mighty and frost-fisted, has become weary in its attempts to kill us.

Not that there isn’t still some in the strength in the Ol’ Man’s grip and that we don’t behave accordingly.  The alpaca shawl is still at the foot of the couch.  The quilt covering my bed – the one seemingly made of cotton batting and cement – remains.  The microwavable mittens I wear on my hands on the really cold days, huddled on the couch covered in flannel and cats, still become “fittens” when I put them on my feet. 

Frostbite, chilblains, and nasal ice balls all remain a possibility.

As Mary says, the whole thing’ll give ya the scourge.

The days come and go, of course; and in time, we will forget the laissez-faire cruelties of winter and the season itself will assume, like the seasons before it, its secondary job of place-marker, will become, again, the measure by which we determine where we were and when.  “Hmm.  When was the last time I had a really good margarita?  I remember I was wearing a cashmere sweater, and that I sat on Diana’s ice-scraper when I flung myself into her front seat, so I’m thinking it was late winter…”

Without the seasons, most of the Midwest wouldn’t be able to recall the last time they had a really good margarita.

Or that ice-scrapers are made of truly resilient stuff.

The temperature is predicted to rise to 36 degrees today. 

That’s almost 40.

Next thing you know, we’ll be venturing outdoors without boots, baring our naked heads to the sky, considering the brutal measure of the swimsuit and the effect of winter comfort foods.

Still.

Spring is coming. 

Anything could happen.  

Clearly, She Hated Those Shorts

Now that we’ve properly dispensed of the winter coats here in Minneapolis, we have opportunity to see what the smartly dressed bus commuters are wearing this season.

Unfortunately, it’s reminiscent of last spring’s fare.

It is April, after all, and with the heady discarding of the winter woolens come the sandaled feet and ghostly limbs of the winter-paroled.  Gone are the boots and the down coats, present once again are the Scarface/NASCAR/M&M jackets, the t-shirts proclaiming themselves to be “BUM Equipment”. 

We’re a surprisingly pale people after six months of winter, and the sight of so many arms and legs in the thin, erstwhile sunlight of early spring has caused more than one man to walk into a lamp post.  The local teenager, imprecisely aware of her effect on the casual observer, strides on, floating ruthlessly above the pavement, leaving many a man open-mouthed and vaguely disturbed in her wake. 

But who is wearing shorts, and how they fit, this is not up to us, is it?

I watched as a woman boarded the bus last Friday.  She was a good-sized gal, not bad looking, with the hair and nails of a much younger streetwalker.  The temperature being in the mid-50s was not going to stop her from wearing this particular pair of shorts. 

Oh, but if only it had.  In a crimes-against-nature assault against those at the front of the bus in general and the clothing’s seams specifically, it was obvious that all that stood between her and an ambulatory medical exam were the bravest pair of shorts I’d ever seen.

Hang in there, little shorts! 

In a move that sent me digging for the notebook I keep in my purse for just such occasions, she plopped down, spilling, fleshly, onto one of the inward-facing seats – but not before tugging a frightened bit of clothing from betwixt her cheeks. 

It was the kind of move you make in the privacy of your own home. 

Alarmed and amused, I pull my book out, write “I would not care to come back as this woman’s shorts”.

She is not the first rider to confuse public and private places. 

But she is the first this season.

Having seen enough, I pointedly stare out the window until my stop; and when I look up, she is gone.

Spring.  It’s not for the faint of heart.  

And The Colors Are Brighter and I Can Jump Higher…

You’re gonna wanna hold on to your hats – and any other bits of clothing that tend to fly off when you’re excited – but I have something new to report.

Also – are you seated?

Because there are birds.

In the trees.

I know! It had me blinking, I can tell you that much, but there – up there – in the trees, are birds.

Singing, chirping, non-Crow birds.

Surely barefootedness is just around the corner?

It’s been a long season.

Oh, come on, Pearl! You live in Minnesota! It’s not like you didn’t see the winter coming.

I hear you. I acknowledge your line of thinking.

But you are wrong. I didn’t see winter coming, not for what it really is, just like I don’t really see summer coming. You must know by now that the only way one can live in a part of the world like Minnesota is to develop seasonal amnesia.

