A Beary Happy Birthday to Me

So the roommate got me an early birthday present of a trip to her boss’ cabin in Wisconsin. My expertise on cabins and cabin travel is limited to my sister-in-law’s awesomely tricked out house on like a billion acres. Complete with hot tub.

Oh, and bears.

Her dog, fondly called Frankendog for awhile, still bears (pun intended) the scars of her run-in with a bear mommy who was less than thrilled with the pup for deciding her cub was her new playmate. And later, the bear (or one of its relatives) took out their frustration on their hot tub cover, completely annihilating it not 10 feet from their door.

People? I don’t do nature. I’m sorry if this makes me a princess. It’s just how I roll. So my first question to the roommate and her boss was if they had bears.

While I was waiting for an answer, my husband stepped in. He decided he wanted me to be prepared in case I came face-to-face with a cranky bear. I decided to share this with you because a) it’s freaking hilarious and b) it may just save your life.

“The most important thing is to not run away from the bear. Because if you run, you’re prey.”

I’m pretty sure if you’re there, you’re prey, right? Like it’s not like the Terminator where the bear is all assessing me to see if I am THE ONE. Or if he can steal my clothes. I’m fairly confident they bite first, ask questions later. Yes?

“Do not try to climb trees.”

Is this a common instinct? I guess I don’t know what I would do, besides pee my pants and lay down and play dead (incidentally, also ill-advised). But I would think attempting to climb a tree would be low on the list. I don’t do trees, either. Though apparently I was an expert tree climber as a youth. Someday we can discuss the multiple complaints my mother had as I ruined the handmade dresses…and, you know, climbed trees in a dress. Flashing neighbors early, that’s how I roll.

“Never sneak up on a bear.”

Like, is this really a common thing? Does he seriously think I’d be stalking some bear like “bwaahaha, I’ve got you know, Grizzly!” I have no words for this one.

“Make yourself a bigger force than the bear.”

So this was the crux of the advice. I’m 5 foot 4. So is my roommate. Somehow I was picturing her like boosting me up on her shoulders so we look like one really tall person?

In all seriousness, apparently you are supposed to wear something called bear spray (I am imagining it has to do with pee of some sort of animal, and I just am too traumatized to look it up) and make a lot of noise when approaching anywhere with potential bear-like creatures.

Fortunately, her boss’ cabin did not have bears. But she did cite ticks, so we didn’t do any venturing around the property.

I should ask Scott what to do with ticks.

Why We Should All Have a Sister Wife

When Wee 'Burb was a few months old, one of my closest friends came to live with us from Boston. Having had enough of living in her parents' basement and going from job to job, she moved into our basement for a little reprieve.

She is one of the few people I could ever live with, other than my husband. She's someone I can flat out say "I need my space" to and she would not take offense, and would thank me for letting her know.

Which is why over a year later, she's still here. It works for us, and while it's not permanent, we're in no rush to see her go.

Scott jokingly calls her the non-sexual sister wife. And in many ways, this is what she is.

In addition to being my friend, she is now Scott's friend, and one of Wee Burb's favorite people (Cous Cous, too). In fact, when I tell her no, she often goes running to our roommate for comfort. "She" being both Wee 'Burb AND Cous Cous in this scenario, sadly.

Frankly, I think the whole polygamy thing gets a bad rap. Having an extra person around to help with cleaning, diapering, and just overall amusing my kid is like a dream come true. I will be the first to admit I have a completely skewed version of motherhood as a result. Scott has a week-long work trip? That's cool, enter Sister Wife to help me with dinner while I give Wee 'Burb a bath. Scott's not excited about going to the zoo and a craft fair? Come on, Sister Wife, grab the keys!

Her mother has thanked me approximately 400 times for taking her daughter in and welcoming her. The truth? I want to thank HER every day because sometimes I think cheap rent and her own bathroom isn't nearly equal to all the help she provides.

Now naturally, the whole issue of sharing a man doesn't come into play here. Being firmly in the kindly brother/sister camp, there's no risk of hanky panky going on with the roommate and the husband. So I get the help without the uncomfortable sex scheduling thing.

I recently read an article on 10 reasons why Tina Fey would be a great sister wife.  What celebrity would you love to have as your sister wife?

Defensive Driving

This past weekend was a beautiful one here in Minnesota, and we haven't seen that since, oh, last summer. It begged for time spent outdoors. So, I packed up Wee 'Burb and my roommate and we went off to the zoo.

