Minnesota

Friend-Proof Mascara ¹¹

I’ve become what I hate.

Which is a person who wakes up at 5:30 am and puts on makeup.

To go to the gym.

The whole thing feels especially artificial as I recently published a no makeup post where I boast about loving myself with or without cosmetic enhancement.

Me, without makeup. (Or eyebrows)

So why did I waste my time applying mascara only to sweat it off twenty minutes later?

Simple. I wanted to make friends.

I’ve been going to the Small Town YMCA each day to participate in an early morning group exercise class. As someone who works from home, I need a daily dose of face to face contact–even if it’s in the midst of sweating profusely while doing burpees and cursing under my breath. To me, the gym is a place to better my fitness and my social life.

Which leads me to the mascara.

There’s this group of girls at the gym that I want to be friends with. Not in a creepy way. More of an “I’m lonely and my dog can’t go shopping with me” kind of way.

The girls not only seem fun and interesting–they just happen to be my age.

And have a ton of cute workout clothes.

I have a ton of cute workout clothes.

I mean, it just makes sense that we would be “besties”.

I’ve been watching them after class (again, not in a creepy way) and noticed something they all have in common. They wear makeup to class. Like, full on makeup.

I suspect there also may be some sort of perfume involved.

Despite the fact that it’s still dark outside and we’re about to perspire enough to definitely require a shower after class.

Hmmm.

If they wear makeup to class, and then I wear makeup to class, we’re destined to instantly bond. I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised if we plan a girl’s trip to Vegas within the next six months!

(Yes, this is how my brain works.)

And so, like the friendless sellout that I truly am, I set my alarm fifteen minutes early in order to go against everything I believe in and put my face on before hitting the gym.

This would have worked perfectly had I actually woken up when the alarm went off. Instead, I ended up dragging myself from the bed at my usual time, which meant after slapping on some mascara, coverup, and of course, my eyebrows, I was behind schedule.

I arrived three minutes late only to discover that all of the fifteen pound weights were already in use. I ended up having to settle for nine pounders, which meant my workout was disappointingly mediocre. The worst part? After the first ten minutes of rigorous activity, my face was beet red, aside from the few spots where I had applied my ghost white concealer. Basically, my face looked like a cross between Minne Mouse’s red polka dot dress and a Monet painting. (As in a Monet painting from the later years when Claude had pretty much lost his eyesight and things were extra splotchy.)

And no one even noticed the mascara.

I take that back…one person did. You’re not going to believe this, but the neighbor who helped me when I locked myself out yesterday happened to be next to me in class.

Welcome to life in a small town.

The good news is that we’ve cleared the air and he no longer thinks I’m a psycho. He even wants me to help him with a website he’s working on. Dare I say it, we might just be “buddies”.

The bad news is that I’m going to have to bust out the workout sombrero.

I’ll get these girls to like me if it kills me.

(There may or may not be margarita mix in that Nalgene bottle…)

I mean, seriously. How could you not want to be amigos with this?

Psst! Have you entered the Chanel Nail Polish Giveaway yet? Hurry — you only have until Thursday!

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“Sober up. We’re going to Wal-Mart.” ⁸

Yes, that is a direct quote.

From yours truly, circa June 2008, actually.

It was one of those sentences that sounded perfectly normal in my head, but as soon as the words left my lips, everyone was on the floor laughing. I think one individual may have even peed their pants.

We were living in Syracuse at the time and enjoying a lazy Sunday evening at a friend’s house. Scott wanted to have one last beer, while I was pleading that we forgo the beverage and hit up Wal-Mart instead.

You see, I had been looking everywhere for a pair of royal blue shorts to wear in the opening number of a beauty pageant I was competing in. Wal-Mart was my last hope.

Yes, I was in a married women’s beauty pageant. But that’s an entirely different blog post. Actually, it’s an entirely different blog altogether. Let’s just say there’s a whole lot of crazy in the deep, dark underworld of grown women’s pageants.

