peevish mama

One of my all time favorite things about this city is the May Day parade and festival at Powderhorn park. Even though the weather is usually cold, gusty, rainy and generally nasty, Minneapolitans give the final word to the date on the calendar and turn out in droves to frolic on the newly greened hills of the park. The Heart of the Beast puppet theater shows up with their giant freaky puppets and all the fringey, unwashed, dreadlocked, young, old, and in-betweens don their most sparkly, tattered, peculiar get-ups and come out to mill around, eat fair food, and watch the epic Tree of Life Ceremony from a riotous patchwork of quilts thrown up on the hills. It’s like a big roving carnival, with jugglers, stilt walkers, plumed ladies, fire breathers and musicians. As drumbeats, clapping and yelling grow in intensity, the Sun Flotilla gets paddled across the pond until it reaches the shore to wake the Tree of Life. It’s awesome. It’s colorful, pagean, freaky, and optimistic. It’s an excuse to collect in one spot with people from all walks of life. It’s a celebration. It’s a collective sigh of relief. It’s SPRING!

Only a fool, or a three year old, would believe that spring is around the corner. Yes, the snow may be melting, slowly exposing street grime that can be carbon tested back to November. Yes, we can see patches of sodden grass and all manner of balls and toys that have been buried for months. But it’s only March 9, which means that we, my Minnesota friends, are far from finished. But if you’re like me, you are finished. You’re ding-a-ling-a-DONE. I’ve exhausted all my love for stews, reading, and cozy fires. I want crocuses, sunshine and pollen. STAT. Christmas, Valentines Day, Tiny Dancing and the Olympics are gone, leaving nothing to look forward to. The worst is over, yes. But as far as I’m concerned, the hard part starts now. The thaw in Minnesota is a long, drawn out, dramatic affair – it is Mother Nature being the biggest, most flamboyant tease she knows how to be. One step forward. Two steps back. Lubricated by a whole hell of a lot of mud. My kids have forsaken their winter coats for weeks now and I can hardly blame them. I feel the same way about my matronly puffer. But dare I wash them and put them away? Only if I want to bring about a giant blizzard followed by a freezing clipper. Sigh. At least our thick winter blood is coming in handy. Dash and I spent most of Sunday sitting on our stoop, reading the paper, watching the kids play, tilting our faces to the watery sun. My kids alternated between snow boots, rain boots and bare feet all day long. Some people might think we’re crazy. But we know we’re not crazy. We’re just desperate.

I am absolutely besotted with this concept. Coined by French philosopher, Gaston Bachelard, it loosely translates to pathways of desire. It’s the worn paths of hard packed dirt that naturally occur when people repeatedly find the most compelling (or shortest) way to get from point A to point B.

Do you remember? Do you remember all the paths of desire on your old schoolyard? The well loved artery from the merry-go-round, where you’d spin and spin until you felt sick, to the small clearing at the edge of the woods where you could lie in the leaves and squint through your lashes at sky and an impossible tangle of black branches? It’s the path a child is likely to take, or a dog.

Sometimes, the shortest, most logical route is stamped in concrete and we know nothing of a path of desire. And sometimes, the concrete does not suffice and our feet are impelled to cut through, veer off, bisect swaths of land, following an intangible rationale not accessible to city planners and engineers. It’s just so romantic. It’s the intersection of geometry and emotion – like frown lines, laugh lines.

Right now, with the snow covering all the sidewalks and paths, there are chemins du désir everywhere. Down by the creek in front of our house, the snow is padded down in patterns that don’t match up to the cement walks I know to be underneath. Come spring, we well-behaved Minnesotans will take to the pavement and forget all about the blanket of snow that innocently gave us the freedom to follow our heart’s desire.

For a poetic exploration of les chemins du désir in the beleaguered city of Detroit, check out this post over at Sweet Juniper.

