Chapstick Challenge

My lips are on fire right now. I am nowhere near my beloved tube of chapstick. All I want is to grasp my beautiful Burt's Bees and slather that goodness on my lips. Before you call the police to inform them of a kidnap, I am safe and sound in the comfort of my home, but I have been without chapstick for approximately 22 hours

Let's rewind and get you up to speed. Last Tuesday, Troy introduced me to my chapstick challenge. He wondered if I could go without chapstick for a full 24 hours. My first thought was panic. I had just applied my chapstick before going to bed and if I accepted his challenge I wouldn't be able to reapply until bedtime the next day! My next thought was that I wasn't sure if I would be up for the challenge. I mean, I always have chapstick on me. You know how some men have an outline of their wallet that has worn through their jeans, so even if their wallet is not in their pocket, it looks like it is? I have had that happen to me except it was a chapstick outline in my front, right pocket of my jeans. I wish I were joking here. I tried to figure out how long I have been nursing this habit and it has been at least since high school. So when I say that I wasn't sure if I could complete the challenge, my fear was valid. I was being asked to change a behavior that I have exhibited for over ten years!

I must have been off my rocker, but I accepted the challenge. I still don't know why. Anyway, the next day was awful. I purposely left my chapstick on my night stand. I couldn't trust myself to put it in my pocket because I already knew that there are times during the day when I subconsciously take it out and put it on. I realized that I was completely addicted because I reached into my pocket for my chapstick probably ten times that day and every other minute, I thought about how chapped my lips were.

I knew I was going to need a plan of attack if I was going to make it through the day. Unfortunately, they don't make Nicorate patches for chapstick addicts. I decided that every time I wanted to take a hit off my chapstick, I would take a drink of water. Besides getting more of my daily fluid intake, I thought that I would take this addiction head on - psychology style. Here was my theory. I learned in my psychology class in college about Freud, and while I think some of his ideas were completely delusional (I am referring the envy he claimed women had to the male genitalia) there was one stage that I thought maybe I fit in, the oral stage. People who fixate on this stage may have issues with smoking, biting their nails, or in my case, habitual chapstick usage. I thought if I could substitute one oral habit (chapstick) for another (drinking water), I might be able to lick this (no pun intended - to my psychologist friends, thank you for laughing at that one). It didn't work. Long story short, I still wanted my chapstick and on top of that, I was in the bathroom twice as much as usual. On the bright side, I was not at all dehydrated.

Chapstick was all I could think about. It was all I wanted. And yet, I could have applied at any time. Why was I putting myself through this? I have two theories:

1. Competition. I have realized that I am a very competitive person. Mostly I am competing with myself, which also explains my perfectionist tendencies. When Troy challenged me to the chapstick challenge, I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it. Though I still think I should get a gold star or a sticker or something for this.

2. Addiction. I seriously think I am addicted to chapstick. It kind of bothers me how my life almost revolves around chapstick and it wasn't until I took this challenge did I realized that I didn't like being chained to this habit.

I did complete the challenge, successfully. At bedtime, I was allowed to put on my chapstick and boy did I put it on. There were probably five even coats on my lips before I turned out the lights. I sighed a sigh of relief as I realized the torture was done. It wasn't until the next morning that I surprised even myself. After getting ready for the day, I went back to my night stand to put on my wedding ring and watch, but I stopped myself when I went to reach for my chapstick. I thought about the torture I went through the day before and wondered if it would be easier today. I let the chapstick spend the day on my nightstand. Not only that, for a full week, I have only been putting on chapstick at bedtime. It is getting easier to go without . . . sort of. It's more like I am getting used to wanting to rip my lips off each day. We'll see how long I last . . . right now I am just trying to survive until bedtime.

The Civil War Between Pam and her Legs

The day before yesterday, Troy and I went to the health club. I didn't much feel like doing cardio, and knew I was about due for a leg workout. Now, if you are me or Troy (which would be very weird if you were) and you hear the words "leg workout" you immediately start sweating. It is also very important to point out that leg workouts need to be planned because you will be out of commission for a couple of days. So, if you are planning on playing basketball or disc golf with the guys tomorrow, a leg workout today is not a good idea. You folks are lucky because I am about to share the Carlson's Leg Workout. After a few of these, you'll have stellar legs which you will not be able to use because you'll be in too much pain.

