The house had three bedrooms: one for my parents, one for us, and one for my brother and sister-in-law. My other brother, Jake, got a pullout. I guess when you turn 30, it’s full on Real World rules, because Andrew and Liz snagged the better bedroom since they got there first. When I say “better”, I mean that their bedroom had both a double bed and a door, neither of which Chris and I had. We got child-sized bunk beds in a room with no door. It was like I was in high school and my parents reluctantly said my boyfriend could come on vacation with us but they wanted to make sure there would be no privates touching, ever. Not, you know, like we’ve been married for almost five years, even if Rev Em was the officiant. Fine, if you guys don’t want grandkids, that’s your decision, KIM AND ED.

Also, Kim said that my grandma told her that she read on Twitter that I got fake boobs for my birthday. Grandma, I was being sarcastic. That, or you thought that when I tweeted that I got a part-time job, you thought that the only job I would be able to get on my own was a boob job. I still have the same little boobs, Grandma. Don’t worry.  Also, turn off caps lock. I miss you!

ANYWAY, Clear Lake is long-established as a popular vacation spot, the Dirty Dancing of Iowa, if you will, which means there is a hell of a lot less watermelon carrying but some rich people. I mean, there’s totally a town and gown vibe. It feels like every inch of property is a) developed and b) covered in nautical or patriotic decor. We cruised around the lake and gaped at people’s second homes, favorite activity of middle-class people everywhere.  Jealousy, we has it. Listen, though, Clear Lake is this totally idyllic, picturesque hamlet. I mean, there’s a town square with a bandshell and on Sunday morning there were legions of people just out and about, NO JOKE having picnics and racing sailboats and riding pegasuses and stuff.  The weather was 80° the whole time we were there, maybe even a little cooler at night, and it was heaven compared to the 100°+ humidity of St Louis.

Us? We don’t really do the whole regatta thing. We just drank booze and pontooned around and ate chips and dip. Those of you who were born and raised outside of Iowa are really missing out on the sour cream dip varieties available thanks to Anderson Erickson Dairy. I mean, there’s a whole world out there beyond french onion, and your chips are really missing out. Every now and again we docked at the Marina and went to the Tiki Bar, which, coincidentally, has the best fried cheese curds I’ve ever had outside the Iowa State Fair. They were worth listening to only Jimmy Buffett and country the entire time we were at the bar. This guy just swam up in his jeans, I think.

We also borrowed a friend’s jetski. My mom bought me these boss water shoes that may come in handy should I ever decide to float the River Des Peres.

Have you guys seen those frozen drink pouches? They are called *snort* Dailys, and they are giant juice-pouches with booze in them. They’re totally sugary and headache inducing and full of win. It’s like someone just knew about my struggle to tart up my Capri Suns with a syringe and wanted to grant me a wish. My mom bought me and my sister in-law some while we went shopping at stores that sell things with rhinestones and feathers and animal prints. Kim hooked it up the whole trip. This lady knows how to keep her kids stocked in chips and dip and peach cobbler. Ed, too. The man pretty much took us on a tour of fried cheese curds of the lakeshore and played stellar boat captain.

There are few better feelings than skimming along a lake, the cool wind washing over you, and the sun gleaming on the water. It is pure joy. I felt so lucky that I got to spend a few days doing so with my family.

See the whole Flickr set here.

1. Begin staining process. Convince husband that he really has to do the staining himself because you would mess it up.
2. Start to believe it yourself.
3. Realize this process is taking four times as long as you had planned.
4. Feign normalcy by inviting friend and three-year old daughter over to lunch in the basement. Reassure three-year old, upon urinating on the floor, that she wasn’t the first to pee on the floor that day.
5. Resume role filling scratches and holes with wood putty because you are an equal partner in this project.
6. Go ladycamping while husband stays behind to stain. Decorate your own coozie and drink vodka-spiked Capri Suns. Talk about periods.
7. Realize giant pimp tent is less claustrophobic than basement, smells better.
8. Return to beautiful, untouchable floors.
9. Clean up basement dog pee, vomit, poop, and shredded personal items.
10. Repeat #9.
11. Repeat #10
12. Referee countless rounds of Basement Dog Thunderdome.
13. Thank Baby Jesus for awesome husband as he seals the floors.
14. Agree to do all tangential helper-type activities until floors are finished.
15. Do that shit with a smile.
16. Relax in clean, fresh, carpet-free bedroom. Breathe.



Please to ignore our bare bedroom. We’ve only moved essentials thus far. More pics on Flickr.

We started by taking in a Jucy Lucy from Matt’s Bar, the Minneapolis regional specialty of a burger filled with molten American cheese. You can read my thoughts on the Lucy at my pal Andrew Mark Veety‘s blog at some point in the next few days. Let’s just say it was the perfect stomach-liner for the pub crawl on which we were about to embark and the Jucy Lucy looked like this:

From there, we hit up Moto-I, a Japanese restaurant that brews their own sake and feature Japanese street food, including steamed pork belly buns like this. We were playing with our food, and it was delicious.

They also have a gorgeous rooftop patio that was filled with hipsters cloaked in irony. Nice teal skinny jeans, guy. The weather ruled.

I should note that transportation for this pub crawl was provided by Eric and his minivan, which he drove with the windows down blaring Hold Steady, the Jayhawks, and the Big Lebowski soundtrack.  It, too, ruled.

We saw this awesomeness across the road from Psycho Suzi’s. It’s called Pedal Pub, and you can rent it for parties. It’s a pedal-powered bicycle bar that you drive around while swilling beers.  I want one.

It should be noted that our host Eric dressed specially for this occasion. Behold the Canadian Tuxedo:

That’s also a Lebowski t-shirt under there, just so you know what we’re dealing with here.

From there, we went to the best bar I’ve ever been to. Period. Nye’s Polonaise (yep, a Polish bar) is basically the Minneapolis version of St Louis’s Hideaway Lounge, except instead of a blind elderly piano player (Hideaway), you’ve got both a sighted elderly piano player, Sweet Lou, with whom you can sing along, karaoke-style, and a whole separate “lounge” where the World’s Most Dangerous Polka Band plays.

Other than pricier-than-I’m-used-to drinks, this place was pretty much the most amazing conglomeration of quirk and awesomeness that I’ve ever encountered. If I could situate Nye’s inside the Iowa State Fair, I would move in and never leave. You must go there if you are in Minneapolis.

We ended up drinking for about eight hours and the next morning I got on a plane and few home.  Chris met me at the airport with a surprise, a manila envelope. I was worried that the surprise was either divorce papers or some other kind of lawsuit, but to my great, great surprise, it was a picture of this:

Who needs diamonds when your husband buys you a convection double oven? Our oven only has two working burners, knobs with the temperature worn off, and an oven that’s heat fluctuates, so I’ve been dying for a new range for a while now. I literally squeed out loud on the escalator when I opened the envelope. It’s being delivered tomorrow. Not only that, but Chris cleaned the entire house and ran or took care of about a thousand errands. Best. Husband. Ever.

So, yeah, life’s pretty good. The weekend reminded me just how lucky (and happy) my life is.