Halloween's Twilight Zone....

And I'm not talking about the hour The Hurricane now wakes up thanks to that #$&#* time change. You know, that one I used to look forward to because I'd get an extra hour of sleep. Now, it only means The Hurricane wakes up at 5 instead of 6 a.m. Whoever dreamed up the whole thing obviously didn't have young children.

No, my Halloween Twilight Zone is regarding my favorite pair of pants and shirt I found yesterday. Y'see, they've been MIA for months now and they mysteriously showed up on the floor of my closet yesterday. Even after I thoroughly searched the entire thing months ago.

My only solutions? We really are living in the Twilight Zone

OR

Hunky Hubby has taken to cross-dressing.

You decide.

Photo caption: Hadley gives the top three reasons why she LOVES Halloween. Have a good one!

When The Slug Becomes The Hurricane

My 3 1/2-month-old Slug has become an Insomniac Slug. I didn't even know they made that particular species but he assures me he's highly evolved. At least that's why he claims he no longer needs sleep. He says it's much more fun for mollusks to wake up every one to two hours. All. Night. Long. Funny, I didn't know they woke up much at all (hence the name "slug...")

After life with The Hurricane, I knew I had it good when Bode was born. He has always slept a five-hour block until the last few weeks. Nothing has changed with his daytime schedule besides he's spitting up a bit more lately but not enough for me to be alarmed. So, I'm stumped and am looking for suggestions. All I know is that I'm tired. Oh so very tired.

We've had some fun plans the last few days. Friday was Haddie's big Halloween bash and that night was YMCA's party. Saturday, we planned to spend the morning playing at a beautiful park and then hit our church's trunk-or-treat that evening.

Friday was one of my worst all-nighters with the Insomniac Slug. So, imagine how thrilled I was when I finally dragged myself up that morning to have my normally-sensitive husband announce that our park plans had changed because he had booked a massage. For himself. And to think he's still trying to figure out why I was P-I-S-S-Y all day long.

In other news: Haddie's party was the social event of the season. We had tons of cute kids with darling costumes and fun games. Well, I at least thought they were fun, though oftentimes I could've sworn those toddlers were teens because they looked at me skeptically as if to say "You want me to do what?" Foreshadowing, my friends.

And yes, Bode does have orange and blue hair. If you can't find a helmet that fits, use spray paint (isn't that what the good book says?) I figure his subsequent therapy will rival the cost I spend on the psych ward in order to get three consecutive hours of sleep.

And then there's The Hurricane. Not only have I taught her to cheer "Like, GO TEAM," but she has also mastered the accompanying head bob. I'm afraid I have created a monster. Or worse: a cheerleader.

Three Reasons Why I Will Finish My Shopping Before the Christmas Rush

Maybe it's just me but have customer service and common courtesy gone to pot lately? I'm usually tight-lipped about such frustrations and rarely say anything the majority of the time. Until lately.

Case Study #1

McDonald's. Not my favorite place in the world but it's definitely one of Hadley's. During a snowstorm and one of Jamie's late nights, I had to get out of the house and was simply shocked Haddie suggested it since she only does that ten times a day.

I don't like their food so decided to try their new Asian Salad (bleh...hate pre-packaged) and ordered Haddie a Happy Meal with chicken nuggets. A nice kid was helping me but it was a second man who rudely shoved it in my direction, which provoked the following discussion.

"Is there sauce in there?"
"No, you didn't ask for it."
"Well, you didn't ask me if I wanted any. And you didn't even give me the chance."
"Well, it's a little late for that. What are you saying--you want sauce now?"
"Yes."

And I then proceeded to bawl him out for being so unbelievably lazy and rude. Do you wanna know the best of it? He was the manager.

Case Study #2

JoAnn's. As many of you know, fabric stores are my worst nemesis but they were having a sale on sucker-making kits and I made an exception for the sake of making them for Haddie's party. When I arrived at the checkout, there were two cashiers and only two people in front of me. So tell me why it took 20 minutes to get through?