We were having a lovely drive, rocking out to 80s music and getting Wee 'Burb to dance to Abba, when all of a sudden, life slowed down.

I saw a bolt in the air, so tiny I feel I couldn't have seen it. Except I did.

Followed closely and quickly, but still in slow motion, by a bicycle. Heading directly at me.

I gasped and swore and the whole time I remember thinking to myself "do NOT drive into the ditch, just drive. The bike is going to hit you, but you just need to drive" and I did, and the bike hit and I kept driving until I could safely pull over to the side of the road.

To discover despite the bicycle ricocheting off the side of my car, all I had was a scratch by my driver's side mirror.

A scratch. A bicycle over 2 lanes of traffic and all I had was a scratch on my car.

Naturally, the rest of the ride I thought of all the horrible things that could have happened. I grabbed Wee 'Burb extra tight and tried to shake it off.

But I'm giving extra thanks.  

Is Optimism Good?

I was going to do the following by the time I was 25 years old, according to my 18-year-old self:

1. Be an editor of a magazine
2. Look into starting my own magazine
3. Married (of course)
4. Starting a family (because, you know, that is totally conducive to #s 1 and 2)
5. Publish a book

I did exactly none of those. Instead, between the age of 21 and 25 I had 4 jobs in as many years, and finally gave up on Boston and moved back with my tail between my legs to Minnesota.

I still haven't done 1, 2, and 5. I've accepted I probably never will, largely because of 2 and 3.

The Huffington Post featured a piece by a self-proclaimed Gen-Y Expert saying that Generation Y has what she calls Expectation Hangovers. I should probably absolve myself now because I'm totally Gen X.  But I was also raised with the expectation that I could do anything, because I was great, we all get trophies for showing up, and gosh darnit, people like me.

The author illuminates the crisis I faced around age 25, and that I think a lot of my younger friends are facing now:

Some 20-somethings are less willing to take or stay at a job that they don't like since they believe they are supposed to -- dare I say... entitled to -- love their job because that is what was "promised." Moreover, many prefer not to make a lot of lifestyle sacrifices, and now that moving back to the Hotel of Mom and Dad has become more of a trend than an embarrassment, they don't have to.

So the question is, as a parent, what do we do here? How do we manage expectations without raining on our precious child's parade? Are successful people coddled like this, or did folks like Obama and Oprah grow up seeing the harsh realities, and just overcome them?

Is telling our kids "you can be anything, yes anything" realistic? What do we do, then, when they return to us, empty wallets open, saying "you said I can be anything, but NASA isn't hiring, can I stay on the couch?"

I have always been a big believer in the fact that my main job is to prepare my child for the REAL world. I just don't want to do so while crushing their hopeful spirit.

The fact that my parents raised me to think I could run the world if I wanted to gave me the confidence to reach for the university I wanted to (and did) attend, and the courage to leave home and go out on my own. I would never want to deny my child that, but I also don't want them going in to things with rose-colored glasses and then giving up when they realize their big dreams may need to be minimized some to fit in with real life.

The author does go on to give a few tips to the younger set still bent on ruling the world...or at least working on it (and frankly, this is good advice for anyone not in a job or on a career path now):

• Get fiscally fit
• Stop using the economy as a scapegoat
• Get a job. Any job. Don't wait for a career
• Get off your parents' payroll
• Increase your financial IQ

 So, tell me your thoughts, readers. Did your parents raise you to think you can do anything? Are you raising your kids like that? When do you start talking about the reality of what they CAN do versus what they WANT to do? Or is figuring it out on your own part of the battle?

Guest Post: Lola Putting the “Cure” in Manicure

You guys, Lola is leaving me for the Motherland this weekend. She'll be gone for two weeks. We chat daily...hourly, in fact. Minutely, mostly. And here you'll see what exactly it is we chat about. I promised her we'll start a fund for her bail if for any reason she's detained in Russia and not allowed back.

 I don’t know if many of you know this, but Stephanie and I love to waste company time. Really, slacking off is never quite so much fun at home, when you’re at your leisure and free to wallow in your own crapulence – i.e., check Facebook, catch up on your favorite blogs, visit stupid sites and Google random things. Personally, I always feel like I’m wasting precious time – I could be vacuuming! And hey, the car needs a wash.

