I'll trade ya Joe's for just about any other store

Okay. I've only been to Trader Joe's once in my life. It was in Virginia -- in Centreville, Virginia, to be exact. I was underwhelmed. Bert was underwhelmed. We were so underwhelmed that we walked around for a few minutes and left without buying one single thing.

Here's why:

1) It was too trendy. Everyone who was shopping there was silently screaming, "Look at me! I'm shopping at Trader Joe's. Please recognize me/us for the trendy person/couple that we are!"

2) It was crowded. REALLY crowded. Hard to move up and down the aisles crowded. Crowded enough that I probably could have popped the cork on a bottle of wine, drank it, and still not have been noticed.

3) It lacked sense. There didn't seem to be a rhyme or reason as to it's layout.

4) Did I mention all the people? All the people looking out for #1, thus running into each other, cutting in line, ramming carts?

5) I didn't see any great specials.

Will you all let me know what I'm missing? Fill me in on the greatness that is Trader Joe's.

Well, I didn't want any of your stinkin' soup anyway.

I'm not a big Seinfeld fan. I mean, the show is okay, but I just don't understand what made it such a big hit for so long. The plot is usually depressing and the actors/actresses aren't attractive. You all can go off on a diatribe about how I'm really missing the true humor in the show -- but you will be wasting your breath. I'm not a fan, and I don't think I ever will be. (Shout-out to my brother who shares similar feelings to mine.)

I do know the "No soup for you!" reference, however.

So, Bert made up a batch of Mulligatawny soup. It was delicious. We all sat around, over-indulging and rubbing our tummies. It was that good. And I felt like he kept setting up lines for me to say -- but I had no idea what he was talking about. Finally, while driving home from my parents' house, he said (loudly), "No soup for you!" and then proceeded to explain how the line and soup had a Seinfeld connection.

Fast forward two days later, and Bert was trying to convince me that he needed to make another batch of Mulligatawny, but this time using a cheap rotisserie chicken from the store to make the homemade broth. I immediately rendered my protests, as I am not a fan of chicken fat, gristle, bones, cartilage, sinew, etc., etc., etc. It makes me lose my lunch. Or dinner. Or breakfast.

He assured me there would be nothing of the sort in this soup. He'd get all of the fat, gristle, bones, cartilage, sinew, etc., etc., etc. out of the broth.

I agreed. He went to the store. He got the chicken. He made the broth. He made the soup. He dished me up a bowl. Three bites in, and I find what resembles a decent-sized chicken bone, complete with its cartilage-y joints, in my mouth. WHA?!?!? How the heck did that get there?

And it made me with that my husband would have said, "No soup for you!" a little sooner.

You've got to be "kidding" me

Bert's recollection of our recent trip to Babies 'R' Us is one of the truest things he's written.

A couple of facts from the day:
A.) Crazy people were in abundance on this particular day. (Let's be honest -- when the target market for your store is gestating females, you're bound to end up with a big crate of crazy. I'm surprised other stores actually agree to be in the small strip mall as Babies 'R' Us for fear of some of the crazy spilling over into their territory.)
B.) We weren't all that excited to spend Baby O's tuition for her first semester of college on a carseat and diapers. I'm guessing that may have tinted our rose-colored glasses a dark shade of gray.
C.) The Dallas Cowboys may have been losing at the point we got out of the vehicle. This does not put Gert in a good shopping mood.

Note: I was never crazy while pregnant (or thereafter). Never. Nuh-uh. Not a chance. Perfectly normal here, folks.

The one thing Bert left out was an interaction with the saleswoman talking to us about carseats. It went a little something like this:

Gert asks a million questions.
Saleswoman answers a million questions -- fairly well, I might add.
Saleswoman looks at Bert, standing behind the cart in a white t-shirt, ripped jeans and an old baseball cap, and asks, "Did you have any questions, sir?"
Bert says, "What?" (He was surprised to be addressed; apparently this woman wasn't picking up the on the fact that his wife is the extrovert in this family.)
Gert asks, "Did you have any questions, babe?"
"Nope," Bert replies.
"He's just here to carry out the purchases, I guess," says the saleswoman. "That, or look really, really intimidating. I can't decide which it is."

And at that moment, for the briefest of seconds, I saw what a stranger must see when looking at Bert. Not the lovable teddy bear that may or may not have teared up at Secretariat. Not the man who insisted on changing diapers about an hour after Baby O was born so that I could rest. Not the man who graciously held my hair everytime I puked while pregnant. Not the man who makes me coffee every morning, and often pancakes.

She saw the strength of our family, who I rely on constantly but don't always give the credit he deserves. She saw the protector of our family. Who was willing to do anything to get the best car seat for the best price -- even if that meant going to Babies 'R' Us on a Sunday when the crazies are out.