For now, anyway. We’re in a bone deep freeze here in Minnesota, and have been for over a week now. It’s the kind of cold that seriously roughs you up when you dare step outside. It smacks your cheeks, takes a punch at your chest, and then frisks your entire body with icy fingers – a cheeky bully trying to find a way in, past the layers of goose down, fleece and wool. The only good thing I can say about this kind of sustained cold is that when it finally breaks, ten degrees, twenty degrees suddenly feels like open coat weather. As the days grow longer by barely perceptible increments, scarves will hang loosely around impervious necks, gloves will be stuffed into coat pockets, and jackets will litter the edges of outdoor ice rinks as we go about our business in the kind of weather that would keep most reasonable people inside clutching mugs of tea. We may cringe and scurry now, but our blood thickens, our flesh adjusts, we set our jaws until we’re able to take a swipe back at old man winter – beating the dirty bastard at his own game with the fire in our bellies. We are warriors and we know our time is nigh. Bam. Pow. Thwack. Aaarghhh. 

Of course the SIX gallons of WHOLE milk that I bought by accident (don’t ask) should help matters. Have you had whole milk on your cereal lately? It’s freakin’ delicioso. Bring on the winter blubber. KAPOW!

And Happy Birthday to my dad, Lelo, who today is 65 and fabulous! How many guys do you know who can do this – at any age?

is a walk around the lake. I was fed up. Bored. Antsy. Annoyed with myself for all of the above. So I took a walk. And on my walk I saw clouds the color of bruises and sherbet. I saw the sun set and the moon rise, innocent and optimistic, nearly full and dangling from fishing line. I saw an island of seagulls perched in the middle of the lake like origami flicking to life. I saw a girl pull out her ponytail holder and her beautiful hair tumble out in wave of auburn. I saw the city shimmering silver, a magical two-dimensional movie set. I saw a giant bald eagle in the same spot we saw him yesterday, perched on a lamppost, King of the Lake. He craned his neck to watch me beneath him. He looked massive against a darkening sky and I whispered, Hail King.

We’ve been on a bit of a music tear lately, although all these late night trips to First Ave make us seem a lot cooler than we are. Doctor Dash and I have devised a bit of a system for the old/infirm/lazy. We call First Ave during the day to find out what time the main act is coming on (tip: they know exactly what time by around 4 o’clock) and swoop in about ten minutes prior to grab drinks and shimmy as close to the stage as possible, avoiding wild looking boys with flailing arms whenever possible. I like to dance as much as the next person, but I know how to do so without cracking any noses, which I’m not sure can be said for everyone.

A couple weeks ago we went to see Atmosphere and although Doctor Dash had predicted a testosterone filled environment (a warning to me upon seeing me emerge resplendent in lipstick and bling), I was a bit taken aback by the energy in that place before they came on. For the first time, as a bevy of young bucks bounced in place and loosened their taught neck muscles like boxers spoiling for a fight, I thought to myself, Jesus, this might get rough. Maybe I really am too old for this business. It didn’t help that the start time was super late, giving everyone plenty of time to get drunk and rowdy – pumped, if you will. Not a huge fan of pumped.

Nevertheless, if you don’t know Atmosphere and like hip hop, they are totally worth checking out. They are  local (went to Washburn High School) and they can and do turn it out for their fans. Big time. They put on an amazing show and as Slug tore through song after song, rapping a white hot streak (his lung capacity is truly astonishing), I started to understand the crowd. They knew all the words, shouting them out with fists in the air, veins bulging at their necks. They were there to pay homage to one bad ass Minnesota boy with some serious street cred. Slug’s partner in crime, Ant, spun beats of gold from his tables clad in a silky white shirt, slicked back hair, fu manchu stache and impenetrable expression, looking a bit like Steven Segal. I will say that the free flowing marijuana eventually took the edge off the jumpy crowd, as did Slug’s near constant banter and appreciation. Maybe it makes me a high maintenance audience member, but I love to be loved up. I think we have a really smart, rich, complex music scene here in Minneapolis and it’s nice to get some props. You could tell he was fired up to be there, playing in his hometown in one of the best places to hear music on earth. Slug raps about everything from hockey hair to a girl who is like a drug to Lyndale Avenue to killing his boss. It is quite raw and quite beautiful. The next day I felt drained, sort of battered and buffeted by the whole experience. It has taken all these many days to digest that concert and I think it was one of those shows where the performers put out so much emotion and energy, that you can’t help but do the same – absorbing and then sending back the love, the angst, and the anger. They were gooooood, so good that next time I go, I just might find myself feeling, um, pumped.

