Complaints

Spring Cleaning ⁵

It’s no secret that Minnesota has experienced a hellaciously long winter. Before moving to Smalltown, I aways assumed April–the official month of Spring Break–to be 30 warm days of sunshine, flowers and pastel accessories.

Then I experienced April in ‘Sota — a desolate span of weeks marked by below freezing temperatures, significant snow accumulation, and loads of those obnoxious Canadian Geese.

And I’ve yet to see a single pair of capri pants!

Needless to say, I was thrilled to return from a weekend in New York and discover that nearly all the snow in Smalltown had melted away.

Until I took Jolie outside for a bathroom break, that is.

Apparently, Scott has chosen to go the entire winter season without picking up a single piece of dog feces. For five long months, Jolie’s turds have been safely concealed under an ever-growing blanket of Minnesota snow. Yet now that the final signs of winter are vanishing? Let’s just say that 300+ dog turds in a ten foot radius of dying grass sticks out like…well…300+ dog turds in a ten foot radius of dying grass.

Katrina is not happy about this.

My diligence in regards to cleaning up after Jolie most likely stems from spending three years in Seattle — a place where failing to scoop the poop is frowned upon almost as much as drinking Folgers coffee or not driving a hybrid. No matter where I go, I make certain I’m always equipped with one of Jolie’s scented, designer poop bags. It’s a strategy that’s never failed me– I’ve definitely learned these miniature pink bags are multifunctional–even lifesaving in certain situations.

So, while I’ve spent the last several months cleaning up Jolie’s droppings no matter how frigid the weather, Scott’s been using the plethora of snow to hide his DIY-fertilizer project. As soon as the great spring thaw revealed his transgression, I knew it was time to confront him.

Me: Scott? Have you seriously gone the entire winter without picking up any of Jolie’s poop?

Scott: (Giggles)

Me: What the heck, Scott?! That’s against our apartment’s policy. We’re going to get in trouble!

Scott: Pfft! No. They can’t prove it was us.

Me: Can’t prove it was you. I’ve been doing my part to keep the grass clean this entire time!

Scott: Wow. You deserve a medal or something.

Me: This isn’t funny.

Scott: Yes it is! You need to lighten up. Plus…how do you know all of it is Jolie’s poop? It could be from some of the other small dogs that live here.

Me: Don’t be ridiculous. In a line up of 100 dog turds, I’d be able to pick out Jolie’s in a heartbeat. So would you, and you know it. Her’s look like little brown Cheetos…none of the other dogs have poop that even slightly resembles it.

Scott: Are you bragging about the uniqueness of Jolie’s poop?

Me: No! I’m just saying, I can totally tell that all of the offending poop is our responsibility. Every single dropping looks like a freeze-dried brown Cheetoh that’s been left to petrify in the freezing cold for several months.

Scott: If we’re getting technical, her poop is slightly bigger than an actual Cheetoh. It’s more like the ones they print on the packaging that are ‘enlarged to show texture’.

Me: I cannot believe you just said that.

Scott: (Giggles)

Me: So…are you going to help me pick it up, or not?

Scott: Of course not! But not because I’m lazy. Everyone knows manure is the best fertilizer, and I don’t want to get in the way of Mother Nature’s natural composting. It goes against everything I stand for.

While he has a point, something tells me our landlord wouldn’t be able to see the logic in his argument. And so, I’ve taken it upon myself to become the lone pooper-scooper of the Taylor household. I figure if I can collect ten pieces of fossilized chihuahua feces with each bathroom break, the area should be free and clear by the end of the month.

Unfortunately, this week has set back my progress a bit. You see, despite being the middle of April, it still looks like this outside.

While I could be upset that the mall was closed due to a Winter storm warning on the week that is supposed to be Spring-Freaking-Break, I’m choosing to instead focus my mental energy on the more positive aspects of this prolonged winter.

Namely, the fact that the poop is once again hidden, and my painstaking scooping has been delayed for at least another week.

See? Always a sliver lining.

*****

Editor’s Note: I realize this post may have made Scott sound like an absentee dog dad, which is absolutely not the case. He’s just really into natural composting methods. Truth be told, he’s the one who puts on latex gloves and decompresses Jolie’s glands in the bathtub while I blissfully lounge on the couch eating vegetarian Corn Dogs and watching Project Runway.

