Sweet home Minneapolis

I’m so happy to be home that I get weepy if I dwell on it too much. Lately I only get weepy about two things: missing my new condo and the Celtics almost pissing away a 24 point lead Sunday night. I can even overlook the worse-than-usual jetlag, the increasingly unsettling hip/knee injury that has me limping like an amateur daredevil and the exact same ca-ca weather that was here when I left except more humid.

I’ve done trips that were ten times longer and more taxing than my month in Romania, but for a variety of personal reasons this trip really knocked the wind out of me. Chiefly because I think buying the condo has transformed me into an insta-homebody. Having been effectively homeless for nearly five years must have accelerated the bonding process. Then, like young lovers dry humping on a park bench in Madrid and interrupted by someone’s grandmother, we were torn away from each other too soon. I think while I was away I missed my condo more than my family and friends.

I’ve made the most of my first week home. In the past five days I’ve eaten food from Maria’s Caf, Tum Rup Thai, Caf Levain, and single-handedly consumed half of a chocolate birthday cake from Wuollet Bakery.

I’ve slept in my ridiculously comfortable bed, albeit fitfully, waking repeatedly to wonder for several minutes why the hostel I was in was so quiet and roomy. I’ve stared out my 26th floor window at my suddenly very green city, anxiously awaiting the day when lithe young women start frequenting the sun deck 11 stories below, rather than the grunting, paunchy, middle-aged men that have monopolized it thus far. I’ve repeatedly ridden our reliable and clean public transport . I’ve run numerous errands during torrential downpours, never leaving the pricelessly controlled environment of our Skyway. Also, I’ve now enjoyed two games of the NBA finals in pulse-quickening High Definition on my 50 Absolutely Not Excessive Inches of Plasma TV Goodness (you get to capitalize it when the screen is that big).

And I must fawningly plug the person who is largely responsible for my instant transition into sustained repose after a month on the road. As the end of my time in Romania approached and various parts of my brain and body went into emergency shutdown, I realized that all I had to eat in my condo was frozen chicken breasts, a stick of butter and a half bottle of Wild Turkey 101. Since the thought of having to Light Rail directly to Rainbow after 23 hours of ass-spanking travel made me want to dive under a horse cart, I hesitantly secured the services of Alexis at Personal Touch Errands. I really like to do my own shopping, on account of my autism-like food requirements, which, if they are not precisely met, causes me to run around in tight circles, smacking myself in the head with my IKEA cutting board. After four agonizing drafts, I sent her an exhaustive final grocery/liquor store list, painstakingly designed so that I wouldn’t have to step foot outside my condo for two weeks if necessary (as it was, I only lasted 16 hours). She arrived just after I got home, having satisfied my grocery list to the letter, and minutes later I was enjoying pizza and Strongbow, like Buddha intended. With the possible exception of my Blackberry, it was the best money I’ve spent in my adult life.

Though obsessive writing duties must resume tomorrow, I’m looking forward to getting out to the Mill City Farmer’s Market this weekend, some light biking if my hip injury allows for it and more loitering in the Skyway, catching the eyes of the cute office workers as they accelerate past wondering if HCMC’s psyche ward security door failed again.

By the way, no big deal or anything, but today is my 38th birthday. As such, I’ve just taken a long, hard look at myself in the mirror and I’ve concluded that I look fantastic. The occasional mysterious hip injury notwithstanding, aging has treated me well. I plan to head to Bev’s Wine Bar tonight in a pseudo-fruity Euro-shirt to lubricate before Game 3 starts at 8pm, when I fully expect that, like me last month in Romania, Paul Pierce will play through his leg injury to further heroics, leading to imminent lucrative book deals.

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Uncategorizable | 10.06.2008 13:16 | 8 Comments

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