Adventures

Home is where the handbag is ¹⁰

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Today is kind of a big deal, you guys.

Precisely 365 days ago, Scott and I stepped on a plane bound for Minneapolis. The tickets? One-way. That’s right…today is our one-year ‘Sota anniversary!

It’s crazy to think that our big move was just one year ago. In some ways, it seems much longer than that…this cold, snowy winter feels as if it’s been dragging on for the better part of two years. At the same time, I often feel like I only left Seattle a few months ago. Regardless, one thing is for certain — neither Scott or I have any regrets about our relocation to Smalltown.

Sure, leaving the comforts of the West Coast for the wild, untamed prairies of the Midwest was a huge risk at the time. We didn’t know anyone, Scott wasn’t sure if he would like his new job, and I wasn’t certain I would be able to continue working from a remote location. And then there was the whole “not living within 100 miles of a Nordstrom” thing. It’s obvious why we were both tentative about the entire decision.

Yet with the past year behind us, I’m confident we did the right thing. Uprooting our lives certainly wasn’t easy, but we’ve both discovered that ‘Sota actually is sexy, and we love our new lives here. Truth be told, Minnesota has felt like home for quite some time now.

Which is why we’ve officially begun the house hunting process. Or as I like to call it, “The hot mess that is Scottrina trying to make a major life decision.”

Let me preface this with a little bit of house hunting history. In 2009, Scott and I were all fired up and ready to buy a place in Seattle. As far as we knew, we were staying in Washington for life–and with the recent market crash, we were hoping to snag something fabulous for a really great price. After a few weeks of searching, we went under contract for a brand new condo in Seattle’s Capitol Hill neighborhood.

Unfortunately, the company behind the condos was super shady and ended up jerking us around quite a bit. Thank goodness we were able to get out of the deal without losing our earnest money. We walked away from the incident with some healthy perspective and settled on renting in Ballard for a while before launching into super-focused house hunting mode. Three months later we had looked at close to two hundred properties (and made offers on four of them) before realizing we just weren’t quite ready to buy a house.

Scott made me break the news to our realtor, who had invested hundreds of hours in our ultimately futile mission. To this day, I don’t think I could bear to look him in the eye. (And yes…I’m one of those people-pleasers who would purchase a home for fear of disappointing our real astate agent.)

Fast forward 3.5 years to present day. (Unfortunately, things haven’t changed all that much.)

October: Katrina locates fabulous modern lake home that is well within price range while back in Seattle. It was designed by an architect and has a state of the art gourmet kitchen. She phones Scott about it, and he makes an appointment to see the property. It’s love at first walk-through. He brings Katrina to the house just two weeks later. She loves it too, but is concerned that there are only two bedrooms. (She’s also concerned about the purple shag carpet and general “jazz-themed lounge on a cruise ship” vibe.)

November: Scott and Katrina decide to make an offer on the house. A ridiculously low offer. The sellers are insulted. Did I mention Scottrina’s realtor happens to be their realtor, too? After forty days of back-and-forth, the realtor goes out of her way to convince the sellers to come down to a lower price. They do, but Scott and Katrina reject it anyway. It’s safe to assume all parties involved are pissed.

December: Katrina locates a second fabulous lake home that is less modern and more…well…log cabin-y. Still, it has more than two bedrooms and she thinks she can update it with lots of kitschy pop art and make it “log cabin chic”. Scott doesn’t seem quite so convinced.

January: Scott and Katrina finally decide they’re ready to commit to a home with a knotty pine log bannister. In true Taylor fashion, they make an offer that is once again, ridiculously low. Surprisingly, the owner accepts all but one of their conditions in the counter offer. Katrina is shocked and thrilled.

Scott then informs Katrina he doesn’t actually like the house.

Katrina informs Scott he should have informed her of this before they signed a legally binding document.

Scott informs Katrina that he didn’t inform her because she pressured him into making the offer and he just got tired of fighting her.

Katrina is initially offended by this, but then slowly begins to question whether or not she even likes the house in the first place. Is she really a knotty pine type of gal?

The whole thing is a sloppy, log-filled disaster. Katrina is, once again, tasked with relaying the bad news to her poor realtor. She’s a genuinely nice person, and Katrina truly regrets sucking her into the Scottrina web of indecision and “just kidding!” house offers.

*****

When I finally worked up the courage to tell our agent we were sticking with our original offer, she reminded me the seller’s counter offer would only mean a $30 difference in our monthly payments. Basically, we were splitting hairs at this point.

(Naturally I took her side and said it was all Scott’s fault. That’s what he gets for refusing to ever face the realtor.)

