So Now What?

Woot. I was accepted into the Kohler Holiday Market.
This feels like a big deal.

I attended the Kohler Holiday Market last year, held at the lovely American Club, to scope out the venue.

I was impressed.

The artists are good. The shoppers have money. The booth fee is expensive.

So I applied never really thinking I’d get in. I mean, let’s be honest. There is a perception about tye dye. Mostly it’s a perception rooted to include The Grateful Dead, pot-smoking, pony-tail wearing hippies. Most don’t think “tye dye” and leap to funs children’s wear.

The scary part is the show is 3 days, 4 if you include the day for setup. And it’s 2.5 hours away from home and will require a hotel stay as well as pulling in favors from lots of friends and family to help me pull off a three day show. Not to mention it’s definitely an investment.

But I’m in. Go me.

More to follow…

Grill Master

I am an admitted carnivore. Steak, pork, chicken. Yum! My carnivorous self is also addicted to cooking shows that focus on meat and grilling. After I win the PowerBall, my dream job is to judge one of those awesome grilling competitions where delicious cuts of meat are lovingly smoked for hours on end in giant shiny smokers, by chefs that wear hats that look like pigs. Oh. My. God. Someone pass me a cigarette.

I am the only person I know that enjoys eating a steak while watching Adam Richman from Man Vs. Food also eating a steak, usually it’s some monstrous cut like a bone in ribeye grilled to medium rare perfection, which I will then covet even though I have a steak right in front of me. I know. It’s a bit sick and twisted.

The carnivorous part of my personality is not without its conflicts.

Conflict #1:

I have no interest in amateur butchery or any kind of butchery. Frankly, I don’t want to have a personal relationship with anything I am going eat. I am just fine with the notion that meat comes from the grocery store on those little styrofoam trays wrapped in plastic. That works for me. I have great respect for the animal whose main purpose was to eat well so I could in turn eat well. I don’t need to know more.

My brother in law and his family raised chickens one summer. We ended up with a roasting chicken from their summer chicken project. I couldn’t eat that chicken. It was like family. I can eat the chickens from
Jen-Ehr Farm in Sun Prairie (and they are incredibly tasty), but I’m not related to the fine people at Jen-Ehr. Therefore it doesn’t feel like I am part of the Donner party, eating one of my own.

I can eat the meat from a whole chicken but not meat from a whole hog. And I love pork. I do. But the whole pig is just too much like “Babe”. My in-laws have this weird fascination with “cooking a whole hog” – they do it a lot for big family gatherings for reasons I don’t understand. I can’t eat it. I just can’t. Now if they cooked a bone in boston butt low and slow with a dry rub and a yummy sauce, that would be a different story altogether. I’ll take a side of coleslaw.

None of this is remotely logical.

Conflict #2:

 I love animals. I do. I love them all. I had to stop volunteering at the Humane Society because I wanted to adopt all the animals as evidenced by the fact that we now own a Hamster.

I love the wild animals too (except coyotes). We’re having issues with the bunnies eating all of our plants. They are brazen little shits critters, hopping up to the bed of lilies like it’s the salad bar at Copps. My spousal unit has been live-trapping the bunny squatters and relocating them to the soccer field 2 miles away. I agreed to the live trapping project as long as no bunnies were harmed in the relocation process. No bb guns or accidental drownings in the pond. He can live trap and relocate as long as he talks to them during the car ride and takes them for chocolate ice cream first.

I am a bag of contradiction when it comes to my supper table. I know.

I don’t think I could give up meat. Life is too short with go without bacon. I could probably never eat chicken again and be okay with that – but ribs and steak and pork tenderloins. Mmmm…pass the sauce.

More Musings on a my ongoing mid-life crisis – An Update

Happy to report that my transition to transitional lenses has been pretty much a non-event. PTL! I had a headache for 2 days then adjusted fine. So far I don’t seem to be bobbing my head too much to get the placement right for reading. The worse part about new glasses is getting the fit right. I’ve been back for adjustments twice and still have rubbing on my temple. Annoying.
I have noticed, that despite regular workouts with some weight lifting, pilates and yoga stretching tossed in for good measure there is a lot of muffin top. Also annoying. Wondering if I need to invest in one of the Spanx body suits to keep it all smooth. Eff.

I’ll say it again. Aging sucks ass.

I’m kicking around trying hot yoga. I like yoga but don’t necessarily like being hot; although this may be the thing my body needs to keep it challenged. Clearly the elliptical ain’t getting it done. Hot yoga is expensive and I’m already dealing with an over-inflated health care membership thanks to one teenage son who insisted he would work out regularly with me. Yeah. Right. I can take that $38 a month a throw it out the window.

I have a coupon for a few hot yoga class.

Pondering. Pondering.

What's for dinner?

Generally speaking, I like to cook. I do. Hand to god. What I don’t like is that I have become solely responsible for all manner of meal planning. It has become the singular most stressful thing in my life.


Imagine this conversation occurring pretty much on daily basis

Me: "What does everyone want for dinner?"

Everyone: "I dunno. What are the options?"


Me: Internal head slap.

Or this slight variation...
Everyone: "What’s for dinner?"

Me: (Fully exhausted after working a quality 9+ hour day): Blank look, followed by the internal head slap.
There must be some unwritten rule that because I have a vagina and reasonably decent planning skills that I spend all my free time thinking about, shopping or cooking meals.

I don’t.

And when I do just plan and cooking something I am often met with a pulled up nose (mostly from my son because my husband is the equivalent of a human garbage disposal) because he would rather have mashed potatoes instead of baked, or he doesn’t like shredded pork. Blah. Blah. Blah.