Two nights ago, one of my Babe-O-Matics, Shady, flew in from Chicago to join us for Arctic Monkeys. A departure from our recent hip hoppyness, Arctic Monkeys was Dash’s idea, but I LOVED it. In contrast to Atmosphere, who are around our age, Arctic Monkeys are YOUNG. They look so young, in fact, with their floppy ringlets of hair, that it’s almost impossible to believe that they’re as talented as they are, that they rock the way they do. The three front men look like they could be in a hair styling textbook illustrating the different ways hair can part. But no matter – they’re completely adorable. The lead singer, Alex Turner, is an unbelievable vocalist. His voice is so facile, so slippery – he runs it with no effort, no straining, no sweat. Unbelievable. And he’s super sexy, like a young Mick Jagger but not as peacocky. As it turns out, however, I do have an age threshold for unseemly chops licking and I located it on Saturday night. Just a wittle baby. And the drummer, Matt Helders, well, what can I say? Dash, Shady and I were all in love with the drummer. He and his lovable little fro just powered every song like a mad charging bull, pulling the rest of the band behind him. Screaming. Breakneck. Breathless. Uh mazing. Thoroughly satisfying, totally impressive, those boys have got some serious rock chops.

And now, at the risk of neglecting our children and our friends, I think we’re going to take a little break from our nocturnal musical adventures. Although I am loving Solid Gold, and I hear they’re coming soon . . .

Today I stumbled upon this very cool grass roots movement to preserve independent local businesses and am feeling halleluia grateful that there are people out there who are thinking what I’m thinking, but actually get off their fat asses to do something about it. I think this is a beautiful, inspired idea and although it’s something a lot of us feel on an amorphous, gut level, it’s helpful to have it all boiled down to the nitty gritty.

In Minneapolis, we are blessed with countless galleries, clothing boutiques, restaurants, book stores, coffee shops, ice cream shops, hardware stores and garden stores tucked away into our neighborhoods like aces and queens in a deck of cards. That’s why we Minneapolitans are all still here – paying more money for less house and putting up with the airplane noise. We stay so we can see more blue signs than red during election season, for the privilege of having the lakes belong to all of us, not just the lucky few with houses around them, and because of our neighborhood businesses. We’re here because we have sidewalks, which means there’s a designated spot for chatting with neighbors and, um, walking and hey, we actually have somewhere to walk to!

Within walking distance of my house I could purchase a pair of antlers, a bat skeleton or a dried Manzanita branch at Leuhmann, a card, a Laguiole wine opener, a diary or a baby gift at Patina, a chocolate shake and a burger at the Malt Shop, a glass of Prosecco and a Walleye Po’Boy at Blackbird Cafe, or sauteed Australian sea bass, parsley puree, parsnips and creamy mussel foam with a side of pappardelle with black truffles at Heidi’s.  And that’s just one corner! Also at that intersection are an eco-luxe home design and furnishings store called Casa Verde, an upholstery shop, a bird supplies store, and the very sweet dry cleaner we go to. If I walk the other direction I can get to the library, my supermarket, a massage and acupuncture place called Praxis, and a cute new yoga place called Sigh.  

We’re all busy and trying like nobody’s business to multitask – to crank out those errands in the two and a half hours the kid is at preschool. If I’m at Target and I need thank you notes, I’ll probably save myself the trip to the neighborhood card shop and just pick them up. The 3/50 Project is a good reminder to stop and think about where else I could be spending my dollars. Where will they do more good, be more enriching for our community, and sustain the kind of diverse and colorful businesses I want within walking distance of my house? 

It’s not about spending more money – it’s about being smart about where we spend our money. It’s about not taking our little businesses for granted.

Here are the three businesses where I plan to show a little love this month. And please, oh please, tell me yours. We all love a hot tip.

