food

The Feins Go (Mid)West

/ Love, M / Leave a comment

Six months ago, I moved to Wisconsin.

Er, WE. We moved.

I moved with my husband.

HUS-BAND!

(I got married?!?)

Yea, I didn’t leave him 51 days after our wedding – we moved together.

There’s no way we could split up the kids.

Also I love him.

But Wisconsin. Who does that, right? Seattle to Wisconsin. Cheese, brats, humidity, Packers dontchaknow, Wisconsin.

You know who moves to Wisconsin from Seattle? Pretty much anyone who doesn’t have a job at Amazon or Microsoft, that’s who.

Thanks, Jeff Bezos.

But really, we headed east because Jon went to school in Madison, and it had been a goal of ours for a long time to end up there and be real-life season-ticket-holding Wisconsin Badgers fan’s.

We were ready to trade “Starbucks on every corner!!,” for “Starbucks on every other corner!!,” and after we got back from our honeymoon, I guess it just seemed like as good a time as any to keep making huge life changes, so we took the leap.

Or maybe the thought of going back to the exact same job and routine that we had pre-wedding and pre-honeymoon was just so unbearable that packing up our entire life and moving thousands of miles away seemed like the only logical thing to do.

Either way.

So we drove across the country with about 4 possessions because of course our SUV was on it’s last legs right on the cusp of our cross-country road-trip, forcing us to have no choice but to fit all of our necessities into a sedan. We packed the two of us and our two pups in the car with as much as we could fit in our little trunk which is, NEWSFLASH: not much. As we are now pro’s at this, let me tell you what you can pack on a road trip with 2 dogs and 2 humans in a small car: 1 air mattress, 2 pillows, 1 coffee maker, and 3 pairs of underwear.

4, if you wear two pairs at once.

It was SO tight that I didn’t even bring all my makeup. You guys. I entrusted the moving company with my entire (and fabulous) makeup collection. These guys, who probably have never even HEARD of Sephora, let alone step foot into that magical kingdom. These guys, who definitely don’t know how invaluable a beauty blender can be, or how long I waited for Charlotte Tilbury’s Pillow Talk lipstick to be restocked – THE AGONY!!

That’s right –  I only packed the very basics and you know what? I feel liberated. I am a bra-burning, liberated woman now. Honestly though can we have another bra-burning moment because I hate bras and I know you do, too. The only women who like them are 14 year old girls going bananas over getting a training bra.

Not that I have graduated out of a training bra yet but that’s neither here nor there.

And besides, that’s what having babies is for right? I’m sure there are other reasons to have babies, but finally filling out your shirts is the main one, no???

I wish I had some hilarious road-trip stories of not being able to get to a rest area in time, or one of the dogs terrorizing a hotel room, but it was honestly pretty smooth-sailing. Of course we want our dogs to behave (and they do most of some of the time), but when a chance like this came along to really make some funny and lasting memories, they actually DID behave, and way too well. I mean, they really made us look like we knew what we were doing!

Ugh. Parenting is hard.

Taylor Swift’s album came out right before we left, and I’m still waiting for my ‘Wife Of The Year’ trophy to arrive since I listened to it non-stop BUT WITH MY EARBUDS ON, lest my dear spouse be tortured to death by nasally melodies about boys who done her wrong. (I love her and I hate her and I love to hate her). My husband, on the other hand, loves listening to sports radio, so even if I really hated Taylor Swift, I think listening to her album is still better than the alternative.

I feel like I know enough about sports to know that I don’t need to know anything sports radio is gonna tell me, you know what I mean?

I think the craziest thing that happened on our road-trip was having the epiphany in a Best Western that the best Indian food you’ll ever eat is found in the state of South Dakota. I don’t think this opinion has anything to do with us being near-death starving, pounding curry on a hotel futon and thanking any godly beings up there listening for making curry vegan.

We finally arrived at our new digs, but with zero things to furnish our house or cook with, and no real idea of when the movers would arrive. I was tasked with going to Target for “necessities.”  Naturally, I bought a giant cactus painting and a fake Christmas tree. Apparently necessities are more along the lines of “food,” and “toilet paper.”

I am nothing if not practical.

Thankfully my husband hasn’t fully caught on to the fact that I cannot be trusted alone in stores that sell home decor, clothing, animals, makeup – okay any store with any product really –  and so that is reason #379 that my husband is the best husband.

I can make a list later of all 379 reasons but for now I’ll just mention that they include his bacon-making skills (which we no longer put to use but it scored major points way back when) and also he picks up all the dog poop in the yard. Never did I think this would be such a turn-on, but having a husband who picks up the dog poop is a kind of sexy that I never knew I needed.