Fast forward two weeks. The owner, who initially remained firm in the counter offer, has had a change of heart and now wants us to come back with another counter.

While I really love the house, I’m just not sure I’m quite ready to commit to a living room made entirely of logs. Scott’s coping by ignoring the situation, choosing instead to focus his efforts on all three seasons of Portlandia. When he does feel like addressing the issue, it’s with a comment like “I don’t really want to buy a house anyway. If we buy a house we can never move to New York City and Hawaii.”

So…apparently we’re moving to New York City and Hawaii*.

(*Over my dead body. I’m not moving 3,000 pounds of IKEA furniture that far ever again.)

I suppose what I’m trying to say is that finding the perfect home has been stressful. Really stressful. So stressful in fact, that I’ve begun to…umm…self medicate.

With this little guy:

Mr. Vuitton to the rescue!

Before you judge, let me point out that it’s been nearly a year since the handbag of shame and manipulation. Twelve months with the same handbag? Let’s just say my contract is up and I’m well within my rights to take advantage of the ~~free~~ upgrade.

Also, the new handbag is actually doing Scott a favor, if you think about it. You see, every time someone compliments one of my LVs, he retorts with a snarky “Pfft! That handbag is the reason we still live in an apartment and can’t afford a house.”

So really, my latest purchase is simply ensuring we don’t actually have to buy a home anytime soon, which is what Mr. Portlandia wants in the first place! New Louis = Scott getting to move to NYC and Hawaii!

See? Everybody wins. (Except the realtor, I guess.)

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I fell for it. ¹³

Day 27 of January Blog a Day: Regret

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Target + Neiman Marcus collection, I regret you.

Don’t get me wrong… I was absolutely thrilled when I learned of your existence. Twenty-four fabulous designer teaming together to bring affordable couture to the masses? Sign me up! It was bound to be a match made in pre-Christmas retail heaven!

Or so I thought.

On the eve of December 1st, I joined the pathetic list of online shoppers glued to their laptops, waiting for the collection to go live. At the stroke of midnight, I refreshed the Target.com homepage.

And refreshed.

And refreshed again.

Finally, the angry spouse in the bedroom yelling “This is getting ridiculous!!!” got through to me. At 1:15 am Central Standard Time, I admitted defeat and crawled into bed while Scott harassed me about my Target problem. (Naturally, he also asked if I was going to get him anything.) Too disappointed to respond, I rolled over so that I might be alone with my thoughts. Had Target meant the collection would go live on the web at midnight Pacific time? I wasn’t sure. Either way, I figured if I made it to the Smalltown Target by 8:00am sharp, I’d be able to have my pick of the litter.

You can imagine my disappointment when I woke up the following morning at half past ten.

Miraculously, I was able to slap on a somewhat put together skinny jeans/scarf combo and make it to Target by 10:45. Sure, the previous night’s mascara was still deeply embedded beneath my eyes, but I didn’t care. I had a child’s sized Marchesa dress to squeeze into, people!

I bolted through the double doors with purpose and vigor. I’d heard rumors that Manhattan locations had sold out of the entire collection in less than an hour, and I didn’t want to waste any more time. After a quick lap around Women’s apparel and some guidance from a kind sales associate, I was finally able to locate the Neiman Marcus promise land.

Want to know the crazy part?

Not a single item was sold out.

Initially, this didn’t make sense to me. Didn’t people realize that Oscar de la Renta had designed semi-affordable dog bowls?! Plus, it’s not everyday you can just run to the store and buy Christmas ornaments designed by the creative genius behind both of Michelle’s Inaugural gowns!

At this moment, I realized Scott’s warning that “Most people outside of a major city don’t care about that stuff,” may have been more accurate than I initially realized. Still, it was wise of me to arrive on the first day of the sale. Smalltown had only stocked one size in each clothing item, and I think we all know that the early bird catches the size small Tracy Reese top.

(Unfortunately, she doesn’t necessarily fit into the child’s sized Marchesa gown. Even if it is an extra-large.)

The only downside to my all-access shopping spree was the prices. Somehow, I had expected these items to be a little…well…cheaper? Still, I wasn’t going to allow my penny-pinching instincts to keep me from such a prime retail opportunity. After a great deal of trying on and tossing items in and out and then finally back in to my cart, I settled on three pieces I knew I couldn’t leave the store without.

Skaist+Taylor Faux Fur Vest: $70, Men’s Rag & Bone Shawl-Collar Cardigan: $70, Tracy Reese Sequined Top: $80

I made my way to the register with these three beauties safely in tow. A huge smile spread across my face as I delicately handed them to the cashier. “I’m so glad I was able to get my hands on these before the sold out!” I smugly chirped.