Grand Cafe – my friend Lady Doctah K swept me and my knee away for a little lunchy on Friday and I have been kicking myself ever since that I don’t go Grand Cafe every single damn day. It’s been far too long and how, but how could I have forgotten how charming and perfect this little place is? Here is an example of a place that I love which could die for lack of attention – like a plant – and then I would spend the rest of my days moaning about how much I miss Grand Cafe while secretly (and rightfully) feeling wretchedly guilty. But it’s not too late! It’s still cool and unfussy inside, in that Parisian, worn wood, tiny booth, big kitchen stuffed in the back that turns out miracles on white plates kind of way. I had the polenta with a spinach, caramelized onion and artichoke sauté in a beautiful pool of Romesco sauce and it was heavenly. The polenta looked like two huge scallops and was light, nutty and the perfect sponge for the sweet, peppery, almond-crunchy Romesco. Lady Doctah K had a beautiful potato parsnip soup with a swirl of smoked almond picata and a delicious looking Caesar salad which came with a crispy piece of pancetta sitting on top of it like a jaunty hat. I tried the pancetta and it was like a succulent pig and a crispy potato chip shattered all taboos, defied their families, fell in love and had a beautiful saltydelicious baby.

Cliché - my friend Lady Canada (I’ve decided everyone from book club will be a lady), who also happens to be a personal style consultant, told me about Cliché and although I hate to give away my secret gems, I must and will for the greater good. I love this store. It’s totally quirky, hip and edgy yet lady-like. Husband and wife team Joshua and Delayna Sundberg feature lots of local talent and manage to make the store seem casual and almost homey. Cliché’s selection perfectly dovetails with my mix it up, high low, frilly butch, fashion ethos. Doctor Dash bought me a really cool bag there for Christmas by a local designer named NIKI – it was reasonably priced, beautifully made and cooler than any IT bag out there for quadruple the price. Lovey. Love. Love.

Uncommon Gardens - There are a number of lovely garden stores around here, so it’s hard to pick one, but I like Uncommon Gardens because the owner, Peggy Poore, and all of her staff are very nice women who know their stuff. They’re willing to help but equally good at backing off when you need a little space to screw up your face trying to get a mental image of your side yard. There are a couple of cats roaming around, which amuse Devil Baby, and it’s compact enough that I can let the kids wander while I shop. She specializes in hard to find plant varietals and cool, out-of-the-ordinary garden decor, so you could go nuts if you were a real garden geek. I am not, but I’ve always found everything I need and more. I happen to love this garden maven’s beautiful space and I would like her business to thrive like a robust (insert appropriate geeky plant simile here).

Share the love. For more info on the 3/50 Project.

                                                       Photo by Helmut Newton

My friend, Red Vogue, saved me today. She spirited me away to June, a beautiful vintage clothing store she recently discovered. I didn’t take much convincing. You’ll love it, you can just sit in the big chairs and I’ll bring you things to try on. It’s totally you. Beautiful store, beautifully edited, something something something . . . bustier with feathers . . .  

Feathers? Feathers. Now you’ve got my attention, lady. 

I’ve said it before, but normally, the change of seasons gets me all a dither about clothes. Not this spring. Right now it’s thermal tees and yoga pants every day. Totally boring. Completely utilitarian. No beauty. No creativity. No edge. No frilly. No feminine. No flirty. No nothing.

It felt so good to be out, to try on beautiful clothes, to finger dainty evening bags and chunky cocktail rings. I got to sink into a cushy chair and page through fashion photography books while Red Vogue emerged through red velvet curtains from time to time in different pieces. Why haven’t I shopped with her before? She used to be a model for Christ’s sake! Her legs are impossibly long and she carries herself with the insouciance and languid grace of a crane. Clothes look amazing on her. Not to mention scarves – she rocks scarves like a second skin – like the French.

We both scored. She got a gorgeous pencil skirt and black kitten heels. I got a sweet teal dress and a sexy 70’s inspired cover up for the pool this summer. I think my Visa might have squealed when it saw the light of day after all this time.

Then we went to Liberty for custard. And then home. A perfect afternoon. Jesusmaryjoseph, I needed that. I feel like I got to exhale for the first time in weeks.

And then, as if that wasn’t enough, Red Vogue emails me the Helmut Newton photo above. Slay me now. I will look at this every day until I’m off these wretched crutches. 