And yes, Wal-Mart had the shorts, in case you were wondering.

I’d actually never been inside a Wal-Mart until I was in college. Not because I came from a snooty family who was “too good” for the land of the roll-back smiley face. Quite the opposite, in fact. There simply wasn’t a Wal-Mart store within thirty minutes of our home, so we chose to frequent the conveniently located neighborhood Kmart.

I’d argue that Kmart is significantly worse than Wal-Mart. But that’s probably because I’ve been spending too much time on the husband’s Twitter feed.

Is it possible that Wal-Mart could have given Kmart hepatitis in the first place? You know, like, during the pregnancy? I’m just saying that I wouldn’t put it past her.

Also, I always thought Wal-Mart was a boy?

Regardless of its gender, I love me some Wal-Mart and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

I mean…you could head inside to purchase a platter of boneless buffalo chicken tenders that you might enjoy…oh, I don’t know…as a reward for surviving the swimsuit portion of the crazy pageant you were just in?

This is totally hypothetical, by the way.

Suddenly, you realize you need to get your nails done…so you pop on over to the in-store salon for a quick mani/pedi.

As you’re leaving the store, you begin to feel guilty about the mammoth plate of chicken tenders. This is quite the predicament…you’ve already bought the tenders…it’s not like you can exchange them, right? You choose to do the next best thing and pick up some free weights, resistance bands and a couple of exercises DVDs to undo the calories you’re about to ingest.

(P.S. Wal-Mart will actually let you take anything back. Like, even a pregnancy test. Not that I’d know or anything.)

You also decide pick up some Pepto-Bismol and Tums, just in case the chicken tenders don’t agree with you.

And oh, what the heck? That adorable pink cheetah-print dress is only $5 and will look totally cute on your chihuahua!

Okay…MOSTLY hypothetical

Three days later, when the infection you attained during you’re bargain manicure is so bad you’ve been prescribed a heavy dose of antibiotics, you’ll return to Walmart’s convenient 24-hour pharmacy in order to keep the MRSA from spreading to your joints.

It is truly one-stop shopping.

In college, my friend Katie often talked of plans to write and compose “Wal-Mart: The Musical”.

It may just be one of the best ideas I’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing. The costumes alone would be spectacular. I’d also hope that the opening number would feature actual Wal-Mart greeters.

For authenticity purposes.

Anyway, when Scott announced upon moving to Small Town we would be doing our grocery shopping at Wal-Mart, I was elated. I mean, have you seen their candle aisle? It looks like a candy aisle! (And technically, candy is a grocery.)

But seriously…we needed groceries. The fridge in our new condo was pretty sparse.

While quite delicious, Vegemite isn’t the most nutritionally dense food.

So we set out on our first Wally World shopping spree in nearly three years. I was so excited, I even snapped photos to document the momentous occasion.

Louis Vuitton meets Sam Walton. Which reminds me–can photos be oxy-morons?

After two glorious hours in the kingdom of American consumerism, our fridge now looks like this:

Sorry, Vegemite.

We also have a fully stocked pantry and freezer.

For $230. What now, Whole Foods?

I also may have picked up a few candles. I mean…they’re only five dollars! And they have spiced vanilla and toasted hazelnut!

Scott thinks the candles are ridiculous. He’s stated many times that my idea of “cleaning” is shoving everything into a closet and then lighting a candle.

I’m sorry…but isn’t that the very definition of cleaning?

Apparently not. According to Scott, the act of “cleaning” looks more like this.

It would be quicker to just shove stuff into a closet. This leaves you with plenty of extra time for more important things like sniffing candles and eating Vegemite.

The above photo illustrates a man who is kind enough to remove the hot candle wax his wife spilled all over their carpet earlier that afternoon. Their freshly shampooed carpet in their brand new condo.

Initially, I claimed that Jolie had sharted. I was quickly caught in this lie as dog poop smells nothing like toasted vanilla.

A quick Google search revealed that covering the wax with a paper towel and lightly running over it with a warm iron soaks the wax right up. Phew!