Our leg workouts have evolved a little since we have become gym rats but they all start the same, traveling lunges. I grab two fifteen pound dumbbells (Troy has more weight, but that is because he is so strong and dreamy) and find a low traffic area in the gym. Then I do ten traveling lunges (traveling lunges are when you start standing with your legs together and take a big step forward with your right leg, then you dip your body down, keeping your torso perpendicular to the floor and your right knee makes a 90 degree angle. Then you stand back up and bring your left leg forward to meet your right leg so your stance looks the same as when you started, just one step away) turn around and do ten more. That is one set. Then I do two more sets.

Next, I do squats of some kind. Lately, I like finding those resistance bands that you Velcro to your ankles and a medicine ball. With my legs together, I start by taking a sideways step with my right leg so my legs are apart. Then, holding the medicine ball, I squat down, come back up and bring my left leg together with my right leg. I do ten steps leading with the right leg and ten steps leading with the left leg. That is one set. Then I do two more sets. Now you know our leg workout secrets. It's like having a trainer in your house with you. I am imaging the trainers from Biggest Loser reading these paragraphs and beaming with pride because I am sure that they send their free time reading my blog.

By the time I am finishing up my last set of traveling squats, I am making grunting noises and honestly fearful that my squat stance combined with my fatigue and stress of the exercise is creating a perfect storm for flatulence. My only hope is that nobody walks by because it truly is out of my control at this point. When I finish, I am staggering over to my water bottle, mostly because I am tired, but also because I haven't found the strength to un-Velcro the straps from my ankles so I mimic a convict shuffling into court with his ankle restraints. When I go to sit on the floor to rest and remove the straps, I realize that my legs no longer have the strength they did when I first entered the health club. They now have the strength of Jell-o. I catch my breath and gulp down water as on-lookers judge me for sitting on my rump at the health club. These also tend to be the same people who only walk the track and missed me doing the workouts I mentioned above. At this point, I think, "eh, that's good enough" and then I finish with some light cardio.

The next morning, I wake up and get ready for the day. Everything seems fine until I sit down in the afternoon for more than thirty minutes. When I stand back up, suddenly everything is tight and uncomfortable. I know, this is only the beginning of the civil war about to be unleashed. My leg muscles have decided to revolt against me. Since I made the workout so challenging, they are retaliating by making simple things like walking, impossible. This continues for the rest of the day. At bed time, you hope relief is in sight, but more often than not the next day is more challenging than the first. Troy and I often have slow down for the other person when walking. The slower person will say something about the leg workout and the faster person nods with empathy and slows the pace.

This obviously has an effect on daily life. I have been working on a few sewing projects and started to walk (slowly) upstairs to get to work, when I realized that there was something in my purse I needed to complete a project. I literally stood on the stairs for a minute to decide if I should get it myself, ask Troy to bring it to me, or maybe just forget the sewing project all together. I ending up getting it on my own, wincing all the way down as I took each step and then wincing as I went back up the stairs.

The funny thing is, I know my legs, while incapacitated for the time being are getting stronger. The soreness almost makes me feel like my legs are ripped like the Hulk. I strut (in my mind anyway, in real life I am shuffling while making muffled grunting noises) around the house like a super model on the runway. Then when I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I am surprised that my "bulging" muscles are not quite so bulging. In fact, they look the same as they did the evening before I did my leg workout. How can this be?

Anywho, I am currently on day two of my civil war with my legs. Thankfully I already know that the north wins. Sorry legs, there will be no seceding the country of Pam Land. I win in the end.

Boo-yah.

Laura Petrie Pants

When I was in high school, my sister and I were wild. We would stay up super late, into the wee hours of the night. My parents were completely oblivious to what we were up to. While they were snug in their warm bed, Laura and I would be watching television shows that only were on after a certain hour. We were watching . . . Nick at Night. Now you know our shame. My sister and I would spend our crazy nights watching Nick at Night until we couldn't keep our eyes open anymore. That's right, we were nuts for "Bewitched", "Petticoat Junction" and "I Dream of Jeanie." One of our personal favorites was "The Dick Van Dyke Show;" probably because we loved the movie Mary Poppins so much. In case I need to make a link for you folks, Dick Van Dyke played Bert in the movie, but seeing as we were watching the Dick Van Dyke show after seeing Mary Poppins, we would just call him Bert. Referencing him also often involved a rendition of the chimney sweeper dance, obviously.