Winter? Said during the heavy-wet-wool-blanket of heat known as August, the word has no power at all. Winter is but a brisk breeze, longed-for, recalled fondly as an excuse to wear adorably fuzzy sweaters and drink ourselves silly during toasty parties with others of our kind.

Summer? Summer, recalled during the I-think-my-eyeballs-are-frozen depths of blue-aired winter, is a skin-kissed dream of dappled sunlight and freshly mown lawns and not the stay-on-your-side-of-the-bed-there’s-not-enough-talcum-powder-in-the-world experience sure to come…

We forget the seasons, each and every time.

And are therefore continually surprised.

By birds. In trees.

The birds have returned. Next week the last of the snow may – or may not! – disappear. Not far behind that will be the buds on the trees and crocuses pushing up through the grateful earth.

We are eager. We are giddy. And we are ready to expose our limbs to the public.

I mean it, guys. I’m going to take off my coat eventually.


In other news, my friend "lisleman" at A Few Clowns Short created an xtranormal clip of a post I wrote a while back of Mary and I talking during a serving gig. It is here, for your amusement. :-) I love it and want to thank him from the bottom of my heart!!

The Lady at the Bus Stop has her Demands

Should we run into each other today – and stranger things have happened! – you may notice that the tip of the thumbnail on my right hand is black.

Or, you may just notice my sparkling eyes. I have that effect on people.

Then again, odds are just as good that you’ll notice the blackened end of my right thumb, because once again, in an effort to clean up Our Fair City, I’ve soiled myself.

Or something to that effect.

You see, I hate graffiti. Do what you like with your own stuff, but leave my bus stop alone.

That’s right. I said “my bus stop”. It’s mine. Mine! Through eight years of steady patronage, including my fight to actually have the structure put into place and including the daily litter-picking-up service that I provide throughout my neighborhood, it’s mine.

Frankly, the whole neighborhood is mine. Just ask me.

And I’m tired of it being defaced.

So here’s what I want to see happen:

Just because someone’s written/scribbled on something doesn’t mean you have to leave it there. Cover it. Right away. If it’s city property, call 311.

That mail box hanging off the post by a nail. Maybe you re-affix it, put a fresh coat of paint on it? Even that large-mouth bass mailbox you’ve been secretly coveting would be an improvement.

I want people to sweep the sidewalks in front of their houses – not just some of us! All of us. I have a neighbor that takes a knife to the edges of his yard, runs it along where the grass meets the concrete. Talk about nice-looking! Wheee-doggie. I’m not suggesting we all do that, but really, if you do? There should be some sort of tax break, don’t you think?

And window cleaning. What’s happened to window cleaning? I know it’s a drag, but dagnabit people, I want to see my face in your window!

Which reminds me: what I do not want to see in your window is your butt. While I appreciate that you work out – and frankly, it shows! – I don’t want to know that you cook in the nude. You keep that up, you’re gonna burn something that shouldn’t get burned. If you’re not going to have respect for the people walking by, won’t you at least think of the Emergency Room personnel?

I have a list of other demands, but I think you get the picture. Every day, the snow pushes back just a little further; and under that pretty white snow are the cigarette butts, bus transfers, candy wrappers, and, perhaps, even lost gloves of this last season.

Spring is coming. Let’s greet it.

And put some dang pants on.

The Epantsipation Proclamation! May All The World Hear!

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I’m gonna need Monday to recover from the weekend.

It’s spring, after all, in a land where summer – our reward for having lived through another winter bent on destroying us – lasts less than four months. Every shift toward our full-blown and well-deserved compensation is precious.

You want to be awake for all of it.

The moments toward summer-in-earnest can be measured via clothing. And why not? Ask anyone from a northern clime about the moment they no longer have to dress with maximum skin coverage paramount, about the sense of ceremony as the winter boots are retired to the basement, the solemnity attached to the ice scraper’s removal from the car.

And now, well into spring, the raincoats are nearing the end of their usefulness, sandals are being worn with abandon, and the windows have been thrown wide.

Yesterday the temperatures in Minnesota inched toward 80 degrees, and I did something I haven’t done in over 200 days.

I took my pants off.

I wore shorts.

That’s right: I was epantsipated.

