Those of you that are reading this in the Minneapolis area have recently endured one of the largest snow storms in metro history (top 5, I heard). I am in the Minneapolis area. I have an 873-foot long driveway (at least, it feels that long when snow-covered). For this particular storm, the drifts were the size of 1970s Buicks.
Ah, but it was the birthday weekend for The Boy (tm), who is now proudly Five, and with impeccable timing, I finally caught a break when it comes to shoveling out. We left Minneapolis last Friday, before a flake fell, arriving in Duluth, where it didn't snow all weekend. By the time we returned to Minneapolis on Sunday, which had been fully engulfed by SnOMG facebook status updates and harrowing snippets of intestinal fortitude and understated Scandinavian pride ("yah, we got a bitta snow-a dare, eh? Nuttin like '91 though-a, now dat was a storm, ya know-a" and "dis one is a cold snow-a, Real powder like, can clean it wit a broom, ya know-a. Nuttin like dat warm snow from '82"), the driveway was completely unburied by the tandem force of Neighbor+Grandpa. Now, as much as I enjoy complaining with the rest of the martyred dads and granddads about my aching back and sore shoulders brought on by the arduous task of digging the minivan out for the Mrs., for this storm - which has been followed by Minus 5 on the dashboard thermo and gusty winds - I'll gladly stay indoors and admire the crisp, straight lines only a Toro PowerThrow can accomplish. Me, 1. Snow, 0.
So anyway, we are now back to a normal week schedule, with the birthday party and waterpark adventure behind us.
Waterparks, I've learned, are the great equalizer when it comes to people's body image issues. Nobody looks good at a waterpark, no matter how many ab crunches or tanning booth visits you make. In a waterpark, you are either floating down a lazy river with your butt wedged in an innertube (it's never attractive to fold yourself in that fashion, I don't care if you're Brad Pitt), or careening down a 4-story tube with either one of the worst wedgies imaginable, or if turned backwards against your will, one of the worst plumber's cracks imaginable. At the end of the ride, you get to be unceremoniously dumped, arms flailing, trying to regain a semblance of what turns out to be unattainable control, into a bath of overchlorinated Petri Dish bacteria culture. I mean pool. I found it thoughtful that they offered complimentary skimmer nets so you could gather up your trunks gracefully.
In short, Gravity wins at the waterpark; everybody sags. Once I realized that everyone else looked at LEAST as ridiculous as me if not more, I stopped sucking in my built-in floating device and enjoyed myself. The Boy (tm), still too young to be body-conscious, had an absolute blast from start to finish. It really was a great trip, all bulging and exposed flesh considered. I would show you some pictures, but there was no way in H-E-double-hockey-sticks that I was going to allow a camera within 20 yards of me.
I will share a cake picture though. Recall from last post that I was nervously anticipating the construction of the Police Car cake. It turned out pretty nice in fact, if I do say so myself. The bonus fun was the frosting. All of The Boy's young cousins wore Goth Black lipstick home that night. You're welcome, parents.