Merci mille fois, Red Vogue.

I don’t consider myself much of an innovator, although there have been things that I thought of that then ended up being invented by someone else. Like tampon boxes with tampons of different absorbancies. A few lites, a few mediums, some extra strength. Ooops. Sorry, male readership – that’s gross, I know. Shake it off.

Yesterday afternoon, however, I believe I invented something. Something good. Something really, really good. All you will need is your Ipod and a pair of those big ass cushy headphones. I’m sorry, but earbuds will simply not do. You need to be surrounded in music – lost in music – fully bombarded. This is key. Then you need to get yourself down to Lake Harriet and walk to the middle. Stand there, face the sun, blast your tunes, take a look around. 360˚. See all the people on the path? See how tiny they are? That’s how tiny you are. Not quite invisible, but definitely unrecognizable. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Right about now you will begin to feel that itch, that bump de bump in your rump. You will feel like dancing and here’s the invention part. Do it. Just let it all hang out. And after a couple of songs, if you get to unzip your coat because it’s 40˚ warmer than it has been and your inside-out flannel shirt that you wear as pajamas is flapping in the wind, then so much the better. And if it’s so warm and sunny that you take off your big black gloves for the first time in weeks and stuff them in your back pockets, then so much the better. Hips down, arms up, shake it my babies. Get your groove on brothers and sisters. It feels amaaaaazing.

Yes, I was a tad hungover and yes, it was really really warm out, but I’m telling you – I’m telling you – this is a shot of joy on ice.

You know how every city has its roller-dancing kings and queens – leathery skin, shiny shorts, walkmans, knee highs, sinewy extremities, blissed out expressions. You see how happy they look as they bust out their best roller skating moves, smooth and sexy – in a world of their own. Well, that’s what I felt like. I felt like the Sun King at Lake Calhoun. He wears peachy pink shorts, no shirt, has a blond mane cascading down his back and every exposed inch of his skin is as nut brown tan as a well worn saddle. He’s Tarzan butter on those roller skates and anytime the kids and I catch a glimpse of him, it causes a happy ruckus in our family. He’s odd, he’s happy, he’s doing his thing and doesn’t give a shit what anyone thinks. What’s not to love about that? We all need to take a bite of that apple.

As I was shimmying and shammying and busting out my smoothest moves in the middle of the lake, I thought of an old boyfriend from college. We used to go to the soccer fields at night to mess around. It was huge and open, and we felt invisible. It was fun. We were exposed to everything, but not. Hiding in plain sight. We could have seen campus security approaching from a mile away. It was the perfect place for a little smoochin’ and a huggin’.

The beauty of this middle of the lake dancing is that it’s fleeting, seasonal – a uniquely winter pleasure. This summer, I’ll try to pick out my spot on the smooth water and it’ll be hard to believe that’s where I danced.

I’m also thinking this would be great at night. Twinkling lights. Blue black snow. Mmmm. Sexy. Take your lover and an extra pair of head phones.

Here’s what kept me groovin’ yesterday.

I Want to Take You Higher – Sly and the Family Stone
Honeybear – Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Mind Power – Tribe Called Quest (OHHHH, MY!)
Inspiration Information – Shuggie Otis
More Than This – Roxy Music (OHHHHHH – dreamy.)
Otherside – Chili Peppers (always, always. slay me now, I love this song.)
Save Room – John Legend (pant – don’t even get me started. This might be one to save for date night tiny dancing.)
Me, Myself and I – De La Soul.
This Is All I Came To Do – Dinosaur Jr.

And then I left. Now I’m all jacked up. If you see a tiny dancer out there, come say hi. But make a Y with your arms as you approach, so I know I know you and don’t dance away from you like I did to the chocolate lab people yesterday.

Do you trust me? You trust me, right? When have I led you astray? Never, right? Tiny dancing. Try it, you’ll love it.

Yesterday I happened upon the Kite Festival at Lake Harriet. It was about four o’clock, blazingly sunny, bracingly cold, and the sight of an endless blue sky full of colorful kites took my breath away. Apparently, I am incapable of enjoying anything but vicariously, through the eyes of my family. Within seconds I was on my cell to Doctor Dash: Can you bundle up the kids and get down here? This is so cool! And bring the camera . . .