Fashion before function... always.

Read Bert's side of the story.

On a recent excursion to Minnesota, in the palatable month of August, we enjoyed a few days with extended family. We had a lovely time, and on this particular Saturday, we celebrated Baby O's first birthday (just a little early -- but who cares when it's an excuse to get together and overeat?)

I was sitting near the small, plastic pool watching little missy "swim" in all her bare-baby-bum glory, when I noticed Bert and his brother shooting some basketballs. Naive as I am, I thought nothing of it and continued conversing with aunts, sisters-in-law, mom-in-law and cousins-in-law, with my back to the door of the house. And then a slow chuckle started to arise from the crowd, particularly from those facing the front door. It grew from a chuckle to a giggle, and then erupted in full-out laughter. I turned to see what was so funny, and there stood my husband in a pair of bike-shorts.

(The following thought-process happened very quickly.)
First thought: (mortification) What is going on?
Second thought: (frustration) I hope he didn't pay money for those shorts.
Third thought: (pontification) He obviously doesn't share my "Fashion before Function" motto.
Final thought: HAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

I need to pause here and explain how we got to this point, though I'm sure no amount of explaining can ever erase the image that has been burned into the minds of my relatives. (I'm sorry, relatives, that you had to see that. But being that you've known him longer than me, I rest assured you weren't too surprised - and I shudder to think that maybe it wasn't the worst you've seen.)

Now based on what I've just written, the following statement may shock some of you (as it shocked me): apparently, my husband was voted "Best Dressed" in his high school class. And as its website notes, it wasn't a small high school: "Today, Simley High School is a comprehensive secondary school with a student population of about 1,200 in grades nine through twelve."

When we married, he was a fan of the blue-jeans-paired-with-a-t-shirt-and-a-suit-jacket. Not great, but not scraping the bottom of the barrel, either. I did have to help him with his shoe collection. He had quite a few, but most were a bit eccentric. I have to say, Bert took the direction I gave him in finding attractive shoes, and to this day, when he gets compliments on them, he attributes it to me.

I should've known his discretion was lacking when after about six months of marriage, I opened the freezer and found a pair of pants and underwear. He informed me that this was a good way to dry-clean clothes without actually taking them in when you're in a hurry. I immediately: gagged, cried, threw away the contents of the freezer, and then calmly explained that if we were going to stay married, this practice could no longer continue. And I haven't seen any clothes in the freezer since.

When we moved to Virginia and he started to work from home and take care of Baby O, I noticed his requirements for clothing became more casual. But it wasn't that big of a deal -- I mean, often I'm the only one who sees him in a day. I did have some questions after the Adidas shirt incident, but I could reasonably explain them away.

Um, folks? The truth is, I didn't see it coming to this. I thought I married a man who had at least some regard for fashion. I didn't think he'd receive notariety for it (though I was wrong, as evidenced by his high school class), but I figured he would always be some nice arm candy for me. A little scruffy at times, but never anything to laugh at. Despite his indiscretions, he still cleans up well.

I can say that he won the game, though he lost his dignity. I'm not sure which is more valuable to him, but to me there were no real winners that day. We all lost something.

I'm a small-town Montana girl, born and raised. Leaving the state was all I could think about when I graduated from high school. But looking back now, 10 years later, all I can think about is my wonderful state. Glory of the west.

Somehow, through a series of not-unpondered decisions, my husband and I ended up in Virginia. We followed my job, taking a risk with him not having one when we made the move. Since that time, we bought a house, had a baby and rolled with the punches, including a lack of traditional employment for Bert. And he started a blog. It's a funny blog, I'll admit. But it's a bit... er... one-sided. And if you know me, you know that I like to give my side of the story. (I think that's part of the rugged, do-it-yourself, change-a-tire then make-a-pie Montana girl in me.)

So, we'll call it tort and re-tort. He writes a blog, I expound with my thoughts.

Bert's from Minnesota, born and raised. He's a hometown boy at heart.

But getting back to my point, I'm from Montana. Where I learned to saddle a horse, cook dinner, shoot a gun, change a tire, pluck a chicken, milk a cow, arrange a bouquet of flowers -- and most importantly, have fun.

I grew up admiring the vigilantes. Listening to country music. Moving cows while on horseback. Getting a live Christmas tree (from the mountains, not a tree farm). Eating meat and potatoes for dinner. Working hard. Playing harder. With strong family ties that bind.

Yes, we have electricity. No, we don't ride horses to school. Yes, I learned to drive on a tractor. No, please don't move there.

If we have a mutual geographic connection, I'll probably ask you if you know so-and-so. Chances are, if we were in Montana, you would know so-and-so. We might even be related.

Minnesota's nice, Virginia is for lovers, but Montana is the treasure state. And unless you've lived there, you don't get it.