Unfortunately, we didn’t happen to have any paper towels on hand.

Luckily, I happened to know just the place to pick some up.

“Sober up. We’re going to Wal-Mart!”

(I agreed to steer clear of the candle aisle.)

(But only this once.)

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I want you back ³

Forty days and forty nights.

No, I’m not making a Biblical reference. That’s how long Scott and I have been shacking up with the in-laws.

But tomorrow morning, it all comes to an end. The time has finally come to move into our new condo.

Our extended stay in Saint Cloud has actually been quite enjoyable. I feel at home here, despite the fact that I can’t go to the bathroom with the door open or drink coffee in my underwear.

Oh, come on. Everyone knows coffee tastes that much better when you’re only wearing underwear. Especially if you’re sprawled across the couch and watching Regis and Kelly.

So why am I so excited to get out of here?

Simple. I want all my crap back.

Since January 28th, Scott, Jolie and I have been living out of two measly suitcases.

The rest of our junk remains in this guy’s trunk.

Unpacking this bad boy tomorrow is going to feel like Christmas. It always amazes me how after a few weeks in the old storage trailer, you forget about all of the old friends you carefully tucked away in cardboard boxes and bubble wrap.

There’s nothing better than being pleasantly surprised by the pineapple slicer you’ve had for two years, but completely forgot about, or gasping with glee upon remembering that you are the proud owner of the Risky Business twentieth anniversary commemorative DVD.

Christmas, I tell you.

I’ve been wracking my brain all week, remembering which “goodies” I’ve missed the most. I’ve devoted so much time to this particular activity that I’ve actually come up with a list:

The Top FIve Things I Can’t Believe I Went 40 Days Without.

1. My Wardrobe

If you couldn’t tell by the lacklustre outfits on my fashion page, I’ve literally been dressing out of a single suitcase for the past month and a half. That means two pairs of jeans and one pair of boots.

For forty days.

I know, right?

It’s gotten so bad, I can’t even remember all of the shoes in my collection.

Forgetting the faces of all of your shoe friends is one thing. (Yes, my shoes are my friends. We have tea parties and everything.)

Only remembering to pack one pair of pajamas is quite another.

So yes, I’ve spent the last 40 days prancing around the house in the adult sized romper that started out as a joke for a Christmas party, and has ended up being the sweaty, humiliating, bane of my existence.

2. My coffee maker

This year for Christmas, my brother Janss gifted me a Tassimo Single Cup Coffee Brewing System. It just may have been the best Christmas present ever.

Photo via Tassimo

Until I realized it would cost me no less than $90 to purchase a month’s supply of custom coffee pods.

But I didn’t let that stop me. Anyone who follows this blog knows that with me, coffee is more important than family (sorry, Mom). Ninety dollars is a small price to pay for the exhilaration that comes with preparing a single cup of perfectly brewed morning joe.

The fact that I’ll drink at least four individually prepared cups each morning, making the single-cup concept utterly pointless, is obviously irrelevant.

The fact that I’ll be enjoying them in my underwear while shamelessly guffawing at the wittiness of Regis Philbin? Also irrelevant.

These glorious designer coffee pods arrived a few days before we left Seattle. I ripped the box open like an overly-agressive six-year-old and rushed to the kitchen, only to discover my beloved Tassimo had been packed a few days prior.

Why Scott picked this one instance to be responsible and accomplish a task ahead of schedule is beyond me.

Also beyond me? Why the Tassimo had been packed while the bread maker I haven’t used in four years sat smugly on the counter, taunting me.

For forty days I have thought about that Tassimo. And tomorrow morning? I’m going to have my coffee and drink it too. I’m also going start storing all of Jolie’s dog food in that pompous little bread maker. You know, just to show him whose boss.

3. My PUSH Book

Photo via Amazon

What’s the one thing I love more than Turbo Kick?

Self-help books.

I actually want to write a self-help book someday. Although I don’t suspect people are willing to pay for advice from someone who thinks cupcakes are a food group and has night sweats in her footie pajamas.