But at work, things are different. You’re not going anywhere, not for the next 8 hours anyway, so you might as well make the most of it. I think this is how people who were stupid and/or lazy enough to go into crime end up getting law degrees and writing best-selling books while in prison. Back on the outside, there are convenience stores to rob! But here, it’s just you and the bunk! So why not attend Harvard Law by correspondence? The prison return address alone makes your admission essay a shoo-in.

So on a lazy Thursday in prison…I mean the office, Stephanie and I got to talking. Strictly girl talking – nail polish, to be exact. And we both love and adore OPI, not least of all because of their colorful (no pun intended) shade names.

We took a stab at coming up with some potential ones, which this is where we discovered that we may have a great career ahead of us in marketing. And so, I bring you The 10 Greatest Nail Polish Names OPI Will Never Go For. (Just so you know, these are mainly on the subject of animal noises – Wee ‘Burb has been rebelliously learning them in French to annoy her mother. But hey, that’s a whole separate blog topic.) So here we go:

#10. “Pre-MOO-nition pink”
#9. “RIBBIT-tickling red”
#8. “WOOF-it-down grey”
#7. “Can I BAA-row a Feeling white” (Kirk Van Houten, you’re our homeboy)
#6. “You bel-OINK to me blue”

#5. Then, an obligatory PSA: “NEIGH-borhood watch black”

#4. While we’re on the subject of horses: “after-NEIGH-n delight”

#3. A big of magic: “Occult-it like I see it lavender”

#2. “MEOW, that's lovely pink”

#1. And, the ultimate, the Numero Uno (drum roll please): Growl-and-Eat-Humans Green (bears). Stephanie, I can’t take the credit for that one, it was all yours!

Any other gems we’re missing? (P.S. if any OPI execs are reading this, my resume and portfolio of other brilliant ideas are available upon request. Lola loves OPI, y’all!)

It Amounted to a Hill of Beans

In reading the Baconista's post on Memorial Day Baked Beans, I wrote a rather snarky comment back about my husband.

My husband, since I have known him, has created much ado about his mother’s baked beans recipe. They called them “funeral beans” because apparently everyone in their family (and all around Minnesota, actually) brought this type of bean casserole type thing to funerals. Other events, too, but they were just known as “funeral beans.”

There’s really nothing less appetizing to me than sugary beans right up until you put “funeral” in front of them. I’m about as interested in sampling those as I am attending an open-casket wake, which is to say not at all.

But my husband has had something of a rough year and so this year when he once again brought up the funeral beans, I agreed we should get the recipe.

Then I came down with what is known around these parts as “The Baby Plague,” which any mother with a child in daycare or school will know all too well.

For those not familiar, The Baby Plague is when your child brings home some sort of Rhesius Monkey Transplant bubonic nonsense every other kid has at school.

One of us ALWAYS fall victim to The Baby Plague…typically whoever it would be most inopportune for. My roommate’s experience with The Baby Plague came when she was about to take the bar exam. My husband’s came right before a week-long trip for work. And mine came right before our week-long baby-less vacation. And apparently the universe thought it would be my turn again.

This has little to do with anything other than that I was in no condition to make funeral beans for Memorial Day. Or anything.

So he gets the recipe and sets to work, and his mother calls repeatedly to second-guess the recipe, until she goes to Target and assures him the measurements are right. And I am delirious and trying to keep the toddler entertained while simultaneously coughing so hard I throw up, and so I’m just not overly interested in the whole endeavor.

So the beans are made and he seems happy and Wee ‘Burb ingests, oh, approximately 100 pounds of beans.

And this is when I sort of become alert because I’m thinking “oh the hell that will be this diaper” and already touching my nose for the universal sign of “not it” when I kind of giggle.

Because my husband was distracted by my threats of divorce if he thought for ONE SECOND I was changing the diaper when HE was the one who made this child eat BEANS for Pete’s sake, he did not notice my chuckle. .

The super secret mystery Funeral Beans recipe? Was basically a couple cans of Bush’s baked beans, some hamburger, and a buttload of sugar.

Now some of you who enjoy the kind of comical banter I enjoy with my husband are waiting now for the punchline of what I said and how I got him to confess that this mystery was kind of a letdown.

I said nothing.

And here’s why.

Growing up, my mom baked twice a year: Thanksgiving and Christmas. We savored EVERY treat that woman made because we knew once the holidays were over, so were the cookies and bars and peanut butter balls. And most important to me growing up: The Jello Pudding Pie.