“Oh…okay. So…what are these?” she casually inquired.

It was all I could do not to burst out in hysterical laughter at such an absurd question. What are these? What are these? How is it possible that a red-blooded American female hadn’t heard of this groundbreaking collection? Let alone a Target employee!

I quickly reminded myself that people who wear Skaist+Taylor faux fur vests always take the high road, and did my best to explain the collection to her without sounding condescending or pretentious. Her response?

“Oh, cool! I’ll have to check them out. I’ll probably just wait until they go on sale, though.”

Once again, I had to contain myself. Sale?

SALE???

The Target + Neiman Marcus collection is never in a million years going to go on sale!

******

A month later ‘ish went on sale.

For fifty percent off.

After running three laps around the apartment screaming while carelessly throwing raw almonds at my furniture, I realized I needed to unleash my frustration in a more productive manner. Naturally, I called the store to look into the possibility of a price adjustment, as a few items still had the tag on them. (Yes…it was the vest. How was I supposed to know a short furry vest with even furrier giant shoulder pads was going to make my hips look big?!?)

It was too late for a price adjustment. Fortunately, I was able to return the vest and get the entire seventy dollars credited back to my Target Red Card. I also may have tried on the child’s sized Marchesa frock once more. You know...for old time’s sake.

(Spoiler alert: No matter how high your hopes, going vegan will not make the kiddie Marchesa dress fit over your hips.)

Ultimately, this somewhat expensive fashion fiasco taught me a very important lesson: Only purchase designer items from Target on the first day if you reside in a major metropolitan area.

(There may have also been something about material possessions not being the most important thing in life…but I’m pretty sure the main lesson was waiting for Target’s sales if you live in the ‘burbs.)

Before you go crying into your Target receipts at the thought of my tragic misfortune, let me inform you that this story does in fact have a happy ending. Just two weeks later, the items went on sale again for seventy percent off.

That’s right…Jolie finally got her Oscar de la Renta food bowls.

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"Sober up. We're going to Wal-Mart."

Meow!

Home is where the handbag is

The Seasons of ‘Sota ¹

Day 26 of January Blog a Day: Winter/Summer

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What I wear to the gym in the Winter:

A full length down coat. (Scott says it makes me look like the grim reaper).
Waterproof, weather proof boots that are designed to withstand extreme winter temperatures.
A look that says “Why the @$#! did I leave the house when it’s -45 outside??”

What I wear to the gym in the Summer:

Long sleeves for maximum mosquito protection.
At least 32 ounces of bug spray.
A look that says “Did God just punish me with a plague of locusts?”

Living in ‘Sota ain’t easy, peeps.

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The plot thickens

I forgot I was a teacher ⁸

Day 24 of January Blog a Day: Teachers

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Today’s topic was without a doubt, the most difficult to write about. I had several ideas floating around in my head, but wrangling them into a cohesive post proved to be a challenge.

I considered writing about all of the wonderful teachers I’ve had in my life (Starla, Doc, Dr. Hermanson, Ms. Wing…I’m talking to you!) but I tend to get all cute-fuzzy-kittens-with-motivational-phrases-on-posters-sappy when talking about people who’ve had a profound impact on my life. Nobody wants to see that.

Nearly all my friends from college are teachers — I contemplated interviewing one of them and sharing our conversation, but then realized we would undoubtedly veer off topic and I’d end up with a post about whether or not the thumb-holes in Lululemon sleeves make you feel like a hobo. (I think the correct answer is yes…but in a good way. Thoughts, Lindsay?)

I thought about my dad (a former high school teacher and college professor) and how I might share all of the wisdom he’s passed down to me. You know…lessons like “Costco isn’t just a store–it’s a lifestyle” or “Eating expired food strengthens your digestive system”.

I think my decision not to go down this path is self-explanatory.

I was this close to writing about Scott. Surely, he’s taught me several things over the course of ten years, right? Unfortunately, the only example I could think of was a ski trip to Copper Mountain in 2005. Despite being twenty-one years of age (not to mention a former resident of Washington and Alaska) I’d never gone skiing before in my life. Scott assured me I could skip the bunny slopes and head straight to the ‘real’ skiing. “Don’t worry,” he assured me, “I’ll teach you how to do it.”

“Teaching me how to do it” involved riding with me for twenty minutes on a ski lift to the very top of the mountain, hopping on a snowboard and yelling “See ya at the bottom!” before gliding off into oblivion and leaving me to fend for myself.

At the pinnacle of a really tall mountain.