After several more trips to acquire the “actual” necessities, we stood in the middle of our empty house, with no real clue of what to do next.

For 14 days and 14 nights, we ate, drank, slept, played board games and watched Netflix on an air mattress, fantasizing about box springs and Tempurpedics.

You would think that on that 15th day, seeing that giant moving truck finally pull around the corner and onto our street would induce overwhelming emotion at the mere thought of sleeping on an actual bed that night.

The truth is that all I was really worried about was wether or not my makeup had survived the journey.

It survived.

1,989 miles, 6 states, 5 dog parks, 13 gas stations, 87 potty breaks and several tumbleweeds later:

We are midwesterners.

The Feins went (mid)west.

 

Love,

M

 

Faking It

/ Love, M / Leave a comment

Let’s talk about faking it, shall we?

I know you’re hoping I’m going to talk about about faking it in the sack, because you guys are all dirty, dirty, rascals. Sorry to burst your bubble but this blog is NOT for dirty bedroom banter.

Just kidding, it’s for dirty everything.

But for this post, “faking it” has a slightly different meaning…

faking it picture

My soul sister Claire (I love her so hard) sent me this e-card the other day and it totally validated that I’m not the only one who acts like I’m looking at a reflection of Shrek after a bar fight, sometimes usually every time I look in the mirror in the morning. Believe me, I am a professional at the slow-creep-into-the-mirror-view-with-my-eyes-almost-all-the-way-closed-and-then-open-them-very-VERY-slowly-as-to-not-startle-the-beast-staring-back-at-you. You KNOW what I’m talking about. I know you know. One body part at a time, often holding the towel strategically so that you don’t get a glimpse of TOO much all at once, or you may render yourself unconscious on the bathroom floor when you pass out from sheer terror, and without a Life Alert at that!

Sidenote: why in the HELL are Life Alerts catered for old people? If I break my fucking body falling down the stairs do the people answering 911 phone calls think that I’m gonna be able to jog over to my landline just because I’m twenty-shutupdontmakemesayit years old?

No. I’m not going to be doing that. I’m going to be lying on the bathroom floor, dying. Dying, and wishing I would’ve eaten more cupcakes. Granted, I probably have my iPhone on me but it PROBABLY BROKE WHEN I BODY SLAMMED IT INTO THE LINOLEUM .

Life Alert, people.

I’m buying one.

As soon as there’s a Groupon for it.

Anyways, oh yes. Morning Mirror Shock. The pre-game-esque pep talk that I give myself before the big reveal post-shower is also pretty epic and I should probably record it so that you can use it as a motivational speech before you do crazy things that need pep talks like getting married or taking calculus. It goes something like this: Okay. Breeeeeathe. Okay. Okay. You can do this. You will not freak out. You will take a deep breath and you will be absolutely fine. Nothing has changed. You survived yesterday and you look exactly the same, today. One measly donut is not going to do a damn thing. You are a beautiful, strong, confident, intelligent, sexy, lovable, radiant human being who deserv–what the FUCK. This is NOT what I looked like yesterday. How the fuck did those tumors on my thighs get there? I can’t put pants on!!! How am I grabbing this much love handle right now are you KIDDING me you are fucking kidding me. The universe is full-on screwing with me right now I know this for a fact. Oh. Yea. Side profile is not even worth it do not turn sideways DO NOT DO IT. Fuckkkkk. Really, dude? You really turned sideways? Okay I honestly didn’t eat hardly anything yesterday and then I just had that raspberry truffle Greek yogurt for dessert, and even then I only ate the chocolate coating off the top! Fine, I ate FOUR chocolate coatings off of four raspberry truffle yogurts. But I didn’t feel good yesterday and there was a really sad movie on and I was emotional OKAY? WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?

See? Don’t you want to hear that speech before the biggest day of your life? I thought so.

So. In honor of “the fat days,” when you’d rather be lying broken on the floor sans Life Alert, instead of dragging your seemingly horrific (but obviously gorgeous) ass to work, I made a list of things to do instead of body shaming yourself. Because body shaming is fucking stupid.

Yes I am guilty of it.

But it’s DUMB.

So stop it. All of you.

And me.

We’re all fucking beautiful.

How To Fake It On A Fat Day:

1. Mood Music

Dial your Pandora to Backstreet Boys and let Nick Carter serenade you into a fantasy world of romantic one-liners and endless sweet nothings. Let me tell you a little story. You know that high note Nick hits in “I want it that way?” Yes, you know the one. That was the first moment I ever fell in love. I was 14. I literally felt my heart burst into rainbows and sparkles and shower me with candy coated stars as I watched him looking deep into my eyes from the inside of our television. I was OB-sessed with him, and 100% sure that if he could just meet me for like five minutes, he’d fall in love with me too. This is obviously not what real love is because real love includes things like “Do you like bacon,” and, “Are you a horrible human being because I’m ’bout done with those,” but when you are fourteen years old THAT IS WHAT REAL LOVE IS. So put on your favorite boyband and jam the fuck out. You can’t NOT be in a better mood when BSB is proclaiming their endless love for you.