So yeah, I’ve got some kinks to work out, but once I’ve got my life together you’d better watch out. “Hurricane Katrina: Surviving the Storm” is going to be a bestseller.

I just know it.

Anyway.

Chalene Johnson–motivational speaker, fitness guru and creator of Turbo Kick came out with her own self-help book at the end of the year.

Oh you’d better believe I was on the pre-order list.

PUSH arrived in the mail on the same day as my Tassimo coffee pods. Against my better judgement, I decided to pack the book with the rest of my belongings that were headed for the storage trailer. That way I would have something to look forward to reading once we settled down in Small Town.

I realized all too late that tagline of the book is “30 days to Turbocharged Habits, a Bangin’ Body, and the Life You Deserve.”

So basically, if I hadn’t packed the stupid book, I would have achieved a bangin’ body and the life I deserve ten days ago.

4. My Apple TV

When we left Seattle, I was half-way through season three of Mad Men on Netflix.

This one’s pretty much self-explanatory.

5. My File Folder

Which happens to contain all the paper work I need to do my taxes.

Correction. All the paper work I need to have someone else do my taxes.

You know, so I can get my refund.

And buy more coffee pods.

It’s a vicious cycle, people.

********

MARCH BOOK CLUB

The votes have been tabulated! It was a close call, but you selected Bossypants by Tina Fey.

Photo via Amazon

So go forth and be bossy!

And also, you know, read the book.

Leave your review on the Facebook Page and I’ll include it with my “official” write up at the end of the month!

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Free coffee. Seriously. ¹⁵

Prepare for the most awesome giveaway in the history of blog giveaways.

Okay…perhaps I’m exaggerating just a tiny bit. But, this freebie is still pretty awesome, if I do say so myself.

Lately, I’ve been blogging a lot about the new man in my life.

Isn't he handsome?

At least I’m assuming this guy is a male. I Googled it, just to make sure and was delighted to find step-by-step instructions for how to distinguish a female caribou from a male caribou on ehow.com. There were more steps than I anticipated, but the difficulty was ranked as easy, so I decided to dive right in.

Here’s what they gave me:

1. Look at the size of the antlers to distinguish a female caribou from a male caribou. Both sexes have antlers, but the male’s are larger. His can grow up to three feet long. A female’s antlers only grow to be about 20 inches long.

Hmmm….kind of hard to tell from the picture, but it looks like my caribou could just be a REALLY butch female?

2. Compare the sizes of the caribou you see. As with other species, male caribou are larger in size than the females. A male can grow to weigh nearly 700 pounds, and stand 5 feet tall at his shoulders. A female caribou only grows to be 200 to 300 pounds.

Again…nearly impossible to tell from a photograph. And my mother always told me it was rude to guess someones weight. The LAST thing I want to do is offend a caribou who is capable of impaling me with their non-gender-specific antlers.

3. Check the sex organs of the caribou to tell the difference between the sexes.

Ummmm….not gonna happen.

P.S. I deleted three sentences of this step for censorship purposes. This is a family blog, after all.

Okay…maybe not a family blog. But it’s definitely not a blog for people who want to read about caribou lady bits.

4. See two caribou fighting in the fall, and you can be sure they’re males. During mating season, males fight over female caribou.

It’s not fall for another seven months, which means the only way we’ll be seeing this caribou fight is if I agitate it by inaccurately guessing it’s weight, or invading its personal space to determine what body parts are under its tail. Again, not going to happen.

5. See a caribou with a calf, and you can be sure the former is a female.

Wait a second. Caribou’s like to hang out with baby cows?

So, yeah. Thanks for nothing, ehow.com.

Although, the gender of this caribou doesn’t really matter at all. I’m not in love with an actual Caribou. No, that would be positively disgusting.

Although wasn’t the guy from Harry Potter in a play about that or something?

In love with a horse, in love with a caribou. Same thing, just with antlers.