If you never want to visit this blog again after reading that last sentence, I would totally understand.

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Walking a mile (or twenty) in my shoes ¹

The only thing worse than tromping around town in a torturous pair of heels is doing so alongside a man who has no empathy, legs that are freakishly long, and a unrealisticaly quick walking pace.

(I’m talking to you, Scott.)

My husband’s lack of patience for my footwear-induced slowness (and the cankle sprains that ensue) certainly doesn’t come from a place of malice or animosity. Like most men on the planet, he simply fails to understand the pain and suffering one endures when walking twenty-three blocks in a pair of stilettos that feel as if they’re crafted from broken glass and sandpaper.

“Katrina, those were two-hundred dollars! Aren’t the expensive shoes so expensive because they are more comfortable?”

Ha!

(For any men reading this post, that is absolutely not the way the women’s shoe world works.)

Needless to say, when Scott had his own walking-in-uncomfortable-shoes-catastrophe in New York last weekend, I couldn’t help but feel the slightest amount of satisfaction.

Fine. My delight was possibly more than just “slight”. Dare I say it, I experienced a deep sense of atonement. Redemption. Amusement, even. Judge all you want, but the phrase “Now you know how I feel!” escaped my lips at least a dozen times. It was finally Scott’s turn to be the one walking around the city in ~~painful platform slingbacks~~ a pair of not-yet-broken-in hipster boots.

The entire thing started out with the ten-mile run I mentioned in yesterday’s post. To feed my affinity for the overly dramatic, I’ll be referring to this afternoon jog as ‘The Urban Deathmarch’.

The Urban Deathmarch came to fruition around 2:00 on Saturday afternoon. Scott and I were staying with good friends in Brooklyn, one of whom is currently training for a half marathon next month. When we began mapping out plans for our Saturday in the city, she hesitantly informed us she had a training run planned that she really couldn’t skip out on.

“That’s fine!” I assured her. “I was actually hoping to get a workout in, anyway. I always feel so much better if I can fit a little activity in while I’m travelling. Plus, it’s a great way to experience the city. I’ll just come with you!”

“Are you sure?” she asked quietly. “Saturday is the day I do my long run.”

“Totally!” I chirped. “How far are you running?”

“This week I’m doing ten miles.”

Here’s the part where I mention that I went on my first run in over a year a mere five days before arriving in Brooklyn. It was barely a 5K and I struggled to maintain my 11-minute mile pace the entire way through. The resulting soreness caused me to walk as if I had just completed a 200-mile horseback ride for the next two days.

Clearly, ten miles wasn’t going to happen.

Still, I didn’t want to miss out on all the workout fun. I jogged along for the first four miles, ducking out a little early in order to preserve my untrained jello legs. (And let’s be honest, I needed the extra time to style my hair for a big night out in Manhattan.)

Scott, who hasn’t gone running in at least fourteen months, powered through the entire thing with more stubbornness than a Real Housewife of Atlanta. He swims every day and is in fantastic cardiovascular shape–surely it wouldn’t be a problem!

(Until the following day when he was the one walking like he’d galloped across the entire state of New York on the offspring of Mr. Ed without so much as a lightly padded saddle.)

Add to this the fact that he was then expected to traverse New York on foot while wearing a brand new pair of stiff leather boots, and an incredibly skinny pair of jeans, and you have a recipe for disaster.

“Katrina! You’re walking too fast!”

***

“Why aren’t you waiting for me?”

***

“Slow down! My feet huuuuuurt.”

****

“How many more blocks??”

***

“It’s not nice to walk so far ahead of me!”

***

“Is this what girls’ feet always feel like?”

*****

While I’m glad Scott’s feet are finally back to normal, I’m also quite glad he now understands first-hand how I feel when trying to keep up with his mammoth stride while donning an excruciating pair of Sam Edelman peep-toes.

But mostly I’m just glad I had the gumption to digitally capture the spectacle that was him, walking up several flights of stairs as if he were 94 years of age.

He’ll never run ten miles again. (OR become a drag queen.)

Not that he ever has been a drag queen, or anything. But were he ever to experience a sudden hankering to dress like a lady man, I’m pretty sure the knowledge of what walking in heels actually feels like would completely deter him.

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This is why I don’t work in dermatology ⁹

Last week, my face decided it hates me.