2. Make-up Fixes EVERYTHING (except your empty soul)

There really isn’t anything you can do in the span of 20 minutes to fix feeling like you’re bloated enough to be the latest exhibition at SeaWorld, but you CAN slap some a ton of makeup all over that face, or as my dad liked to say, “She’s got her war paint on again!” Thanks dad. But seriously, in moments where the thought of actually putting your legs into pants makes you want to tear every last hair out of your head and then peel back all of your fingernails (now I’m just grossing myself out), good concealer and some red lipstick will be your best friend, my dear.

Here’s what you’re gonna do:

You’re gonna contour the mother fucking shit out of your face. I’m talking contour level: Kardashian. Then, you’re going to put concealer ALL OVER AND UNDER AND AROUND THE SIDES OF YOUR EYES DO IT BELIEVE ME and blend the ever loving daylights out of it with your dampened Beauty Blender and if you don’t have a Beauty Blender YOU ARE LOSING AT LIFE GO GET ONE YOU’RE WELCOME. Then, you’re going to take some Bobbi Brown Bronze Shimmer Brick to those cheekbones until you look like a Greek goddess. Lastly, line those pouty smoochers (because if you don’t line your lips before bright lipstick it will bleed all over the fucking place yes you can thank me later), smear on that red lipstick and ROCK it like the whore you are!!! Okay that was a little aggressive. But red lipstick. Do it. I love Lady Danger by Mac, but any red lipstick that screams, “I am a classier version of a prostitue and you might get laid but not before buying me an entree AND a dessert (yea, motherfucker)”, should do just fine. THEN, as if bronzing yourself to death isn’t enough, highlight the tops of your cheekbones, brow bone, bridge of nose, Cupid’s bow, and collar bones in order to put some REAL shine into your fake-ass step today. This may all sound like a bit much, but I wear this look quite often and so far no one has tried to pay me to have sex with them. I do get compliments on my lips though. A lot. I’m telling you. RED. LIP. STICK.

3. Emergency Text

 Everyone has at least one girlfriend that she can Mayday text and know that she’ll get a response from that’ll make her feel less like a bowl of blubber and more like the gorgeous piece of lady lust that she is. Don’t feel dumb, just text her already. If you don’t know what to say, my Mayday text’s usually go something along the lines of, “Hi can you please talk me off the ledge of my bathtub right now because my pants have clearly shrunk three sizes overnight and there’s just no point in anything anymore.” Girls have to lift each other up, especially when we are being dumb asses to ourselves. TEXT YOUR FRIENDS. Do not text your man I repeat do NOT text your man. Don’t send him a message at 7:16am saying, “Baaaaaabe I’m so ugly omg am I fat??? Wtf helppppp I look horrible in everythinggggg.” Do NOT DO THAT. Why? Because DON’T. That’s why. First of all, you’re just having a hot-ass-mess moment, and it’s going to pass (eventually). Secondly, he already thinks you are gorgeous and funny and smart and amazing even when you feel like Shamu and he’s going to tell you that you’re lovely and awesome on his own because he’s super great and if he doesn’t do that you are most likely dating what I fondly like to refer to as a DICKhole. NEXT. And of course I don’t believe this romance-y shmancy stuff that I’m spewing out right now ALL THE TIME, but I should believe it all the time and so should you so goddamnit let’s start believing it together okay ready go.

4. Fabric Manipulation

Stretch. Stretch the fuck out. Literally. After you squeeze into your pants, and right before you start having a panic attack thinking about every last bit of lobster mac and cheese you consumed the night before, lie down on the floor and make yourself as long as possible. Gumby. You are Gumby. You’ll feel better because everything gets a little flatter when you stretch it out AMIRIGHT? Deep breaths, my love. Deep breaths. THEN, get up and do deep squats and lunges until you either A) are about to send me a bomb in the mail for making you do so many squats, or B) your pants are about to rip in half. The minuscule amount of extra room that you just created for yourself inside of your jeans will feel like the Taj Mahal compared to what you started with and you will be that much closer to feeling like the SEXY BITCH you always were.

DEEP SQUATS, love bugs.

Well there you have it. The holy grail of faking it on a fat day.

And if all else fails, cry.

Well, I should really get back to watching The Voice and eating this giant bag of kettle corn because it’s The Battle Rounds, people, and Blake needs me.

Toodles.

Love,

M.