Instead of my customary loop around the lake, I made a beeline for the kites right across the middle. I crunched across the snow, digging the white desert-like expanse . . . I felt under the influence of something . . . beauty, chance, cold, sun, music, whimsy. Who flies kites in the middle of winter? En masse? Overcome, I busted out a few fierce warriors when I got to the middle, my face to the sun.

Fucking ya! I wanted to yell.

I kept walking, utterly transfixed by the kites. There was a huge dragon, a turquoise fish, an enormous striped parabola, an eagle, and countless little kites all with long streaming tails, undulating in the wind. I was listening to Lambchop, and if you’ve listened to Lambchop you’ll understand when I say the kites looked like elated spermatazoa, woozily swimming their way toward a golden shining egg . . . the sun.

Fucking ya! I wanted to yell.

And since apparently I also can’t enjoy anything without my crazy monkey mind plucking the experience right out of the air, tucking it under its hairy arm and running around in frenetic circles . . . I thought: What if one of these kites suddenly hit a rogue current that caused it to plummet and spear me in the cranium? I put my hood up. The headline in the Southwest Pages would read: Mother of Three Killed in Freak Accident at Lake Harriet Kite Festival. There would be all sorts of heartfelt testimony by kite enthusiasts, evincing their deepest sympathies . . . but affirming that kite flying is really one of the safest sports there is. Meager consolation for me, however. And my surviving brood.

I eventually hooked up with Doctor Dash and the kids, but by that time the kite flyers were all pulling down their kites with frostbitten fingers. I was only able to get one picture and it certainly doesn’t capture the magic of a mere twenty minutes prior. I was disappointed that they missed it. We tramped to the car to, me feeling cold, morose, plagued by death.

My first mistake was calling Dash. Why didn’t I just indulge in a little unexpected beauty on my own? Why didn’t I just let myself do that? My second mistake was letting myself get jostled out of the moment by my ridiculous mental peregrinations. Can’t I do anything . . . experience anything without thinking?

Why do I do this? This catastrophizing? This calamatizing? I know I have an active imagination, but this is such an incredible waste of mental energy. Even I, of the relentless inner chatter, realize that. Tomorrow I’m getting some wisdom teeth pulled. I have been putting this off for nine years. I know it has been nine years because I was pregnant with Saint James when I first heard that I needed my wisdom teeth pulled (which wisdom teeth are, incidentally, not bothering anyone, except, apparently every dentist that lays eyes on them). Enough different dentists have told me to get this done that I have finally been convinced that this isn’t just some evil plot to hoodwink me out of my pearlies and my benjamins. This is happening at ten a.m. tomorrow and I am certain I will choke on a piece of gauze and that will be it for me. (Not funny, this has happened . . . to a teenage boy, making it even more tragic, if that’s possible.) I am not looking forward to being sedated and having my mouth mutilated by a man with hairy arms holding medieval torture implements. I suppose I should forgive myself if my thoughts are awash in black right now . . . Just please, no . . . no . . . accidents . . .

Quite frankly, if I had to choose, I’d rather go by way of a well-placed kite to the skull.

Yesterday I walked around my lake, my love, the beautiful Harriet. I do my best thinking when I walk around the lake. Something about completing that circle makes me feel like I have accomplished something, closed a loop, tied a thread in this life of so many unraveling threads.

About a quarter of the way around, the sun was just starting to sink below the tops of the trees, puffing up its chest to let out one last roar – spilling breathtaking light of peaches and tangerines over the lake. The snow looked like sherbet. I needed a long cold spoon.

I will learn how to use my camera.

About half way around, the sky was streaked in purples and reds, oranges and blues. The clouds pulled in diaphanous swathes of pigment like the eye shadow of a drag queen after a long night – swollen iridescence, garish, hopeful, disappointed. Beautiful and sad.

I will stop swearing. Out loud.

Three quarters of the way around, the city shimmered beyond the lake, almost touchable, looking like something out of a magical pop-up book. Oz.