Because of incompetence, folks. Because one of the cashiers was having a customer issue and a manager came to help. Problem was the other available cashier stopped for about 10 minutes to eavesdrop. Oh, and did I mention my kids were screaming?

The other cashier ( you know, the one who wasn't doing anything) called for backup and do you know who she decided to help first? An employee who was standing at the back of the line. Fuming, I took the high road of all us crazy Christians by asking What Would Jesus Do and said nothing.

Case Study #3

I said something. A lot of something (evil am I). I had to make a quick stop into one final store to buy little Bode a winter jacket and when I arrived at the checkout, once again there were two cashiers and about 10 people waiting in a single line and then dispatching to whatever cashier became available.

Again, I waited. Again, the children screamed. And though frustrated, I was doing just fine until people started forming a second line and cutting in front after I'd already been waiting for some time. Call me crazy but I thought we all learned anti-line-cutting etiquette back in kindergarten.

This time, I loudly queried what the order of the procession was and man, did I stir up the cutter-inners (their official title, I'm sure). In the end, nothing was rectified because they stubbornly remained in place as my children screamed for 15 minutes longer than was requisite.

And the next time this happens? Believe me, I'll ask myself that same question: What Would Jesus Do. Only my future response will be more along the lines of smiting them and calling them to repentance. After all, isn't that what all those WWJD stickers are all about?...

Wordless Wednesday

The evolution of The Halloween Hurricane. Much has changed, except for her love of food.

From that tasty Gerber....

To even tastier pumpkin cobbler...

As always, comments/captions encouraged....

Postcards from The Hood

Last weekend was one of releasing pent-up aggressions as Jamie fought chiseled black men. Where we strengthened this country's homeland security by killing off The Enemy. And where we crashed and burned umpteen times on the race track. And lived to tell about it.

Y'see, Jamie knew the moment he limped in the door at 9 p.m. on Friday--after two consecutive weeks of late nights--that I was in need of a break. And not of the nervous breakdown variety for once. Within moments he was on the phone with his sister, arranging her babysitting services for Saturday night.

The next morning, we woke up to a blanket of snow. Strange as it may sound, running after it has snowed is my favorite running condition in the world. Jamie graciously watched the kids while I set out to explore a nearby trail.

Funny thing was that when I left, Jamie was arguing with Hadley about putting her pants back on. And when I returned, after running through a winter postcard of snow-laden trees that festooned my path, she was still pant-less. Even after three marathon time-outs. And knowing I wasn't there for it was almost as good as my run. :-)

We eventually made our way outside to play in the snow and terrorize the neighbors with snowballs. Because we're just those kind of people. It could be worse: we could burn swastikas on their lawn. Oh, wait. My brother was the one who did that....

That night, we hit Dave and Buster's. Without children. I'm not much of an arcade person but always enjoy the occasional excursion, especially when I get front-row seats of Jamie competing.
I knew he'd had a bad week when the first thing he said was "I need to find something to shoot," which was followed by a stint in a virtual boxing ring where he went head-to-head with some heavy weights.

I would have cheered for him but 1) I couldn't stop laughing and 2) this flash of testosterone reminded me of our first Christmas together when my mom bought him a homeboy-esque Nike hat and he made me call him "G" for the rest of the holiday. Don't ask me where "G" came from. When I tried to convince him he should be "J," he grunted there was no reasoning with The Hood. My mistake.

Through his little boxing stint, he did prove that he'd hold his own in The Hood. Then again, jabbing and crossing in mid-air doesn't exactly constitute a gang war. Especially when good ol' "G" somehow woke up sore from it the next morning....

Jesus on how to traumatize your children

It's been our family tradition to all snuggle up in our king-sized bed, play, say prayers and read before bedtime. Lately, Jamie and I started integrating stories about Jesus into our conversation and Haddie absolutely loves learning about him.

Jamie recently shared the story of the woman with the blood condition who touched Jesus' cloak through the crowd and was healed. Hadley was fascinated and had him repeat it over and over again.