Fine. Technically it became enraged a few weeks prior, as I mentioned here. (Apparently when you stop taking a prescription you’ve been on for nine years and decide to get bangs in the same week, your forehead wants revenge in a very bad way.)

Fortunately, making some minor adjustments to my skin care regime–including actually washing my makeup off before bed each night–seemed to take my forehead back to its happy, pimple free place.

Or so I thought.

Approximately nine days ago, the grisly, angry battle across Katrina’s face began. There was a great deal of grease, oil, cystic acne and even a whitehead or two involved. And that’s not even taking into account the fact that the pores on my nose tripled in size. Truly, my skin hadn’t been this cantankerous since my sophomore year of high school.

Needless to say, I chose not to collect photographic evidence of the dermatological havoc wreaked on my face. Believe it or not, I do have some standards for the things I share on the internet. (Let’s just say it was even worse than the great pimple crisis of September 2011, and leave it at that.)

The only difference between now and 2011? This time around my husband has a job in dermatology.

Score.

Sure, Scott was in Salt Lake City on his snowboarding trip, but that didn’t stop me from rummaging through the Retin-A samples we have stashed away in our bathroom cabinets. This was a facial catastrophe of epic proportions, and I wasn’t going to just sit around looking like a Proactive commercial “before” photo. I grabbed the tiny tubes of miracle cream and immediately got to work.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with Retin-A, allow me to explain that it’s really potent stuff. You can’t take it during any stage of pregnancy as your baby will come out with three eyes and possibly bat wings.Yet with the high risk comes high reward…Retin-A is one of the most effective topical treatments for acne, as well as anti-aging. The trick is not using too much. When I’d used the product before, Scott had recommended a pea-sized amount mixed with my regular facial lotion once every other day. Even with such limited usage, some people experience extreme sensitivity and dry skin as a result of using the product.

Because I’d used Retin-A a couple of times with no issues, I wasn’t afraid of slapping on a little extra. I’d once gone two months applying the product on a daily basis without the slightest problem. And being that this was an emergency and all, I decided more would actually be, well….more.

It was this “more is more” reasoning that prompted me to slather a grape sized amount of Retin-A across my acne-ridden face twice daily, for the next three days.

And then the scales happened. Essentially, my entire face turned bright red, and began peeling off in millions of little flakes. I looked like the fugly love child of a killer tomato and moulting lizard. To make matters worse, I had to leave the house each evening to teach a group exercise class. No amount of lotion, concealer, not even shimmery bronzer could distract from the fact that my face was shedding in a very bad way.

As if my public moulting wasn’t humiliating enough, halfway through my workouts, the sweating would begin.

While I’m clearly not speaking from experience or anything, let me just say that hot, salty sweat on a raw shedding face might just be more painful than childbirth.

While things had dramatically improved by the time Scott returned home, my face was certainly a long way from normal.

“Whoa…your complexion is really bad right now.” Scott remarked. “What happened?”

“Um…I may have gotten into the Retin-A…?” I sheepishly confessed.

He shook his head while letting out a deep breath. (Confession: this might not be my first Retin-A overdose.)

“Katrina…we’ve been through this before. When are you going to learn to use Retinoids responsibly?”

“This right here, Scott? This is why I could never work in dermatology. I dont’ have enough patience for a traditional skin care regime…I would want to give all of my patients overnight results!”

My response was met with yet another sigh and headshake.

“There are many reasons you could never work in medicine, Katrina. Aside from your fear of bodily fluids and paranoia that would prevent you from making any sort of accurate diagnosis or treatment plan, you just called it a skin care regime. What you meant to say is regimen, which is another word for routine. A regime is a ruling system of government.”

“Oh…I knew that.”

“Did you?” he smirked.

“Trust me, Scott. If you had seen my face five days ago, you would realize that it would take a supremely evil dictatorship to return rule and order to my chin and forehead.”

Again, my sentiments were met with more sighing and shaking of the head.

“Yup. It’s definitely for the best that you work in the creative field as opposed to the world of facts and cold hard data, Katrina.”

Apparently, medical terminology isn’t as interpretive as one would assume.

(On the bright side, my skin is back to looking normal. Radiant, even! Like I had a really expensive chemical peel or something.)

(Insert Scott, sighing and shaking his head once more.)