One interesting fact about "The Dick Van Dyke Show" is that Mary Tyler Moore, who played Laura Petrie, was a bit of a risque actress who wanted to wear pants (gasp!) on television during a time when married couples were shown sleeping in individual twin beds. The network respected Moore enough to allow her to wear pants for only one scene in each episode. (After I learned this, I thought it was fun to notice this with each episode.) The pants she chose were black, although the show was in black and white, so they could have been any dark color, and they were capris, or as my grandma likes to call them, petal pushers. I always thought they looked so classy.

Fast forward to a few months ago when I was shopping at my meca, The Gap. I was trying on some dress pants when I found a pair that I was sure would look heinous on me, but they were on sale so I thought I would give them a chance. I put them on, looked in the mirror and fell in love. They were Laura Petrie pants!! At long last, I had found them and let me tell you, I wore them well. Laura Petrie would be proud. These dress pants are currently hanging in my closet amongst my other dress pants which happen to be harboring unfriendly feelings toward the Laura Petrie pants because they know the Laura Petrie pants are my favorite.

The only problem I had with my Laura Petrie pants is the same problem I have with all dress pants. I don't understand why the pockets are sewn up. It is like the factories think that you are going to try on the dress pants, stuff them full of things and then put them back. I think if they are going to sew up the pockets, they should put a message inside like a fortune cookie. I would love it, if I got home with my new Laura Petrie pants, ripped open the seams and found a message in the pocket. Here are a few suggestions that would be fantastic.

"Wow, your butt looks awesome in here!"
"Wanna hold hands?"
"You are going to have a great day, so long as you strut your stuff."

Anyway, you get the idea. I just think it would be fun. I mean if they are going to sew up the pockets on my Laura Petrie pants, the least they could do is put a little surprise message that could say something like, "You call these Laura Petrie pants? Laura Petrie calls these Pam Carlson pants."

Organized Planners vs. Flexible Free Spirits

Most of the time, I feel like a fun-sucking wiener. Yeah, that's right, a fun-sucking kosher hotdog. The reason I feel this way, is because I am usually surrounded by whimsical people who think planning and organization is overrated and a waste of time. If I had a nickle for every time the phrase "Just go with the flow" was said to me, I'd be rich.

I have always been fascinated with personality tests. In college I took the Myers Briggs (I am ISFJ) and Strengths Finder test. As a young bride, I took the Love Languages test. (Click on the test names to take the tests yourselves! There is not one for Strengths Finder as you need to pay for the access code, but you could buy the book to get one.) I know that I am an organized, empathetic person who appreciates order and planning. I show I care through acts of service and truly believe that it is the thought that counts.

The problem occurs when there is a clash of personalities. Generally organized planners tend to take everyone into consideration while flexible, on-the-go folks think about the here and now and what would be fun. Flexible free spirits think that organized planners are merely workhorses who trade in fun for schedules. Organized planners think that flexible free spirits are . . . well . . . rude. However, both groups of people are important and help each other be more well rounded.

I do appreciate those free spirits friends who gently try to introduce me to their crazy, whimsical world. All while getting teased about me not having a plan. There was an episode of Friends where Phoebe is asked if she has a plan and she replies that she doesn't even have a "pl-." Sometimes it is okay to not even have a "pl-" . . . like once a year.

Haircuts

January first. It is a time for resolutions. It is a time for turning over a new leaf. Troy and I are personally attending our own Fat Camp due to all the delicious Chicago dishes we enjoyed while home during the Christmas holiday. However, I decided that I wanted to ring in the new year with a new haircut. Nothing drastic, just wanted to clean up those pesky split ends and add some swoopy bangs to change things up a bit since I am too chicken to lose any significant length to my hair.

I love getting haircuts. Love them. As I was in the stylist's chair enjoying her tame my mane, I decided that if I were a millionaire, I would get my hair done every week. At first, I was thinking I would do it everyday, but then I worried that I wouldn't appreciate it as much, so I bumped it back to every week. It was during this epiphany that I also decided there are four main parts to the haircut process that make the event fantastic all the way through.