Then it was my turn. I tried to share a story that was closer to home and her age. I told her of when Jesus went up to Passover as a young boy. You know: the one where they found him after three days teaching the great minds of Jerusalem in the temple.

To the adult, this is a powerful story of Jesus' teaching power and of the vision he already had for his ministry.

To the child, welp, it's just a bit different. For a few days after I told that story, Haddie acted weird if she lost sight of me even for a moment whenever we'd go out in public. She's not the clingy type (to say the least) so I finally got to the bottom of it when she queried me in a worried little voice:

"Mommy no forget Haddie like Jesus. Yes?"

Nice to know my Jesus stories really hit home for the kid.

For next week's traumatize-the-kid-with-Jesus-stories-family theatre: If you choose to follow Jesus like the disciples of old, you too can be homeless.

Jekyll and Hyde do the Y-M-C-A

We're almost two weeks into my life as a work widow and I'm still waiting for things to get easier. Oh, and to see my husband on occasion. That would be nice. As tough as my life is right now, his is even tougher as he tries to rebuild his battered department. I've tried to be empathetic but guess what: his employees don't crap, puke and scream at him all day long. Well, at least not the good ones.

On the home battlefront,The Slug rolled over for the first time but has stopped sleeping at night. And The Hurricane, welp, at least she's consistent with her name. To add a Dead-Sea-sized dose of salt to my wounds, my mother-in-law announced a couple of weeks ago that she's no longer taking Haddie on Wednesdays. You know. The one day I actually had to clean, shop, shower and blog.

Knowing that no breaks and no husband would surely send me over the edge, I marched down to our local YMCA and signed on. I was not motivated by their newly-renovated facilities or long list of programs, but by two blessed words: CHILD WATCH.

I didn't have any issues with leaving obsessively social Hadley in the care of someone else because her first words to us were, "Don't let the door hit your butt on the way out." It was sweet Bode I worried about because he's still so little and needy.

Turns out I was worried about the wrong person. In a matter of minutes, Bode wooed all the ladies and they absolutely dote on him. The Hurricane, on the other hand, is having a tougher time. Maybe it's because she's in the pre-school class where they are supposed to be 2 1/2 and potty training (she's neither) and the peer pressure to go to the bathroom has almost sent her over the edge. But unfortunately not to the bathroom.

Her latest meltdown yesterday was over one of the child watch providers who dared to prop her injured foot up on a chair. When I came to pick Haddie up, one of the ladies pulled me aside.

"Do you have a rule in your house about putting your feet up on chairs?"

What I wanted to say:
"Sure we do. Haddie's rule is to find every chair, couch and countertop upon which to put her feet."

What I did say:
"Why, yes! How did you know?!"

"Well, that explains why your daughter was having such a tough time with Melanie putting her foot up. You have quite the little rule abider in your house, don't you?"

"You pegged her. That Hadley. Always, always, always following those rules."

Yeah, right. "Rule abider?" The Hurricane? Obviously they know nothing about living in the anarchy of a natural disaster....

Wordless Wednesday

"Wordless Wednesday" is a misnomer for me because I am physically unable to post something without extensive verbage. Welcome to poor Hunky Hubby's life.

Anyhew, my original plan was to include a picture of one of my creations during my descent into domesticity. Until trying to capture a photo of said creation broke my camera. Just one more reason to be bitter about the whole experience.

And so I shall include some pictures from a recent trip to the pumpkin patch. Any ideas on a caption for the third photo?....

How we plan to avoid buying even one package of candy for Halloween distribution

1. Attend numerous Halloween trunk-or-treat parties at the local high schools. Ensure kids' costumes look extra cute to guarantee more freebies. Status: in progress.

2. Go to the pumpkin patch with Haddie's playgroup. Come home stuffed to the brim with free candy. Status: mission accomplished.