I will be more patient and present with my inner circle – with the little people who didn’t get to pick me – and with the one who actually did.

Full circle. I turned my back to the lake and headed home.

Sometimes I just can’t believe I live here.  I can’t believe everyone doesn’t live here.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:  I love Minneapolis.  I was walking around Lake Harriet today, grooving to some tunes and compulsively zipping and unzipping my parka for optimal temperature control when I saw something so adorable, I had to stop and stare, a huge grin on my face.  There was a guy on cross country skis who had lassoed himself to his dog.  The pooch was mushing for all he was worth and was actually going so fast that the guy lost all control and royally wiped out . . . snow and skis flying every which way.  The dog stopped immediately, turned around and waited patiently for his owner to get his shit together.  That’s when I noticed the dog was wearing a fleece vest.  This little duo typifies the particular breed who lives here.  Here’s a guy who wanted to take advantage of thesunnygorgeousfreezingcold day with his dog and decided to try something new . . . something potentially mutually enjoyable and exciting.  It took an idea, a little extra planning and time, and off they went.  It reminded me of the woman who bikes around with a tiny dog strapped to her chest.  The dog is totally stuck, legs splayed forward, but the look of ecstasy on its face says it all.

And today Doctor Dash and I were eating a little lunch, gazing out the window when we noticed some people were ice skating on the creek.  Back and forth they glided . . .  I felt like I had been air dropped into a Courier and Ives painting.  Again, these people could have gone skating anywhere – every neighborhood has its own park with its own rink, not to mention multiple groomed rinks on every lake.  But these people got a little idea, and decided to try this instead. They decided to forgo the warming houses and rubber mats and sit on the banks of the creek to strap on their skates.  Not the easiest option, but for them, today, the best.

Here’s to all the winter warriors who live and thrive in this fair white city.

I am feeling much better today.  It seems Peevish Mama has a little flair for the drama.  No one, however, can accuse me of keeping my emotions pent up.  It’s all right out there and sometimes the force of my feelings and the words that go with them are enough to blow your knickers off.

Which reminds me of last night (a large part of why I’m feeling better, if a little fatigued).  We went to Rock the Garden down at the Walker with some friends and had a quintessential summer night out.  Music, brats, lots of beers.  Sitting in the grass, people watching, laughing, chatting.  Girls in sundresses bumming cigarettes off boys with whiskers.  The acoustics weren’t the best up on the hill, but honestly, it just felt so good to lounge in the grass with a view of the bridge, the Sculpture Garden, the Basilica, Loring Park and the big crowd of music lovers, that the bands just became a really pleasant backdrop.  Incidentally, that is my very favorite view of the city as you come down Hennepin – architecture classical and modern, gravitas and whimsy, art and religion and commerce and leisure all cushioned in a whole lotta lush leafy green.  In keeping with fickle and temperamental Minnesota summers, the weather went from searingly sunny to gusty, angry little rain droplets in a matter of minutes (luckily it happened at the end of the show).  Just being there, grooving with all those people, mostly younger than us, but some older than us, validated why I love this city so much.  People gather, they seek each other out, they congregate and coexist peacefully, happily . . . maybe out of a need to shake off the vaguely hermitic ways imposed by winter.  

A rock concert on the grounds of a modern art museum put on by a public radio station, attempting to be a zero-waste event.  If that doesn’t represent all that is true and good about Minneapolis, I don’t know what does.

Another thing I love about this city, and I know I’ve mentioned this before, is that it’s small and contained enough so that you just run into people.  At the park, at the market, out to dinner, at the lake. You are never quite safe going out to buy milk in your pajamas because a friendly acquaintance is bound to pop out of the produce  section and chat you up for a few.  Yesterday, as my friend and I were groaning at the long and serpentine line for the restroom, my daughter’s preschool teacher and I spotted each other at the exact same time – the adorable and fantastic Mrs. Sheryl.  Turns out her husband’s favorite band is the New Pornographers and through her MPR membership she had scored some VIP tix, so that they could procure drinks and pee away from the plebes (us).  She swept us into the elevator, pointed us in the direction of a secret bathroom and gave us a breezy wave as she went off to get a couple more drinks for her and her hubby.  I’m totally doing that next year.  More importantly, what a lovely surprise and what a happy coincidence!  I couldn’t wait to tell Supergirl.