Brothers and sisters, throw off the shackles of long pants! Liberate yourself from your trouser-ed prison! Free those pale shins and let your knees breathe! Join me in the joys of unfettered stems!



Epantsipation, baby. Heady stuff.

Wrapped in a Light, Flaky Crust

Saturday night was a night of servitude.

Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to last Saturday night and the annual Pretentious Private School Fund Raiser.

I’ve got my black pants ready, my white button-down shirt (starched to a deep-fried, crackly crunch), my thick socks. I haven’t quite decided what to do with my hair yet – I’m thinking a hairnet says "I've brought you food, and it's hair-free!" – and I have located my black belt and black shoes.

I'm ready.

Banquet servers in the house!

I'm representin'.

Yes, that’s me, holding a heavy tray of smoke-infused-cheese-berry-garden-lizard croquettes. Would you care for one? They're fresh! Don’t forget your napkin!

It’s cash, okay? It’s cash.

And once that cash is in-hand, my fellow servers and I generally go out. We look mighty spiffy showing up at the bar in our black-and-white glory. We tip heavy and we throw our server “gang signs” out to the crowds, a saucy palm-up-holding-an-invisible-tray gesture that says "I got yer dinner right here".

Have you been served, baby?

Ack. We kid no one. We are clearly exhausted, clearly fresh off some fairly demeaning job where men in tight jackets (Look! It still fits!) look at everyone but their wives and women in taste-defying backless dresses point their silicone breasts at each other and dismissively gesture for us to take away the “butler-served appetizers”.

We mock them behind their backs. HA! We laugh at your five-bedroom/four-bath homes and your Escalades! We scoff at your Jimmy Choo shoes and your artfully tossed hair!

Well, okay. We laugh at their ostentatious displays of wealth, but we envy their shoes and their bank accounts.

Sigh.

I worked for cash Saturday night.

Turn It Up! or Your Taste in Music is So Awesome EVERYONE Should Hear it!

With all respect due to the owners of the cars that I can hear coming from a number of blocks away – assuming, of course, that they’re due any respect – can we just get it on the record right now that:

• Yes, you are very cool;
• Yes, we admire you;
• Yes, we approve of your taste in music; and
• Yes, we wish that we, like you, had it “going on”, “together” or whatever we’re saying these days.

Do I sound crabby?

I do?

Hmmm. I should work on that.

Well, I don’t mean to sound crabby, but sometimes, when a low, seismic shaking has seized the house, when the windows rattle and I am compelled to run outside to see the armored tanks that I assume must rumbling down my street only to discover that it’s actually a car with a stereo system designed for something more in keeping with the vibrations required to reduce buildings to rubble, I get tired.

Oh, so tired.

It’s not the music itself. It’s not even, per se, the decibel level of the music.

It’s the implied assumption that we all want to hear what you’ve been listening to because, gosh darn it, we see you as a trendsetter and an example to be followed.

Or perhaps you’re completely unaware that there are others in the neighborhood who may not be interested in what you’re listening to? That’s what gets my goat. And yes, I’ve been known to try to hide my goat by repeating “Live and let live, live and let live” until the urge to throttle goes away; but when it’s in the middle of the night, I sometimes forget my commitment to the humanities and think soothing and vengeful thoughts of retribution.

Yesssssss.

I picture myself dressed in black, ninja-like, rappelling down the side of my house somewhere around 3:00 a.m., slipping, cat-paw-silent, amongst the alleys to Mr. Bass Speakers’ house, surreptitiously letting the air out of his tires, sprinkling a little Buck Scent into the seams around his hood, leaving a cryptic and slightly sarcastic note about his taste in music and how much the neighborhood enjoys knowing that he’s six blocks from the house, five blocks away the house, four blocks away…

It’s these little fantasies that keep me smiling.

Childish?

Perhaps.

Satisfying?

Yes.

Next?

My plans to track down and tattoo the words “I Know How To Write My Name” on the foreheads of the person and/or persons who believe that the side of the garage is for just such a statement.

Stay tuned, kids!

I’m Going Through An Awkward Stage Right Now

Today – and for the first time in, oh, three or four hundred years – not only have I not worn winter boots, but I’m wearing a skirt.

Ankles, people. Ankles! Out there for just anyone to see!

