A whirlwind of activity

I realized this morning that I hadn't written an entry here in a couple of weeks.  Time is flying by; it's amazing how busy we've been, and even more amazing how normal and un-write-about-it-worthy (is there a word for that?) the activities have all been.  Just.  Normal.  Life.

Of course, "normal" is a subjective term.  Everything with the Boy is defined by adventure.  Like watching him run a race or throw a frisbee.  He has the same level of coordination and muscle command as a Muppet, sans muppeteer.  I've literally seen him fall over while just standing somewhere.  No movement.  Simply Thump.

And I suppose it isn't normal that our property, amongst others, was hit by a tornado on Sunday. 

Not like super mega North Minneapolis-Tuscaloosa-Joplin HIT hit.  Just grazed.  But getting grazed by a tornado is, in my humble opinion, about as fun as getting grazed by a Great White shark.  Nice to meet you, nature.  Please swim away now.

I admit I've always been a storm junkie - watching the radar with giddy anticipation, hoping for Big Thunder, and historically I've been visibly disappointed when a storm drifts north or south of us.  (truthfully, it's because my house could use new siding and I don't have any money other than my insurance policy to pay for it).  When the sirens do blare for Anoka County, you could usually find me standing in the backyard watching for some good spinning action in the clouds.  I've sent pictures to local news stations even.  So dorky.

But no more.  At least for a spell while my memory fades, I'll be joining the saner members of society in our collective basements and storm shelters. 

I did take some pictures.  Here's one: 





The super annoying thing was that my vehicles were blocked in my garage, meaning I couldn't go drive around the neighborhood to see how everyone else fared, which is pretty much my super most favorite thing to do after a storm.  Grumble grumble.

In Boy news, he has just over a week to go before pre-school graduation and ensuing summer vacation.  He really has no concept of this, even though we've tried to explain what "graduation" means and even though he has visited his new Kindergarten for next fall.  I imagine him realizing sometime in August that he hasn't been to school in a while and asking when he's going back.  We'll deal with the "never again" conversation then, I guess.

The best part of spring

I don't remember if I've mentioned this on this particular blog or not, but I have to say that my favorite thing about spring isn't the warming weather, or greening trees, or blooming gardens or thunderstorms or end of school or start of Twins baseball (although that one's a close second). 

By far, my most favorite part of spring is seeing, popping up in ditches along busy intersections and stapled to heavily acupunctured utility poles, the first of the garage sale signs. 

Oh, how I love garage sales.  Estate sales.  Rummage sales.  Yard sales.  Call them what you want, I heart them, in an unhealthy way.  I've been known to kill an entire sunny Thursday driving slowly through residential neighborhoods as if on mountain switchbacks.

Admittedly, it's a bizarre spring custom.  The whole premise, really.  Take everything out of your house or shed that you no longer want, and, instead of throwing it away like a normal person, affixing 10¢ and 3/$1.00 stickers to it and leaving it out on your driveway for your neighbors to sift through.  Even if someone actually buys something, you've only earned a buck or two for your efforts.  Crazy persons do this.  And, bonus, now all your neighbors know that you, a crazy person, once collected Beanie Babies or ceramic M&M characters.  On one hand, you no longer collect them (hence the sale), but apparently you still hold an entirely too high opinion of them with prices that would make Trump blush and labels like Vintidge collectables (sic) and you brake it you buy it. 

And don't get me started about last spring's extremely elderly couple in a modest Roseville rambler pawning off an enormous lifetime collection of "vintidge" Penthouse magazines.  That's why we have recycle bins, folks. (And if you're wondering, I didn't buy anything, but in fact left quickly and silently, refusing to make eye contact lest I burst out laughing, wondering who's idea it was to finally sell them - his or hers?)

Yesterday, the Boy and I hit up some garage sales in the NE suburbs of Fridley, Blaine and Coon Rapids.  

I'll start by saying that I'm pretty sure I'm not one of those crazy dads that is trying to live his life vicariously through his Boy.  I wanted to play baseball forever; I honestly won't care if he hates it after he tries T-ball this summer.  I love swimming, he hates it.  No mind.  We'll find things he likes. 

However, I admit I was nervous bringing him to garage sales.  This is the One Thing that I want him to love as much as me.  But what if he refuses to get out of the car?  What if he doesn't even get the premise?  What if he's done after one house?  Oh, the humanity....

Thankfully, he's a chip off the old block sale (ba-dum-dum-ching).  He couldn't get enough, running up each driveway to search for the toy section.  Chatting up the old ladies (he calls them "grandfriends" thanks to pre-school).  Toward the end, after seeing how things work, he was even bold enough to ask questions like How much do you want for this? and  do you know if all the pieces are here? 

I. could. not. be. happier. 

I actually had to coax him back home after I had my fill (and it was getting close to rush hour traffic).  He selected a new puzzle, a really cool marble race thingie (click on it to see it) and a toy truck, all total under 5 bucks, and was hungry for more.

Luckily, he was also hungry for food, so we worked our way home to enjoy our treasures over dinner. 

There is a strong likelihood that this will become our regular Thursday activity.  Take that, sports lessons.