Chic on the Cheap

I recently discovered Copy Cat Chic. The site cleverly posts beautiful, expensive and often famous home items - and where to get their inexpensive twins. Here are some goodies:

A Madeline Weinrib Zigzag Rug lookalike from Rugs Direct:

A Mecox Gardens Peacock Mirror doppelganger via Pier 1:

A DWR Rubik Round Coffee Table impostor by CB2:

A faux William Sonoma Home Anderson Wing Chair steal at Home Decorators:

Check out her thrifty discoveries here! You can see side-by-side price and photo comparisons of the real deal versus the real steal.

"Resembling Watercress"

Our dear friend Lauren, who married Jon and me, lives in Cambodia. Daily normalities of life in Cambodia include driving on streets with no apparent safety laws and with up to 6 people on one moto, Christmas lights year round, duck embryo snacks, shoulder massages for men while standing at the urinal, taxi rides where you pay to share the seat with the driver, en masse aerobics in the park, and something particularly genius, the refilling of beer after each sip.

Lauren recently sent me two photos from a trip to the grocery store, via the iPhone (hence the blurriness). The first, a delicious vegetable:

"Resembling Watercress"

The second, a food packaging ad campaign for the history books:

Please note: Skinny girls eating seaweed and laughing. Overweight chick eating potato chips and crying (click on photo to get a close-up of said tear).

Well, I'm sold.

Cream City

When I first moved to Milwaukee and noticed about 7 million signs/tee shirts/companies that featured "Cream City" in the name, I figured Milwaukee, which has great root beer, was also known for cream soda. Or that its beer was really frothy. 

Yes, I realize this was foolish, particularly because frothy beer is no-no rule number one for good brewing. Jon is thanking his lucky stars I never uttered this theory in public company. (I'm already known as the 'girl who drinks wine.' When it's available. Some bars literally only serve beer.)

In fact, Milwaukee got the name "Cream City" from the yellow bricks that many of its East Side and downtown buildings were constructed from. This particular brick was made from a clay found in the Menomonee River Valley and along the banks of Lake Michigan that, when fired, turned light yellow. Very popular as a building material in the mid to late 1800s, a majority of the local historic buildings are made from this Cream City brick, though some of these have now turned black (the brick is very porous and absorbs pollutants easily). The buildings and houses that have retained their color (or been cleaned) are truly beautiful and Una has now decided, that if we are to purchase a home, he would like a Cream City brick house. Hah. We found one within budget and it was a block from the airport.

Here is a photo of Cream City brick at its best:

Robert Patrick Fitzgerald house on the East Side of Milwaukee

I'll take some photos this week of local houses and buildings and post them later. It's a really beautiful look that is unique to this area of the midwest. 

Not Laughing Anymore

I was forced to slather Icy Hot all over my legs after my shower this morning. They're practically on fire under my jeans right now and I still can't get down the stairs without gripping the walls for my life.

Jon, of course, thinks this is hysterical.

Not as hysterical as me emailing the trainer from Jon's account to request a session of his own!

This tube of Icy Hot won't last the week.

I Laughed

Jon and I recently joined a gym close to his work, mainly so that he can use the squash courts (a lot of the gyms out here don't have them). It is, for lack of a better word, about as old-school WASPy as it gets, with the women's gym in the basement and separate areas for virtually everything except dining. Surprisingly, the space division has turned out to be a good thing (no sweaty, old men watching you on the treadmill). Upon signing up, we were offered a free consultation with a trainer.

I had mine yesterday.

"Circuit training" is actually jacked-up-on-Creatine trainer speak for "devil's paining." I cannot move. Going downstairs feels like someone is lighting a cigarette on the inside of my thighs. And forget sitting down. Yeah right. One hour of jumping rope, lunges, weights, sit-ups and various torture tactics repeated over and over with no breaks - as the trainer peppered me with comments such as, "Nope - five more to go," when I may have accidentally miscounted - equals a hangover worse than if I'd downed a bottle of Pepe Lopez tequila with a side of Peppermint Schnapp's. 

And, as just a slap in the face for fun, it appears my thighs have gotten bigger. Swollen? Furious at me? Who knows. I can barely look down to address the situation. At the end of the hour, the trainer looked at me and said, "So, would you like to sign up for regular sessions?"

I literally laughed.

Friday Forecast = leggings, a down comforter and ice packs taped to my legs and arms in style similar to Iron Man.

Happy Birthday, H-Town!

Houston is 13 years old today! And that ain't no April Fools joke.

Because it is her special day, I have already given her three treats and it is only 9:33 in the morning, Milwaukee-time. Here she is relaxing in the 60-degree sunshine on the grass in our backyard, having just gobbled up the third bone.

Pretty sure she's in heaven. Or contemplating how to procure more bones while I am out of sight. Hmm, crafty, that one.

Looking like a young Betty White, Houst! Keep it up!

Wisconsin Unconventional Sports Association

AKA, Jon's kickball league. 

Oh yes.

Every Wednesday evening from now until early June, Jon has a date with a kickball. Last night was the first game, which will henceforth be referred to as "preseason" or "that practice game that didn't count." Jon's team (of which I was also supposed to be a member, but due to a scheduling slipup by the kickball commissioner - correct - will have a class during game time) = "Is This A Sport?"

Being part of an important kickball team requires matching tee shirts and participating in the mandatory hangout/beer-drinking time at O'Brien's Bar before each game. Last night's opponent? Blueballs.

Seriously.

We arrive to Wick Field from O'Brien's and they are stretching and practicing very intensely. Their shirts have numbers. They are all very fit and in various forms of spandex. One person, who resembles former NY Giant Jeremy Shockey, is running back and forth in the outfield catching practice kicks. We later learn this is the captain's mother, also a member of the team.

The game begins. We are laughing, giggling, hah hah hah, ha ha. It's kickball! Go "Sport!" Blueballs is up first. Home run on the first kick. And for the next 9 innings and 45 minutes "Is This A Sport?" scrambles to make a catch and land on first base as Blueballs scores 18 MORE POINTS. 

We get . . . one.

Not  our game. But Blueballs's pitcher did strangely resemble this tall, bald man and was frighteningly serious.

Thankfully Blueballs, though lamely serious about the outcome of the game, does not gloat over their win. The boys, Jon in particular, are devastated over the massacre. Una laments overthrown balls, a near-catch that bounced off his chest, and a whiff kick at bat (which, in his defense, appeared to be heading into "foul ball" zone away from the plate and only at the very last second bounced right onto it) into bedtime and along the drive to work this morning. I foresee a trip to Sports Authority this weekend, followed by mandatory practice time in our small backyard with Veloc reffing.

After the game we head back to O'Brien's so that our pitcher, Brian, can speak with The Commissioner. This year, WUSA decided to separate the serious, slightly-creepy competitive teams from the teams made up of normal, non-psychopathic, "I've moved past my high school years" people by creating two different leagues, kindly named "Gold Standard" and "Remedial." 

Guess which one we're supposed to be in.