1. The Wash. If I had to choose my most favorite part of a hair cut, it would be in the beginning when the stylist is washing my hair. You walk over to the chair and after a few minor, yet awkward adjustments, you are finally comfortably sitting in the chair with your hair cascading over the sink. She turns on the water and begins to soak your hair. "How's the temperature?" she asks. You reply it is great and hope that she won't yak your ear off so you can fully enjoy the hands of someone else doing the mundane task of washing your hair that is never as enjoyable when you do it yourself. When the water gets turned off, you heart sinks a little knowing that you'll have to wait until your split ends wreck havoc on your hair again to enjoy the next head massage.

2. The Cut. I love this part because the stylist is constantly combing your hair as she snips away. I am also slightly fascinated by the amount of hair that ends up on the floor. She will take a section of hair, comb it away from your head, inspect the ends, snip-snip-snip, and then she will shake your hair out to see how it lands. It doesn't feel as nice as the wash, but I am still a fan.

3. The Style. When all the cutting is done, out comes the hair dryer and brush. This part is great because I hate blow drying my hair. It is time consuming and I usually start sweating which makes me feel like washing my hair was a compete waste of time, so I really enjoy someone else doing this for me. When the hair is dry, the stylist will either curl or straighten my hair. This part always makes me think of when I was in the first grade and all the girls would play with each others hair during the read aloud time. Then my teacher, Miss Norris, would say, "Girls, this is not a beauty parlor." Except that now I am in a beauty parl0r, so I enjoy the stylist fixing my hair and think about how I can't get in trouble with Miss Norris now.

4. The Swagger. The stylist hands you a mirror to see the back of your hair, and after you approve the work, you collect your things and pay. Then comes the swagger. This is the part when you walk out of the salon and to your car like you are a movie star because you know your hair looks awesome. If you happen to be wearing sunglasses, you may even be wondering if onlookers are currently mistaking you for a celebrity. Probably. I mean, look at you. You're a stone, cold fox . . . and you know it.

Of course the next time you wash your hair, it never looks as good as when you left the salon, but alas, it is only 6-8 weeks (or in my case, 12-14 weeks) when you will visit the salon again and revisit the best parts about a hair cut: the wash, the cut, the style and the swagger.

Tree-Hugging Hippie

I am a registered republican. There . . . I said it. I hope you appreciate how scary it can be to admit that while living in the Twin Cities. I will now have to fear for my life. Two things you can't be in the Twin Cities: A Republican and a Blackhawks fan. I am currently 0-2.

Troy and I spent the Christmas holiday in Chicago with my family. It was there that I realized that Minnesota has really sunk it's teeth into me and as I would have conversations with my family, I was becoming painfully aware that I have turned into a tree-hugging hippie. Here are a few highlights which led me to this conclusion and caused my parents to exchange glances where they said with their eyes, "Our daughter is a tree-hugging hippie."

1. Philanthropist Footwear. I got a new pair of Toms from my sister-in-law for Christmas. They are awesome and I love them. In case you haven't heard of Toms, they are a company that donates a pair of shoes in a third world country to a child who doesn't have shoes whenever you purchase a pair of shoes. (Click here to learn more about the company.) Anyway, I put on my brand new Toms the same day that my sister and her boyfriend came home and Laura hadn't even sat down before she started making fun of my shoes. When I tried to explain the company, I just sounded like, well . . . a tree-hugging hippie.

2. Eastern Remedies. My dad was starting to feel like he was catching a cold. Obviously I am going to give a shout-out to one of my favorite homeopathic remedies: the Neti Pot! I was able to successfully convert my dad to this practice so his response was that he was going to use his Neti Pot. However, Troy made a comment about how I should be a spokesperson for the Neti Pot and I am pretty sure the rest of the family snickered at me. Why? Because I am a tree-hugging hippie.

3. Gerber, What?! I was talking to my mom about wanting to make my own baby food and use cloth diapers when the time comes for Troy and I to procreate. (No, it's not anytime soon.) I think my mom actually thinks this is cool although I did have to explain to her that cloth diapers are different from when I was a kid, as she was skeptical at first. Actually she this was a positive interaction, but it still makes me a little bit of a tree-hugging hippie.