So no. I’m not in love with an actual caribou. Just their coffee.

Okay...this one is WAY easier to distinguish. Clearly it's an ambiguously gay, male caribou.

I was terrified to move to a town with no Starbucks, but Caribou has eased my fears and quite possibly won my allegiance.

Plus, an ambiguously gay caribou would totally win in a fight against a green mermaid — even if she is wearing that sharp, pointy crown.

I spent this morning working from my favorite Caribou Coffee in Small Town so Scott and I could sign the lease on our new place after work. And yes, we have finally found a place! I’ll update you on that tomorrow.

But back to the coffee shop. It may have been my most successful visit to date, and I think it’s finally safe to say that I’ve wormed my way into the heart of Mary the Barista.

How do I love this little midwestern coffee shop? Let me count the ways.

1. They have fat-free whipped cream.

Did you read that? FAT-FREE WHIPPED CREAM. Can we all just take a moment to reflect on what a beautiful thing this is? There were more days than I’d like to admit to where it was all I could do not to order a venti cup of whipped cream on my morning Starbucks run. Now, I can order one and it will be fat-free!

Also, I suspect the people of Minnesota will be way less judgemental when I order a large cup of whipped cream than all the healthy Seattle folk who prefer their lattes with organic soy milk.

2. They have trivia.

Trivia! That’s almost better than fat-free whipped cream. And, if you answer the question correctly, you get ten cents off your order. Plus, because Mary the barista is awesome, I’m allowed to cheat and use my iPhone. Today I didn’t even need to cheat. I simply had to spend about two minutes using my fingers to count how many dots are on a pair of dice. But Mary waited. Because she’s awesome and patient.

3. That’s about it.

But everyone knows you need to have at least three items to constitute a list. So, I suppose I can mention that if you bring your own mug, you get an additional fifty cents off your beverage order. I think Starbucks also does this–it was actually my reasoning for buying this mug back in Seattle.

Do you think if I brought this in, Caribou would still give me the discount?

I’d better not press my luck. Wouldn’t want to push Mary to the point of joining the Caribou mom gang for my shanking in the parking lot.

So, it looks like it’s time for me to buy a new mug from Caribou. I’m leaning towards this set.

Stackable his and hers mugs. Scott would get the red lips so I could have the far superior mustache mug. Obviously.

My latte will just taste so much better when sipped out of a mustache cup, don’t you think?

Although this little guy looks mighty tempting as well.

Yes, it’s a shot glass.

Although their website has dubbed it a “Cold Beverage Sampling Glass”.

But I still say it’s a shot glass.

Wouldn’t it be hilarious if I strutted up to the register, slapped this puppy down on the counter and demanded a single shot of sugar-free vanilla syrup?

Naturally, I would throw it back in a single gulp before proclaiming “Ooooh. That buuurrrns.”

Naturally.

Yeah, you’re right. I’m totally asking for that parking lot mom shanking.

But never mind my coffee cup indecisiveness. You clicked on this link for free coffee, and I’m here to buy it for you.

Why the random act of kindness?

Because I’m a generous person who genuinely cares about her readers.

And possibly because I want to prove to my Seattle friends that Caribou Coffee really is legit.

But mostly because I’m trying to grow this little blog of mine.

Here’s how things are going to work.

1. Find your favorite blog post (any post but this one) and share it on Facebook, Twitter or Pinterest.

2. Leave a comment on this post telling me which post you chose and where you posted it.

3. The contest runs until Tuesday, February 28, 8:00PM EST, at which point I’ll use a random comment selector to pick the winner.

Bam. That’s three things. Officially a list.

The winner will receive a pound of Caribou Coffee beans shipped directly to their home courtesy of yours truly.

You can request to be sent tea instead. If you're lame.

You’ll also rise to fame and glory by being featured on this blog. Unless you don’t want to, you know, be associated with someone who accidentally goes naked in public or develops a nasty case of fungus on her face.

But really, I don’t know why anyone wouldn’t want to be affiliated with that.