I feel reckless and wild, so 1920s. Next thing you know I’ll be bobbing my hair and smoking tea with some palooka.

It’s a heady day the day the winter boots come off and the neck-to-ankle down coat stays on the peg at home rather than riding your winter-worn shoulders.

And there's more! Of course, I feel as if I’ve already thrown too much at you – all this excitement could easily lead to high-fives, the clinking of glasses, and other displays of emotion – but if I don’t tell someone, I’m going to burst.

You ready for this? Brace yourself. You may want to get a firm hold on a large bit of furniture…

In the next couple weeks, I’m going to swap out my winter clothes for my summer clothes.

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

I do feel the word “giddy” is over-used, but it keeps springing to mind.

It’s tricky business, this changing of the wardrobe. The month of March cannot be trusted – and frankly, April’s a suspicious looking block of time as well – but who can resist the lure of the under-the-bed storage boxes? Will it snow again? It might! Do I care? No, my friends; I do not. The end is near and it looks like a strappy sandal.

Just think. I have clothes that I haven’t seen in six months, so basically what I have is new clothes!

Do I like them? I’ll bet I do!

Will they still fit me? I certainly hope so!

If I don’t like them, can I borrow yours? Thanks, buddy!

You see? This is how it starts. One glorious step at a time.

And first we take our boots off.

Have You Checked Your Pockets?

Central Daylight Savings Time has struck again; and as in years prior, another hour has been taken from us.

Never mind that we’ll get it back in the fall.

It’s not the same.

I worry about that hour. Will it be okay? Where has it gone?

Maybe it’s with the other things gone from my home: one fuzzy blue slipper absent since the locally attended and suspiciously named International Chili Cook-Off, the mysterious disappearance of a 40-watt bulb from a living room lamp.

Or perhaps that hour’s gone the way of my often misplaced and then rediscovered faith in humanity and I will find it on the bus, perhaps in a stranger’s smile.

Either way, my concern over the disappearance of an hour of my life via government decree – as opposed to, say, the loss of an hour due to oversleeping or drunken misadventure – is nothing in comparison to the enjoyment of the extra hour of sunlight.

The snow is gone; the sun is out; and Minneapolis needs only the gully-washing rainstorm that will sweep the streets and lawns clean of the dirty, gritty reminders of the inconvenience of the last six months to bring on the glorious green of spring.

Nevertheless, it’s all a big head game, this Daylight Savings Time. The day’s as long – and as short – as it ever was.

Still. I wish my lost hour the best of luck, wherever it is and hope it remembers that spare time will always have a home with me.

Plus I'm Already Here

I had a comment, a few days back, from someone who wanted to know why in the world I would live in Minnesota, knowing full well that, several times a year, the weather would try to kill me.

I wept, of course. She would never know the lure of the State of Minnesota, its shape pleasantly reminiscent of a pitcher of beer, the haunting calls of its loons, the erstwhile Minnesota Vikings.

I have lived in Minnesota and Wisconsin all my life. I'm not sure why I haven't moved to somewhere warm. I worry about that, sometimes.

Why do I continue to live in this part of the world?

So I sat down, went looking inside my head for what I could tell her, what I could tell you: the people who know not the sensation of a freezing eyeball on an increasingly bleary January morning or the burning red cheeks of the heartily, healthily cold.

Sit back. The list of both pros and cons is staggering.

Pros:

We're an easygoing people. Very live-and-let-live. Frankly, it's not so much that we're cool with whatever you're doing, we just don't want to know. Whatever you're doing, just keep it at your place. Mow your yard, shovel your sidewalk, keep your dogs quiet, and we'll get along fine.

We're an attractive people: bright eyed and prompt and every one of us, as Garrison says, "above average". I can personally guarantee that 90% of my friends are really quite attractive. Ask them! They'll tell you.

We have good public schools. To those of you on the wrong side of the Atlantic (booya!) I believe that means something different. I forget, right now, just what the difference is, but I'm sure you'll figure it out.

And what about location, location, location? Witness our reasonably-natured friends, the Canadians, our northern border. You don't get better neighbors than that. There's a lot of land up there, a lake or two, as I recall; and Mother Nature and our shared stand-offish natures ensure that we continue to nod at each other on the road and just keep on going. There are no US/Canadian skirmishes in Minnesota.