4. The Three R's. Tonight we had dinner with some friends. We got on the topic of recycling (perfectly natural, right?) and our friend told us that after is wife took out the recycling he couldn't find a new bag and threw three empty cans of pop away. I definitely couldn't let it go and I was joking, but it still made me look like a tree-hugging hippie . . . and a little bit of a jerk for sticking my nose into their garbage business. Sorry, Peter.

Those are the big ones, but that combined with the fact that I am a teacher (unions), I love the Farmers Market (even though I can't get up early enough on a Saturday to go), and I want a big yard to have a huge garden and a compost pile . . . . I am basically one pair of Chacos away from becoming a full-fledged democrat. No offense to my liberal friends out there.

Anyway, this new realization also brought forth a moment of reflection. It is okay for me to be a tree-hugging hippie. It is even okay to be a Republication tree-hugging hippie, regardless of what my party may believe. So, I have decided to keep on being myself and I get any more flack about it,I'll show you . . . I'll vote for Michele Bachmann.

Go ahead . . . . test me . . . . .

Let Them Eat Cake

One fantastic thing about Troy's parents is their love of deserts, so when they come to visit, it is basically a given that we will be partaking of a sweet treat sometime during the day. Now, I am generally a salt-loving person, but I think it would be rude to be so unaccommodating as to deny my in-laws of their sweets, so out of the goodness of my heart, I eat desert too. I am such a gracious host. Last night we enjoyed a choice of red velvet cake or carrot cake. (I had a small slice of each! But I couldn't finish them . . . )

This morning, before church, my mother-in-law told us that she had a coffee cake in the fridge we could have before we left. I cut a slice for myself and as I let the sugary goodness dissolve in my mouth, I was wondering why this baked good was acceptable for breakfast while the red velvet and carrot cake was reserved for an after meal end cap. Both are cakes. Both are made with flour, sugar, butter and eggs. Both will take up occupancy on my hips creating a saddle-bag effect. Then I realized the difference. The frosting.

That's right, frosting. Add frosting to a cake, and it can be classified a dessert. Strip the powdered sugar and egg whites and you have yourself breakfast. The frosting is the one who gets all the credit but is really just a lot of excess calories. Frosting is like the debutant reality star that doesn't really do anything but is famous anyway. Frosting is the Paris Hilton of delicatessens.

However, I feel like I need to address the rebel in this scenario. The coffee cake with icing. You've seen them. They often have the two racing stripes of some sort of fruit jelly running lengthwise and then on the cake part are small piped curly-cues of frosting that are delicate enough to be appropriate for breakfast but provocative enough to laugh in the face at the rules of breakfast. What is with that? It clearly says coffee cake on those stickers that I am convinced are made with the same glue as duct tape. The stickiness of those suckers is remarkable! Coffee cake should be eaten with, well, coffee, which is consumed primarily in the morning. It is a sneaky tactic, but so far the dessert police do not have enough evidence to arrest the frosted coffee cake for obstruction of a breakfast food.

I guess the lesson learned here, kids, is that dessert, regardless of the time of day, has but one purpose: to satisfy that sweet tooth . . . and then rot it out. But who cares? In the words of Marie Antoinette, "Qu'ils mangent de la brioche." Let them eat cake.

Intense Super Fan

This weekend was Bethel University's homecoming. (Whoot, whoot! Go Royals!!) Being that Troy and I both went to Bethel and live close to campus, we have gone to the homecoming game every year we have been married and even a few when we were dating. I love the school spirit and the traditions of coming back for homecoming, and Troy likes the football. It's a win-win.

Homecoming is always a crazy game. You have to get to campus early to get a parking space, and then fight the crowds for a spot in the bleachers. This year was the first year we sat on the "parents' side." At Royal Stadium, on the home bleachers side, if you are facing the field, the students sit on the left. The parents and alumni sit on the right side. This year we didn't sit with the current students. I think we are too old . . . (sigh)

So, we joined the other old people on the left side of the bleachers and we were sitting behind two men who were constantly talking during the game. I learned that the one particularly vocal man went to Bethel when he was in college and also played on the football team. He loved to remissness about the "good ole days" when he was 187 pounds and couldn't keep any weight on him. Or about the game where he was up against a big guy who wasn't in shape and so he just kept tackling the overweight football player in his gut until he wore him out. His stories were interesting as they were humbly-pompous. He would talk about how awesome he was and then make a comment that brought him down to the status of a mere man.

