Here’s another thing about my trip to Minnesota: despite my nervous contemplation of a terrible death by the Übercat, not to mention my constant worry over where I could get my shirts ironed (Judy-wan-Kenobi was not home), of course I had to sleep there.
I’m only human, after all.
I could avoid this no more than I could push aside the basic urge the write my name in one of those monster snowbanks after a six-pack of Leinenkugel Special Reserve.
So my hostess (more on her later) stuck me with one of those Aerobeds. It didn’t seem too bad, was fairly comfy, but I’ve since come to realize that an Aerobed is really nothing more than six inches of air, two sheets of flimsy rubber, and a thin layer of JC Penney “Made in Costa Rica” 200-count linen, all glued together with a cheap “Made in China” air-pump inside, and then marked up 500% for resale by some greedydistribution company.
That’s all there was separating me from the permafrost-like floor. The temperature outside was one-below zero. Brrrr. The floor hovered just above freezing. Worse, these Eskimo-like northerners keep the house at forty-five degrees. I was sleeping on a slab of ice.
“What do you mean, you’re cold? Uff-da. Have another beer, why don’cha?”
I’m not complaining, really. They gave me several blankets, but unfortunately they were some sort of tissue-thin faux blankets, more decorative than functional, and suitable for temperatures no more demanding than a balmy spring night in Arizona, not an arctic-cold evening in Minnesota.
You would think that any blankets found in Minnesota would be heavy plaid blankets made of wool, or maybe reindeer fur, three inches thick and capable of insulating against the Mars-like temperatures found in the Twin Cities.
Sadly, this was not the case.
I woke sometime during the night, my teeth all a-chatter; I was beginning to lose feeling in my fingertips, and guessed I was minutes from a hypothermic coma. I quickly scrounged through the house for additional insulation material – bath towels, couch cushions, two winter jackets, a jauntily tasseled ski cap, and a pair of buckskin choppers.
I also discovered that, if you layer it just right, the Minneapolis Star and Tribune makes a fine insulator.
I passed the night in fitful sleep, dreaming intermittently of sex with round Eskimo women. As the sun came up, I opened my bleary eyes against the arctic sunlight, thankful to be alive.
Next time, I’m bringing a sleeping bag. One of those mountaineering jobs, the kind they use to climb Mt. Everest.