So back to blowing your knickers off.  As we were wiling away the late afternoon drinking beers in the sun, one of my friends, Gear Daddy (married to Nanook), was treated to a full on peep show of a young (but unlandscaped) coochy belonging to a girl in a white sundress.  Praise be for mirrored sunglasses, right?  So no judgement, that’s fine, it’s summer, your dress is white, you don’t want panty lines, everyone likes a little breeze in the netherlands from time to time, but didn’t your mama teach you how to sit like a lady?  Gear Daddy wasn’t complaining, though – he was loving Minneapolis too last night. 

I love summer with my heart and soul.  I love it and yearn for it as only a Northerner can.  My skin positively tingles at the prospect of the heat of the sun.  It must be my Argentine olive complexion yearning for its dose of Vitamin D and warmth after being cloaked in goose down and fleece for so many months.  

We live in a land of extremes here in Minnesota.  Our winters are harsh and arid, our summers humid and  steamy.  Spring and Fall are pitifully short – feeble weaklings who consistently get muscled out by the bullies Winter and Summer.  

But the turn of the seasons is so invigorating and lovely.  I am consistently awed by the blaze of change . . . that first snow fall that clings to all the branches, coating everything in blurry-edged marshmallow softness . . . or when everything seemingly greens overnight, the leaves and grass pulsing with life, whispering the secrets of nature.  My eyes and heart simultaneously ache and sing from the shock of seeing the long forgotten colors, experiencing the shift in paradigm ushered in by the first days of each new season.

There are certain days in the winter where merely leaving the house puts you in the class of a warrior.  (Especially if you have a detached garage, or like me, choose to park in the street.)  Forty below zero with the wind chill.  (Incidentally, I grew up thinking it was the windshield factor, because my mother, a huge weather buff and native Spanish speaker was always going on about the weend cheel factor.  Doctor Dash finally set me straight early on in our relationship.)  These kinds of frigid temperatures are no child’s play.  This is spit and it hits the ground with a crack kind of cold. God forbid your car stall somewhere cold. Eyelashes freezing shut kind of cold. You could die kind of cold.  

But like everything in life, it’s all about the gear.  If you dress warmly and with adequate layers, you can and should get outside for a spell, pump your fist in the air and scream . . .YAAARRAAARRRRGHHHH . . . FUCK YOU WINTER!!!!  Just don’t inhale too quickly after you scream or your alveoli will freeze sending you into a coughing spasm which will force you to scurry back inside, feeling like a fool.  

And just think of all the nasty organisms that get the shit frozen out of them and can’t survive here:  malaria, dengue, cholera, chagas, leprosy.  Our fierce, purifying winter wipes the slate clean, which is a really good thing considering how mosquitos abound in these parts.

Oh, how I hate those little mother fuckers.  I hate them, hate them, HATE THEM!  Unfortunately the feeling is far from mutual.  I’m one of those people whom mosquitos adore.  I’m Doctor Dash’s personal mosquito repellent.  He just has to stand by me and the mosquitos will literally land on him, take a sniff, pull a distasteful moue, turn up their prodigious proboscises and say, “ahem, no, not when I can have her.”   And don’t give me that bullshit that it’s because I’m sweet.

So putting aside those horrid little disease carriers, I still love summer because everyone around here goes NUTS.  There are block parties and street festivals and neighborhood carnivals and art fairs and outdoor movies and concerts all over the city.  The horizon is filled with more pasty appendages than you can count, the air is filled with the smell of barbeque and the sounds of children’s laughter.  People bike and swim and blade, they read books on blankets in the grass and linger in outdoor cafes.  You reconnect with people you haven’t seen in months. Pregnant women suddenly have babies in their arms, babies are suddenly toddlers, people have new hairdos, new noses, new boobs . . . everyone breathes a collective sigh of relief, smiles and heads to Target to stock up on sunscreen and OFF.

I ♡ summer.