He also loved to talk to the football players on the field as though they could hear him. A few choice phrases he used were: "Come on, beef," "You have to want it," and my personal favorite, "Come on Bethel, you gotta throw the kitchen sink at 'em." (I actually typed these into my Droid as he said them so I wouldn't forget.) Being that I was sitting in front of him and I couldn't very well turn around for a viewing in a conspicuous matter, I made a visual of what he might look like. I figured he was a typical football alum dad who was wearing a Brooks Brothers oxford under his Bethel windbreaker drinking a Caribou coffee. But when the game was over and I turned around to see him, I saw a man who resembled Milton from Office Space. He was wearing worn out black sneakers, light washed jeans and a cheap, felt version of an Indiana Jones hat, complete with a draw string for those windy days. He didn't fit the humbly-pompous man that I thought was sitting behind me.

While I reveled in his "new" look, I thought about how this man or someone like him is present at every sporting event ever organized. Even back in 80 AD, some Roman would be shouting in the Colosseum on the best ways to kill the lion, gladiator, what-have-you and talking about the time he slayed a barbarian when he was in college. Why is it that people feel the need to fluff up their peacock feathers and talk about what they did back in the day as it pertains to the sport? Why do these people have to shout out advice to the players and coaching staff? I personally think they are hoping the head coach will overhear them and beg for them to be on their coaching staff. Afterall, their knowledge is clearly superior.

The Baby Spa

Apparently babies need a lot of stuff. Not that I would know first hand, but I am assuming this from the baby "necessities" that Target sells. Before my friends had children, I would walk down these isles because I knew I wouldn't buy anything. There I would find a plethora of pacifiers, diapers, burp cloths, car seats, pack and plays, etc, with each brand claiming to be the best for your baby. Most of the time, I would get overwhelmed and wander over to the book section. On my way out of the baby labyrinth, I would think to myself, when Troy and I have children, how on earth will we know what we need?! Now that I have gotten used to the idea of my peers procreating, I don't think that babies don't really need all that crap, except for maybe the car seat. That seems important, although a roll of duct tape seems cheaper.

I found out a few weeks ago that my friend, Ashley is pregnant. She is a fellow blog fan who enjoyed the post I wrote on the family stick figures people put on their car. She and our friend, Joanna have even taken pictures of the Baby on Board signs and sent them to me as a cruel joke, that I always find to be hilarious. Though it went against every fiber in my being, I will do almost anything to get a laugh, so Joanna and I decided to get her a Baby on Board window cling and a package of family stick figures to celebrate her little zygote.

Baby's R Us seemed like a good place to look for the Baby on Board sign, so I went there. (By the way, I never realized how completely ridiculous the name "Baby's R Us" is until I typed it.) I walked into this monstrous store reserved for all things baby and almost had a panic attack. Thankfully I found the newborn section before any hyperventilating set in. I found the Baby on Board sign without too much trouble. It was hard to miss since there was an entire isle designated for "baby safety," complete with mirrors that Mom or Dad can hang up all over the car so that they can always see when the baby barfs on the bib that says, "That's it, I'm calling Grandma!"

I perused a few of the isles to see what other crap new parents "needed" for their infants when I got to the Personal Care isle. This isle mostly housed bath tubs, which I will say is somewhat of a need, especially when infants can't hold their heads up on their own yet for you to just plop them in the sink for their baths. Most of the tubs where made of plastic and they were in a variety of colors. Then I saw it. I stopped dead in my tracks and read the packaging a second time to make sure I understood what they were selling. When I realized it was true, my mouth fell open. It was a Baby Spa, complete with jets and a sprayer head and it cost over fifty dollars. I openly shook my head in disgust at it.

In case you want to purchase one of these, it is called Lil' Luxuries Whirlpool, Bubbling Spa & Shower, (what a classy name) and if I find out you have one, our friendship may be pending. I decided right then that I was done looking around and supporting this conglomerate, so I left. I felt like I needed to process what I just saw so I called my sister and when it went straight to voice mail, I told her was I saw as though I were actually talking to her and not a vast abyss that was recording my story. I felt a little better.

Do today's parents really need all these gadgets? My great grandmother was born in a log cabin. As I was staring at the Baby Spa, I was wondering what her mother would have to say about all this stuff. I am well aware that I don't have children of my own and while I completely detest the "you'll understand when you have kids" cliche (also known as the futuristic "I told you so") I still have a hard time believing that we will need all that junk.