Complete attitude adjustments every three months -- tell me that doesn't sound good to you! Tell me you don't want to know the wonder of the giddy day that you can step outside in a pair of shoes (not boots) that tread on dry concrete (not the striated, potholed surfaces of the last four - five months!) Who doesn't remark upon the moment they see the young people in the park, throwing balls at each other, daring to wear hopeful shorts, momentarily-shocking tank tops, exposing more flesh than you've noticed on another human being in months.

That there is worth the price of admission.

But then, see, that's where we, in the interest of time and space, start running into problems. Because now we have to look at

Cons:

Truth be told, there have been an influx of ugly people lately. Some of them are identified, not visually, but aurally. You just have to listen and you'll learn more than you wanted to know. Yes, yes. We hear you. Now shut up about it already. Pull up your pants, take your hat off in a restaurant, wipe your shoes off at the door, lower your voices, and try not to be a jackass.

Especially that last one. I specifically recall my Mom and Dad instructing me that I should try not to be a jackass.

My Mom and Dad told me, now I'm telling you. We good?

And then there's the clothing. Have you considered what living in Minnesota does to one's wardrobe, the constant shifting of "summer clothes" and "winter clothes"? Of varying lengths of jackets and coats? I live in a house with two closets -- apparently those people had, honestly, four changes of clothing. Four!

But I digress.

Please believe me when I tell you that the clothes I am wearing (jeans, cotton long-sleeved tee under a butt-length-ed, long-sleeved dark red cashmere sweater -- garage sale find #6 for the '09 season as part of a $2 as-much-as-you-can-put-in-here brown paper bag) is nothing like the no-sleeved cotton dress I was wearing four months ago. The cotton dress is rolled up tightly and stuffed into a long, flat Tupperware container under the bed, awaiting seasonal dispensation.

The tricky part, of course, is that you own these things, these things you wear for a limited time of the year and then you put them away, yes? And then the seasons shift again, you re-introduce the cotton dress to your wardrobe only to find that it has, inexplicably, shrunk. It's the damnedest thing.

Oh, and then there's the extreme swings in temperature. Possibly -50 Fahrenheit? Possibly 112 Fahrenheit? The weather wants to kill you, but you can't let it. Really it's best if you just think of it as a game.

So why do I stay?

I stay for the people, really. As you stay for yours. Especially the sharp, funny, kind, flawed ones.

Still. I should get out of Minnesota more often. And really, we should all get together more often -- I mean, times when we're not trying to kill each other -- and have a beer or go swimming (but not at the same time, unless you're into that sort of thing) or go see a movie or something.

Could we see a movie and then go have a beer?

Actually, that sounds pretty good. Let's plan on that. But let's do it somewhere warm.

We’ll Be Having Venison and Root Vegetables for Dinner Next Week

You can get a lot in a city, but you can’t get a garden in your own yard – at least not with the size of my yard – and with Spring truly here, the urge to drive my hands into the earth has become embarrassingly present.

I have flower beds, of course, and flower boxes on the house. A Stella daylily and three Hollyhocks were added to the alley just last Sunday.

But there’s no tomatoes.

And the lack of my own tomatoes?

That’s wrong.

Honestly, after several (seemingly) years of non-stop winter, I’m so taken with the explosion of life outdoors that the promise of flowers makes my pupils dilate like a speed freak's.

But life isn't always about flowers, is it?

Sometimes, it's about tomatoes and other things that you crave, fresh.

Oh, sure, I suppose I could plant them in a large pot in the backyard, but what would I complain about then?

And that got me thinking.

What would – what would it look like if we could only eat what could be grown locally?

For me? Oh, we’ve already moved far from the tasty tomato, my friend. We’re looking at rows and rows of empty grocery store aisles. No oranges! No papaya or mango or bananas or any fruit at all outside of berries and apples.

We’d have to go back to buying fruit out of Mexicans’ back seats!

My extremities go cold as I consider the foods that would disappear completely if not seasonally.

Somebody hold me.

Rice. Peanuts. Jicama. Water chestnuts.

Avocadoes.

Avocadoes?!

Oh, God! Not the guacamole!

