I’m frequently told my daughter looks a lot like me. Usually I can’t see it. On this unfortunately timed shot of one of her very few wakeboarding failures to launch, though, I can *totally* see it. Bless her heart, she’s inherited my HOLY CRAP face. So, pretend this picture is me and you have my wakeboarding experience in a nutshell. And, speaking of this picture, YOU NEVER SAW IT. She’s actually a wakeboarding boss. I could show the video, but this face is more entertaining.

Chris and I have lived in Minnesota for 20 years. My kids have lived here for 18 and 15 years respectively, their whole lives. But we are most assuredly first generation Minnesotans and cannot, no matter how much we may want to, trace our heritage to any Scandinavian country. This makes us a bit of an anomaly around these parts. We have no family cabin, do not own a boat, and our sweater collection is decidedly not very Lutheran looking.

And, I’ve spent very, very little time outside of the Twin Cities. And next to none on any of our famed 10,000 lakes.

Having no cabin, but a strong need to get out of town for a bit, we spent the past week at Madden’s on Gull Lake, a popular Minnesota golf resort. I realize this could be deemed a questionable choice under current circumstances, but it is what it is. Yeah, I know. That phrase. Groan. But HEY, Yo SEMITE, if it’s good enough for POTUS, it’s good enough for this blathering, naval gazing blog. Also, I really wanna go to Thigh-land. Anyhoo.

I was prepared for the fact that my lack of lake time (and my 30 extra pounds and complete lack of coordination) would mean I wouldn’t be able to wakeboard. I was decidedly NOT prepared for the influx of Trumpy mask haters who entered my sphere of being when I left the land of the Citidiots (pronounced city-its, rhymes with idiots, and likely not surprising to anyone, is a term I learned this weekend).


Thankfully the resort was dutifully enforcing the rules and felt like a reasonable environment (attributable to the citidiots, I suppose).

The Trump flags on the lake, though, and the male Karens (why don’t they have a name?) who proudly strutted around the St. Cloud Wal-Mart sans mask, and the dude at dinner last night who couldn’t just not wear a mask, but had to announce loudly enough for everyone within a mile’s radius to hear that, “I don’t do masks,”in search of fist bumps and validation– these were all unfamiliar to me.

I live in a bubble. I knew this, but I suppose it may have been good to have this fact reinforced so strongly over the past week. When our city council debated whether or not to put a mask mandate in place, the ratio of residents in favor to residents opposed who emailed council members was 8:1. Not that you don’t understand a ratio (and hell, maybe I actually don’t), but I feel a need to reiterate: for every one person who emailed council members to express opposition to a mask mandate, EIGHT (8!!!) people emailed in support of a mask mandate. So I suppose it makes sense that I felt like I’d entered another universe, one that is likely more representative of the rest of the nation than my urban, citidotic urban paradise.

Trumpers or no, we had a lovely week and I’m grateful we were able to get away. This time, more than ever before, though; there is no place like home.

Mask up, bitches.