Now, we could buy that Baby Spa, or we could invest that money and compounded over the years, be able to send our kids to college. Sorry kids, your dad and I thought you needed a luxurious bath when you were so young you couldn't remember the soothing nature of the jets, so now we can't send you to college. Good luck at your Starbucks interview! Although if we forgo the car seats and go with the duct tape, maybe our kids can have their cake and eat it too. It's definitely something to look into.

The Minnesota State Fair

It's the time of year again. When folks from all over the state, flock to our capital city and gorge themselves on all things that are deep fried and served on a stick. It is known as the Great Minnesota Get Together. About 1.7 million people attend each season. It is . . . The Minnesota State Fair. You can ask almost any Minnesotan what their plans are from late August until Labor Day and they will undoubtedly tell you when they are going to the fair. It is a part of our culture. Personally, I love the fair and all the weird quirkiness that goes with it.

The food is obviously a huge draw. Our general plan of attack is to share everything so that we can eat more junk. This year we had cheese curds, a papa Pronto Pup, an ear of corn, fried Snickers bar on a stick (my personal favorite), fried apple pie, 2 lemonades, a few of Sweet Martha's cookies - and then we decided to get something we never had before - hot dish on a stick. Being from the Chicago-land area, I did not grow up eating "hotdish" and had never had it before. I thought since we were at the Great Minnesota Get Together, getting it fried and on a stick would be appropriate. I was wrong. It was gross. Maybe it is an acquired taste. Regardless, I will not be making Tater Tot Hotdish for my family nor will I eat it again.

After the selection of food, people watching is one of my favorite activities. Where else can you see such a diverse group of people? Troy and I are big fans of people watching. It is a great activity while you are resting your feet and nursing an overpriced glass of lemonade. I have found that a majority of the people at the fair can classified into one of the following categories:

1. Farm Folks. These are the kids who are involved in 4H and have driven miles from the outskirts of the Metro. They walk around in their Wranglers and dirty boots, awed by the amount of people and the fact that they finally get to come to "the city." (I am sure you can pick up on the fact that I ooze city slicker from my pours.) They sit in their camping chairs next to their sows, goats, and cows and look at us city folks like we are fools for not knowing how to truly live off the land like Daniel Boone . . . and they would be right, but I also don't need to pick hay out of my hair at night.

2. White Trash. This is a given. Any event that boasts food that will clog your arteries - on a stick - will for sure bring a surplus of these folks. They walk around in dirty flip flops or slippers (yes, I saw slippers as outdoor foot wear) with their overweight, loud children in tow, talking with their mouth full of fried food. Toothless, husbands lighting up a cigarette and blowing in the faces of everyone around them. I saw two women who apparently forgot to put their shirts on in the morning . . . that or a bobcat attacked their tops on the way to the fair. One of the two.

3. Pure Minnesotans. This is a category I have recently made up. This group contains people who love the outdoors and dress as such. They are the ones wearing Tevas or Chacos (some with socks . . .don't even get me started), cargo shorts and polo t-shirts. They may or may not have a sweatshirt tied around their waist or shoulders. They are pushing Bob strollers (these are made for runners) and eating the healthiest (I use this term loosely) options the Fair has to offer or munching on apple slices that they brought with them. Many of the people in this group are also donning fanny packs . . . which I cannot even talk about here, and should be the topic for another blog.

4. Prom Queens. I don't know why there is a large group of people in this category, but every time we go to the Fair, I see women who apparently thought they were going clubbing instead of coming to the Fair. They are wearing high heels, skinny jeans and enough make up to cover the entire cast of Gossip Girls. Often these women are holding a plastic cup of beer. Very classy. I have no idea how they teeter all over the fair grounds dressed like that. They must have corns the size of volleyballs.

If you could not identify yourself in one of these groups, congratulations! You're normal. If you did classify yourself in one of these groups, own it. While you may be a strange sub culture, everyone is accepted at the Fair. So, that is it. With tomorrow being Labor Day, it is also the last day of the fair. We will have to wait a whole year before we can see the butter sculptures, get free St. Thomas bags from the education building, and visit Minnesota's Largest Boar. That's okay though, it will take me that long to burn the calories I consumed in our visit.