*******

Psst! Episode 9 of the podcast, entitled “I got 99 problems…but the Pope ain’t one” drops today! Listen here…

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The long drive home ⁹

After four days of coping, I’m finally ready to talk about the hellish drive back from Nebraska last weekend. Truly, I have never been so frightened, frustrated and downright angry during a car ride. It felt as if we were in one of those choose your own adventure novels and just kept choosing very, very poorly.

Let’s review the unfortunate decisions that were made, shall we?

1. Driving in our Toyota

When we stopped at Scott’s dad’s house on the way to Omaha, the plan was to ride the rest of the way in his fancy new SUV. But there were only four of us including Jolie. Certainly the Corolla would be spacious enough! And let’s not forget the fact that it gets way better gas mileage!

(Clearly we weren’t aware of the impending blizzard at this point.)

2. Leaving after noon

When we awoke to two inches of snow on Sunday morning, we were slightly surprised. Still…we’re Minnesotans now. A little snow doesn’t cramp our style! And according to the meteorologist, once we were an hour north of Omaha, we’d be out of the storm. No rush, right?

(Wrong.)

3. Letting Scott drive

Don’t get me wrong…Scott is a far better snow driver than I am. This issue was less about his ability to navigate in bad weather and more about the fact that the NCAA Division 1 National Wrestling Championships were on. He insisted on streaming live video coverage on his iPhone, propping it up on the dashboard, and actually watching it while driving.

This went on for approximately ten seconds before I put my foot down and snagged the phone, holding it hostage in the backseat. I didn’t mind if Scott listened to the finals…but his eyes needed to be on the road.

(It was a good thing, too. Five minutes later, conditions worsened. There was one point where we fishtailed across the interstate for a good thirty seconds…it’s a miracle Scott was able to keep us from tumbling off the highway.)

This was the point where I closed my eyes and started my hippie-dippie deep breathing exercises.

I didn’t really know what I was doing…so I just copied some stuff I’d seen on sitcoms about Lamaze classes. (It didn’t really work.)

4. Driving on I-29

While we normally drive East to Des Moines and then straight North to Minneapolis, it seemed taking Interstate 29 through South Dakota would be far less brutal.

Once again, we were wrong.

Not 20 miles north of Omaha, we witnessed dozens of cars that had crashed off the highway into medians and ditches. Despite moving at a mere 15 mph, our car was sliding about the Iowa roads like a drunk girl on roller skates. Suddenly, we noticed dozens of cars stopped immediately in front of us.

“Stop!” I screamed. Scott pumped the breaks, gliding to a halt just inches from a semi truck that was parked in front of us. It was nothing short of a highway miracle that we had stopped without crashing into another vehicle.

Unfortunately, we still had the cars behind us to worry about.

What happened next is easily one of the most terrifying experiences I’ve ever encountered. We watched with trepidation as the vehicles behind us gradually slowed to a stop–luckily they did so without slamming into us.

There were two small vehicles parked behind us when we saw the semi trucks coming.

That’s right. Semi trucks.

There was one in each lane. The two of them were driving side by side, going at least 35 miles per hour. They were frantically trying to stop, but had seen us too late. Even with the two cars behind us, it was certain that we would be involved in the accident were they to rear end the vehicles immediately in front of them. I squeezed my eyes shut and clutched Jolie to my chest, while Scott yelled out “Whoa…check it ooooouuuttt!!!!”, seemingly amused by the entire thing.

Ten seconds later, I opened my eyes and turned around. Both of the drivers had the common sense to veer their trucks off the road, avoiding any direct impact with another vehicle. Both semis were twisted and flipped on their sides–thankfully, the drivers both walked away injury-free. The entire scene looked a little something like this.

We later learned that an accident up ahead had been responsible for the delay. The total pile-up involved over 100 cars.

On the bright side, being stopped for forty-five minutes with nothing to do meant Scott was finally free to watch his beloved wrestling finals.

5. Eating at Taco Del Mar

Ninety minutes later, we passed through Sioux City and were finally out of the thick of things. We were also famished, which meant I was tasked with locating the nearest Chipotle on my iPhone. A quick search revealed we would have to drive five miles out-of-the-way for some fresh burrito goodness…but being that we luuurve Chipotle with the passion of a thousand avocados, it was a totally worthwhile sacrifice.

Fifteen minutes later, we pulled up to the Chipotle of Sioux City.

Scott’s Dad: Um…it doesn’t look open?

Me: That’s weird…it’s 3:00 on a Sunday. It should be open….

