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Pesky protein bar problems persist

GAYS MILLS - It seems as though at this point in my life, I struggle a little more than ever with being girly. But, I never thought, peanut butter protein bars would throw a serious wrench in that entire equation. 

So what does looking fancy (or the lack there of) and feminine and a protein bar have in common you may ask? A toddler.

Chasca works at a local protein bar factory so one of the perks is the employees get to bring home the bars that have packaging issues or other imperfections that keep them from making it to the store shelves despite being still edible. Thatcher, in turn has developed a taste for these gooey, nut buttery, sweet bars. I would go as far as saying they’re part of his daily ritual. The other part of this ritual is stashing them away in odd places for later nibblings.

Although we’ve tried to convince him that the compost bucket is a perfectly appropriate place for his half-eaten castoffs, he is still only two and his memory doesn’t always serve him as well as I would hope.

At this point in my life, I don’t find an excuse very often to dress up all fancy to go out. I try to piece together an outfit that doesn’t make me look like a total hobo, but, I frankly put more effort into dressing Thatcher and Chasca stylishly than myself.

So when the blue moon comes out and I have a reason to look extra dashing, I work hard on that planning event.

A couple of weeks ago, I won tickets by chance from the local rock radio station out of LaCrosse to go to a music event in Prairie du Chien. I had pondered going when I read about it in the paper, because I know Chasca is a rock and roller. However, he seldom gets to go to those kinds of concerts due to the fact he’s not one to keep up on local events. Also, I buy all of the concert tickets and don’t fancy that kinda music, generally.

Anyway, we were listening to the station in his car and they announced throughout the morning they would be accepting caller number nine at some point.  That point came as we were cruising down Highway 27. Chasca apparently wasn’t really listening to the radio so when I was dialing in and answered “Woohoo I’m number nine!” and answered their silly rhetorical questions about wanting to go to the show (to which I channeled my inner toddler and squealed “YEAH I DOOOOOO!”) he was really puzzled.

Flash forward to the date night of the month and see me scurrying around the house trying to piece together the perfect going-out-on-the-town get up. I had plopped down on the bed to lean back and try to wiggle into my slightly too small skinny jeans that would surly give me the girlish figure I desired to complete my outfit. The pants went on and I could still breathe, so I was pleased. I had finished smearing my face with tinted goo and glittery powders and I felt confident to enter the outside world.

I ran my hands along the backside of my jeans to smooth out any creases that probably didn’t exist in the denim when I discovered the sticky, peanutty mess. I ran to the mirror only to discover my entire backside was covered in peanut butter protein bar. Alas to an untrained eye, it would have looked rather unsightly and unsanitary if I was caught walking around the festival grounds in the soiled jeans.

As Chasca stood by the door waiting for me to emerge from the backroom ready to depart, I began storming around the house in search of another outfit. He tried to assure me it wasn’t that bad, until I presented him with the evidence otherwise.

I eventually found a much less flattering pair of jeans and top to match and felt disappointed. Then, I arrived at the venue and realized that rock-and-roll girls and I already had a completely different idea of fashion.

I have since resumed my operations of just trying to look human when I dress, but since finding a large clumped up protein bar in my bed once again (and thinking it was some kind of critter, inciting quite the panic) I’ve decided to be far more vigilant with Thatcher’s snacking habits.