Part of the meal planning fiasco is the chore of grocery shopping. There is no one store that meets all my needs, so I end up running all over the place. As a result, my least favorite chore on the planet is grocery shopping.

I abhor it.

Detest.

Hate.

Loathe.

I can generally tolerate it if I shop at Copps, but shopping at Woodmans is pure torture. Yeah, the canned goods are cheaper but the produce sucks and the meat is like monkey chow. Hence the need to run to Brennans for fruits and Copps for meat. It’s exhausting.

The whole feeding the family a balanced meal is a lesson in high blood pressure.

I’m fine to just eat a salad or a bowl of cereal and call it good. But you know, I’m raising a kid so there is this mom guilt about a well-balanced diet; although I swear the kid would prefer to live on 100% carbs. Well, I would to but that’s another topic all together.

I have tried menu planning and engaging said family members in planning discussions with little success.

I’m sadly confident the internal head slap will continue to be an ongoing part of my meal planning routine ad nauseaum.

All hail the Dyson

It’s a sad state of affairs when a vacuum cleaner is a blog subject.

For years I have coveted the Dyson.

The roller ball technology.

The fun colors.

The bagless filter.

It’s the Cadillac of vacuums’. And I wanted one. I didn’t want the Dyson price tag which is a lot for a vacuum. A lot. Which is why I hung onto my under-whelming Hoover.

But I’m well into year 10 of our current carpet (which is crap in case you’ve never heard me mention it, although that’s highly unlikely since I’ll talk to strangers on the street about my crappy builders grade carpet) and I’m at least 12-18 months away from replacing it. Plus I have two long-hair cats that shed copious amounts of white fur. It was time to get a serious vacuum.

After some lengthy research I landed on the Dyson animal. It is purple (fun color) with a bigger canister and motor. I opted against the slightly smaller roller ball version of the Dyson animal in lieu of more suction.

The Dyson Animal 28 retails for a lofty $599. I know. That’s a couple of car payments or many many nice pairs of shoes. However, if you have a spouse that works for a major appliance company (and I do), you can take advantage of the factory direct program for like half the price…including shipping. I couldn’t send my check fast enough.

And a mere 10 days later a great big box from my new favorite company was on my front porch when I pulled into the driveway from work.

I think I squealed a little when I saw it.

A mere 20 minutes later I was vacuuming my very modest size living room with Dyson greatness and marveling at what was being sucked out of my carpets.

Frankly, it’s disgusting but also cool.

Like I said, it’s a sad state of affairs when a vacuum cleaner is a blog subject. I need to get out more.

Summer TV

Summer TV rots. It really does. Of course I maximize my being outside opportunity during the summer, but when it 90+ and humid…there ain’t much I’m doing outside after late morning. I spend PLENTY of time enjoying Mother Nature while watching copious amounts of Little League baseball and hocking assorted tye dyes.


But when it’s a sticky wicket, I mostly want to lay on the floor under the ceiling fan and rot my brain appropriately whilst sipping a vodka lemonade.

Did I mention summer TV rots?

No Survivor. No Glee. No Dancing with the Stars. No Top Chef. No Greys. No Private Practice.

It’s true that I am busting out a lot of tye dyes to make up for my endless sofa surfing over the winter but even when the weekends allotment of shirts has been dyed…there is downtime. Downtime when it’s uber hot and sticky. With no good TV.

My viewing choices have been severely limited to endless Major League Baseball games (cause that’s always on) or The Bachelorette. The Bachelorette makes my IQ plummet. I’m not kidding. With each Bachelorette squeal, giggle and utterance of the phrase “[Insert boy name here] and I have such an amazing connection”. I get stupider and stupider.

See it’s true.

Plummeting IQ, stupider isn’t even a word.

Any more Bachelorette and I’ll be sitting in front of the washing machine, mesmerized by the spin cycle.

Bake Sale Goal

I have a decorative centerpiece that is a shaped like a star. It’s also a mirror. It looks pretty with candles on it and I’m sure is well worth the $24.95 I overpaid at Crate and Barrel. The last time I used said centerpiece, it required cleaning of the Windex variety. Whilst cleaning, I made the grievous error of bending over the mirror and that’s when I saw it…


In all its middle aged glory.

The waddle.

You know. The waddle. The beginnings of the craggy saggy fleshy jiggle under the chin. Not to be confused with the jowl which is another cosmetic ailment altogether.

I was appropriately mortified.

Let me be clear. If you have a waddle, I could care less. I am concerned with no one’s waddle but my own. So concerned (and mortified), that I immediately contacted the fine people at my Credit Union to establish my bake sale fund via a modest monthly paycheck deduction. Bake sale of course, being code for “mini facelift”. Naturally.

I’d love to be that woman who is all confident about the aging process but let’s be honest. I am not that woman. This is me we’re talking about. The same me that was raised by my mother. The same mother that emphasized the importance of always wearing a matching bra and panties just in case there was an unfortunate trip to the emergency room via ambulance. Won’t the medics be impressed by my matching under-things while administering CPR?  Yes. Yes they would.

My new mantra since turning 40 is “cheat the clock”. I figure by the time I hit the next milestone birthday (a number I cannot say out loud without weeping) my bake sale coffer will be robust enough for a little trip to the nip tuck factory. I applaud the woman that indulges in a little cosmetic freshening up. We’re not talking Joan Rivers freshening (although I am a fan of Joan but for different reasons) – just a little “something-something’ that makes one look fresh and rejuvenated and waddle free.

Or to put it another way, I’m taking the appropriate steps to leaving a good looking corpse.