Stay in Minneapolis, Mr. Icicle

Freaking Iowa winters.
I've been all excited because a friend of mine who lives about an hour away by interstate invited my family over for dinner Monday.  I'm leaving work a touch early, snagging the chitlins, and barrelling the swagga wagon/rolling dumpster down I-80 to see said friend and his loverly family and another sweet friend and her loverly family.  However, I'm geeking out about it a bit because a friend of said friend (are you still following me) has been reading the blog for a bit, and he is traveling through this Iowa town for the night with HIS people and stopping at said friend's house, and said friend thought it would be a great opportunity for blog reader to meet blog writer.  It's always fun to meet someone who reads the blog ("oh that one about cutting off your skin tag was fun!" Oh yeah. I wrote about that. And posted it. Yay, me.) but this guy happens to be a writer in LA, and I want to pick his brain apart and eat it with fava beans and a nice chianti.

(CLICK.  That was the sound of him un-following the blog. And possibly contacting the authorities.)

And I also want to see said friend and sweet friend and their respective families.  And eat their pasta.  And guess what?  I just looked up weather.com, and there is an effing ICE STORM coming here tomorrow. 

Of course there is.

When I was 22, I drove from Denver to Ames straight through during a huge blizzard/ice storm wearing cutoff jean shorts and drinking 300 ounces of Mountain Dew and listening to "Radar Love" on the radio and driving my Chevette in the ditch on I-35 to Ames at 3 a.m. and having two college boys from St. Olaf push me out of the ditch so I could drive on to Ames to see Current Husband when he was still Current Boyfriend.  And that was NO BIG DEAL.  Because I was 22, stupid, and in love.

Now I'm 41, a mother, and am experiencing varicose veins, bad circulation, acid reflux, waning eyesight and hearing, and prone to wearing flannel and wool socks and curling into a ball on the couch when an ice storm hits.  I don't even really like to drive more than 2 hours at a time when it's 80 and sunny outside, because like a caterpillar in the cocoon, I am becoming my mother.

But they will have pasta and wine.
Strong motivation, that.

(And the people.  Of course I want to see the people.)

(But I bet the food will be delicious.)

So Mr. White Christmas/Mr. Icicle/Mr. Snow/Mr. 30 Below?  Stay in Minneapolis or Fargo, where you belong.  I got me some pasta to eat and a professional writer to assault.