Scott: Wait here…I’ll run out and go check.

The things we do for the burritos we love…

Scott: It’s brand new. They literally have their grand opening tomorrow.

Me: Ugh…so we went way off the highway for nothing?

Scott: I guess so. Oh well…

Me: Oh, hey look! There’s a Taco del Mar over there. Wanna get fish burritos?

Scott: Done!

I should have known Taco del Mar was a bad idea the instant we set foot through the front door. The joint was empty, sad-looking, and the woman standing nervously behind the counter looked way too excited to see us. Still, our near death experience had left me ravenous, and I wasn’t going to second guess my way out of a delicious seafood-stuffed tortilla.

Me: Hi! I’ll have a fish burrito.

Lady: Oh, I’m sorry…we’re out of fish.

Me: Oh, really? Hmmm…okay.

Lady: Yeah. We’re actually going out of business next week. With the Chipotle opening up next door, and the new Q’doba down the street, business has just been too slow. So…we’re just using up the last of our supplies. What you see is all we have left.

(At this point, I desperately wish we had chosen Q’doba instead. Under normal circumstances, I would have walked out on account of their being no fish…but it was too late for that. I had been sucked into the going out of business sob story, and there was no turning back now.)

Me: I’m so sorry to hear that! Um…let’s see. I think I’ll just have a veggie burrito with black beans.

Lady: We don’t have any black beans either.

Me: Shrimp?

Lady: Nope. Sorry.

Scott (whispering so the nice lady couldn’t hear): Whatever you do, don’t get the hamburger. It’s got “food poisoning” written all over it.

Eventually, I settled for a burrito with refried beans, lettuce and guacamole. While I’m happy to report I didn’t get food poisoning, it certainly didn’t hold a candle to Chipotle. Truth be told, it tasted like something out of an elementary school cafeteria. As someone who gets a ridiculous amount of joy from stopping for food on road trips, this was a tragedy of epic proportions.

(To add insult to injury, Scott accidentally missed the turn for the Starbucks drive-thru on our way out of the strip mall. Needless to say, I was forced to bust out the imitation Lamaze exercises once more.)

“It’s just coffee. Don’t throw anything. IT’S JUST COFFEE. DON’T THROW ANYTHING.”

6. Driving through Southern Minnesota

Because we were dropping Scott’s dad off, we didn’t take our normal route through North Dakota. Instead, we decided it would be more efficient to head East through Southern Minnesota, right back into the center of that god-awful storm. It took us ninety minutes to cover 25 miles. I tried not to think about the fact that Scott’s dad’s SUV could have handled this mess going at least twice as fast.

I also tried not think about the fact that Scott had somehow talked me out of getting snow tires.

But perhaps most importantly, I used every last ounce of willpower to keep myself from throwing a hissy-fit in front of my father-in-law. I had already made the grave mistake of suggesting Taco del Mar, and couldn’t afford to have him think any less of met.

7. Bringing Jolie

I bet you’d forgotten that we’d been towing along a seven pound snuggle pooch through this entire fiasco. Scott and I had debated leaving her at home, but when your three-year-old niece asks if “Jowee can come over for a sweepover?”, you don’t leave the chihuahua behind.

Truth be told, Jolie was an absolute trooper. She slept most of the way and was entirely oblivious to the concept that on more than one occasion, we had put her charmed little life in jeopardy. Still, when we finally arrived at Scott’s dad’s house, she’d had more than enough.

She hopped out of the car and stood stoically on the front porch in protest. It didn’t matter that it was 5 degrees and she was standing up to her chest in snow. After 11.5 hours of confinement, she was not getting back in that car, no matter how violently her tiny, hairless body shook in the cold. After unsuccessfully bribing her with an array of treats, I forcefully carried her into the car, ending Jolie’s last stand once and for all.

(She slept for two days straight after finally returning home.)

*******

All in all, the journey to Smalltown took just over 13 hours. That’s six hours longer than usual. It was scary, stressful, and fueled by some not-so-fresh McDonald’s apple pies that I’m still in denial about. Yet at the end of the day, we made it home safely. Things could have been so much worse, and I’m truly grateful that we arrived unharmed with the Toyota fully intact.

Oh, and next year? I don’t care if I have to sedate Scott and sneak away to Costco to make it happen…we are definitelyy getting snow tires put on.