You guys, I still salivate like a Pavlovian dog at a dinner bell when I see the box of Jello.

I thought my mother did something magic with that box, you see, because we’d had the jiggly fruit Jello and ain’t no pie coming from THAT! And because she made it but twice a year, I was sure there was some magic in that old black box she found.

So cut to YEEEEARS later when I am going over to Scott’s sister’s house for one of the first times, possibly the first. You need to know before I tell the rest of this that his sister is like super insane gourmet girl. We should just call them The Foodie Family and we should just all bow to their superior food knowledge and culinary skills.

I thought: I will wow them, I will make my mom’s super famous delicious Jello Pudding Pie.

But it was last minute and I was racing through the aisles trying to figure out what I would need so I could call my mom and get the recipe on the fly. And Scott, he was so good, he was so quiet. And finally he could take no more and he showed me the back of the box, where the recipe for Jello Pudding Pie was.

But…surely that couldn’t be my Mom’s Jello Pudding Pie. Because…well, no, because this had approximately 3 steps and required ingredients everyone has at home.

I think you guys can guess how this ended. I went to his sister’s house with a Jello Pudding Pie of SHAME and they were nice enough not to mock me incessantly, and Scott married me anyway, and his sister is the sister I never had…

And this is why I could not put the fun in “funeral beans.”

Where were you when you first demystified a super secret family recipe? It reminds me of the episode of Friends where Phoebe discovers the cookies she grew up were not from Nestlay Toolhauz, but rather Nestle Tollhouse.

Veggie Tales: What I Learned This Month

Today I'm also blogging over at Imperfect Home where you can witness organization gone wild when I tackle how to organize meat. Yup, you heard me, MEAT. I also give away a great recipe for sweet potato cottage pie. And if that doesn't tempt you, Kristin's amazing ideas of working with small spaces and organizing a home with the ptitter patter of dirty feet surely will!

Last week I completed another meeting with my dietitian. I'm still not happy with the way the scale is going. But I do notice I am almost down an entire size of pants and my bathing suit fits significantly better. Also, my energy levels are AMAZING! Since I've cut out caffeine and focused on eating cleaner, I am finding I don't have that 3:00 crash I used to have.

Don't worry if you don't believe me, I didn't either until I experienced it.

Because she is looking to distract me from my uber-focus on the scale, this meeting we focused on two things: water and veggies.

The focus on water was brief. She had previously recommended I get 70 ounces of water because of how much I work out. You guys, I TRIED! I did. But as I put it to my very amused dietitian: "I'd have to quit my job." I told her the second I hit 60 ounces, I have to move in to the bathroom. So we agreed 60-64 would be sufficient. And not require that I usurp Wee 'Burb's potty chair for my office.

So the veggies. I struggle a bit to get the right amounts of fruits and veggies. Fruit I like to snack on. I have switched one snack a day to either apples with cheese or a smoothie. So fruit and I are simpatico.

Veggies? Well that's a bit tougher. I'm good at getting them in at dinner time as a side dish. But throughout the day, it's just not that exciting. So we discussed at least making half my dish (versus a quarter) veggies to at least get what I can in.

The benefit to doing this at dinner is also that it would reduce portions of other food. Filling up on veggies would mean less of whatever the main entree was, ultimately reducing calories.

I told her this would be simple pimple because we've been hitting the farmer's market lately. She asked what we get and I ruminated on the pretty zucchini and corn. I bragged about this sweet potato cottage pie I had made full of corn and peas. And she's kind of coughing and going "That's...great. Only those are starches, not really vegetables."

Mind? BLOWN!

I had been slipping corn and peas (frozen) into a ton of dishes recently. These are also starches. Add to that list any potato, parsnip, pumpkin and other assorted squash.

Now it's not that they're bad, necessarily. I mean a starch like these are better than pasta or bread. But still, a bit of a heartbreaker. Especially because Scott has been giving me the eye when I serve spinach of late, an expression that clearly says "We are going to review our marriage contract if you serve me wilted spinach with lemon juice ONE MORE TIME, Woman."

So because I haven't been doing well with weight loss goals, I'm switching it out and focusing on what I eat. This month's decision was made for me: we'll be focusing on veggies. Specifically, how to dress up the sides so we can eat non-starchy veggies and meet the recommended servings.

Do you love veggies? Did you know the difference between starches and veggies? How do you dress up your veg and still keep it healthy?