Did I mention I had never been skiing? (I think we can all agree it’s a good thing Scott chose the medical profession over becoming an educator.)

Just when I thought I was never going to come up with a concept for today’s post, it hit me like a ton of sweaty towels. I’m a teacher! Sure…maybe not a real teacher..but I do teach fitness classes! Why didn’t I think of this sooner?

Ladies and gentlemen…we have a concept! Without further ado, the three lessons I’ve learned from my stint as a “teacher”.

1. Teaching doesn’t mean being the best or having all the answers

I used to feel insecure every time a girl with a six-pack or cellulite-free hindquarters would strut into my class. When I could tell a participant had a higher fitness level than I did? It shook me to my very core.

I should mention this happens at just about every class.

I soon realized that “teacher” isn’t necessarily synonymous with “Alpha Turbo Kicker”. It does mean I’m responsible for creating an environment that encourages people to learn and push themselves. I need to be a positive motivator. Can I be a positive motivator even if I dramatically slip in my own sweat puddle and have twenty-three percent body fat? Yes. Yes I can.

People also assume teachers have to have all the answers. Not true! Do you how many times someone has come up to me after class complaining of pain in their IT Band? It’s happened at least twelve and a half times . At first I was all, “What?? Your headband is hurting you?”, but then quickly realized they were actually referring to a body part. Whenever I get a question like this, I encourage the person to consult with a doctor or physical therapist. While I can pump, uppercut and booty shake’til the cows come home, a healthcare professional I most certainly am not.

(Let’s face it — when someone who confuses body tissue for a hair accessory starts giving out medical advice, a lawsuit is sure to follow. And I can’t afford a pricey lawsuit…I spent all that money on Turbo Kick pants.)

The moral of the story? A good teacher doesn’t have all the answers — but they can (and should) be able to point you in the right direction.

2. Teaching isn’t all about “me”

“If you’ve decided to become an instructor because you like to stand in the front of the class so you can watch yourself in the mirror, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

This was one of the first things out of the Area Promotions Director’s mouth at my Turbo Kick training three years ago. Naturally, I panicked. How did she known this was the reason I wanted to become an instructor? Had somebody outed me? Were they going to kick me out, now?

I’ll admit it–I’m an attention hoochie. I love all eyes on me, and yes, I get a way better workout when I have a good view in the mirror thank you very much.

But Bridget was right–while wearing that wireless mic gives me a deeply satisfying sense of control, the class is not about me — it’s about the group. Sure, sometimes I spend less time working out and more time explaining the moves when new people come. And yes, having to yell into the microphone for an hour straight means I can’t always exercise with as much intensity. Oh…and guess what? Sometimes I even have to stop looking at myself in the mirror so I can gauge whether or not participants are picking up the new choreography. What a concept!

My limelight loving self has come a long way–and it’s worth it! Because teaching = a sense of community = a fun experience = a more satisfying workout. Basically, getting over myself was a really good thing…and not just for teaching.

3. Teaching is rewarding

Confession: I had delayed my instructor certification for nearly two years as I was terrified I wouldn’t be any good at leading a class. Suddenly, I found myself moving to Seattle and unable to find a Turbo Kick class — I knew I would either have to teach it myself or learn to live without it.

And I’m sorry, but a life without Turbo Kick is no life at all.

So…I bit the bullet and got certified. I taught my first few classes and they were terrible. Terrible. There were a couple of times where I completely froze in front of a dozen sweaty strangers looking like a deer in headlights for at least fifteen seconds. I think I also yelled “Feel the burn!” into the microphone at least fourteen times…which…um...no. And then there was the whole catastrophe that was learning to cue the moves before actually doing the moves. Without swearing or stuttering.

It wasn’t pretty, folks.

Eventually I improved. Dare I say it, I think I’ve become a fantastic instructor after three years of practice. The process was humiliating, intimidating and involved failing in front of a lot of people while wearing sports bras…but I did it. And that’s really fulfilling.

What’s even more rewarding is seeing a participant succeed. Right before moving to Minnesota, I was teaching my final class at the local gym. When the workout was finished, one of the regulars came up to wish me well and say thank you.

She then informed me that the class had caused her to lose thirty-five pounds.

This was easily the highlight of my experience as a Turbo Kick instructor. In that moment I felt like a kinder, less-ripped version of Jillian Michaels who has a candy bar eating problem but still really cares about helping people get fit. I still smile each time I think about it.

My only regret is not asking this girl how she did it. Despite teaching Turbo for nearly three years, I’ve actually experienced a net gain of five pounds.

Maybe it’s from all those candy bars…?