Ladies and gentlemen, I never fully realized this, but I’m living in a house of cards.

I’m Mad At Spring

We were right on track – and by “we”, I mean Minnesota – with this whole seasonal thing. You know: Fall, Winter, Spring, with the eventual hope of Summer.

Summer!! What's that you say? Unfrozen water? Temperatures that can’t kill you? The ability to leave the house without dressing in multiple layers first?

It was all working out so nicely.

Just two weeks ago, we were well on our way. After nearly five months of the porch/trunk of your car doubling as a freezer; five months of the weird sensation of being able, when well below freezing, to feel your eyeballs in your skull; after five months of the formation of strange ice balls in your nostrils, the sun came out. The glaciers in the front yard beat a silent and sullen retreat; and Minnesotans stepped into the sunshine, blinking their tiny pink eyes, their pale faces turned toward the sun…

We went crazy as only those in the northern climes can. Boots were kicked off and left in sandy corners of the entryway. Heavy coats and hats were abandoned in favor of jaunty jackets and cute little caps. Parks erupted in spontaneous games of Frisbee. Teenagers put on shorts and tank tops and stood goose-pimpled and defiant while the older folk tut-tutted.

Windows were thrown open.

But then something happened, something very un-Spring, something I certainly did not authorize and cannot condone.

Spring went away.

The wind blew its way into town, ripping the smiles from our faces. We skittered down the streets like fallen leaves, back to our heavy coats.

We closed our windows.

And I’m against it.

I don’t know who I have to get drunk and dance with to get Spring back, but by golly, I’m doin’ it.

I do it for the people.

I’m doin’ it for you, man.

You can owe me.

Happy – Hic! – St. Paddy’s Day

Tuesday was St. Paddy’s Day, a day normally reserved for quiet contemplation with a book of poetry, perhaps a cup of tea.

But they do it differently in St. Paul. Beer! Can you imagine? Beer and whisky associated with the Irish…

What can one do? When in Rome…

Kathy and I met at her house at 11:00 and went to Modern Café (or as I childishly refer to it: the Modren). A cup of butternut squash soup apiece, their roast beef special – this is what we in Minnesota refer to as a “base”.

Because, you know, since I realized last week that I’m 47, rather than the 48 I’d been telling everyone since January, I feel like having a beer.

We took the bus from Northeast to Minneapolis, where we met up with Steph; and from there we caught another bus to St. Paul. The bus was the perfect place to plan the upcoming Art-A-Whirl garage sale, maybe wheedle “new” clothes out of your friends. (Kathy and I agreed that while we thought we could probably fit into Steph’s shirts and jackets – Stephanie being a slender young thing – we wouldn’t be able to get into her pants no matter how many beers we bought her. Ba-dum-bum!)

At the Top Hat, a bar crawling with the green-clad, the glitter-strewn, the joyfully drunken, we met with Kathy’s ex-workmate.

It was at the Top Hat, too, that we agreed to avoid the Nomad, where they lock the doors at 3:00 and the beer is free until – until! – someone uses the bathroom.

Can you picture it? Can you picture the abuse directed toward the poor woman who heads towards the bathroom first? Because you know it will be a woman to need to go first!

Not for me, sir!

Kathy’s friend Jeff invited us back to the Radisson, where an enormous family gathering (his!) happens every year for St. Patrick’s Day. Children everywhere, elderly folks at tables, everyone in green.

Two separate leprechauns pushed corned beef sandwiches and cupcakes on us, and we gradually sobered…

Dammit!

From there, we went to The Liffey and then to McGovern’s.

But by then, the suspicion had become the obvious.

I was getting sick.

It might’ve been an unseasonably warm day in March in Minnesota, but it was still March in Minnesota. The glands in my throat declared war, my head pounding with the intensity of a thousand clichés, the sound of my breathing reminiscent of someone playing the accordion.

Badly.

By the time we reached the free bus home around 6:00, I was outrageously sick.

And I know it’s going to be hard for work to swallow, but I called in sick the next day. My voice alone (picture a large, mud-encrusted toad, perhaps one with a cigar in its mouth) should tell them the truth, but calling in sick after St. Paddy’s Day looks suspicious, no?

Next year, I am so not being Irish.