3. Attend trunk-or-treat at the church. Status: in progress.

4. Grandma. Status: Operation Suck-Up always in progress.

5. Pretend we have not been BOOed. Status: in progress.

Translation: our neighborhood is currently doing a little secret Halloween treat exchange where you stuff a bag full of candy with a little poem, ring and run. Everyone is supposed to then distribute it to two additional people and then hang the sign in the window to let people know they've already been "BOOed."

The other night, I took the kids to [where else?] Super Target to get some BOOed treats to distribute. When we walked in the door, Hunky Hubby was jumping for joy. The reason? I had yet to put our sign in the window and someone unknowingly BOOed us for the second time in two days.

Just a couple more days with no sign in the window and we should be stocked to the brim for Halloween....

Super Saturday Sufferings

It's that time of year again that Jamie dreads. That time when I have a brain aneurysm and somehow forget over a 48-hour period that I cannot do crafts. That I have never been able to do crafts and I never will be able to do crafts.

Yes, it's Super Saturday Season, folks. For those unaware, Super Saturday occurs once a year for those crazy Mormons who actually relish in this stuff. Those same people I should just stick to paying to do it for me.

I get pressured into it every year and out of guilt, I go. I vowed after last year's nightmare wherein it took weeks for me to recover that I would boycott it all together. And it was easy because our ward's leader is about as lacking in domesticity as yours truly and had lame "crafts" such as "101 Things to Do with Wheat" and "How to Make a Pinewood Derby Car." This is no lie.

My plan was going well until, unfortunately, other people started boycotting due to said lameness and they decided to combine with some other wards and hold a two-day extravaganza. Other wards that had the most cute and affordable crafts that would make darling Christmas gifts. And so I signed up for pretty much everything I could get my hot little signup pen on. Again, a result of the brain aneurysm, folks.

When I arrived on Friday at 6 p.m., I meant business. I had five sets of four different crafts to crank out in a matter of hours. I set up shop and just dared anyone to even try to converse with me. Unfortunately, I had "Molly Mormon" next door: that chirpy, sweet girl who is soooooo unbelievably happy all the time. Especially when doing crafts.

I blocked her out and stayed focused. Unfortunately after a couple of hours I realized how astronomical it was for me to try to crank out 20 complicated crafts in one evening. Then panic set in. Mishap after mishap then occurred when my resolve became shattered and at 11 p.m., I was the last one there and still unfinished. They sent me home with one completed set of each and I need to do the rest on my own.

But it doesn't end there. I still had to do the other gazillion things for which I signed up. And so I dragged myself back to the den of iniquity on Saturday, my normal day of play. But this time with The Hurricane and The Slug because Mr. Promotion now works weekends. It just kept getting better and better.

But the real kicker came at the end. When I was FINALLY done I went to settle the account for my cute and affordable gifts and came to realize they weren't quite as cute (my fault) and affordable (theirs) as anticipated. Call me crazy but when I registered for $6.50 a set, I assumed by the syntax of the wording that a set meant more than one. Nope. I guess in their Domestic Diva Dictionary, a set means just one item, which meant my tab did not come out to the $40 I had roughly calculated but rather, almost $200.

Moody and spewing, I stormed home and fumed to Jamie about my harrowing descent into domesticity. And made the avowal that never again will I submit myself to the anguish and torment of Super Saturday.

Unless they do something really cute again next year.

Humilation: Just a Click Away

My first real job after college was working as a publicist for a popular ski resort in Utah. One would think it was the perfect fit for an outdoor-loving gal such as myself: free skiing, gorgeous views from my office, freebies galore. I even dated two journalists I met whilst shmoozing them for Media Day on the slopes. After all, what better way to get press coverage than to date the press, y'know?

Overall, I'd say I did a great job (of working, not dating) and learned a lot. However, there were a few glitches along the way, one of which happened shortly after I started. One of my jobs as publicist was to send out a weekly press release detailing all the events at the resort. I had the entire corporation and several media outlets on my email list. Meaning: lots of people.

So, imagine how devastated I was when I made a grave error in one of my mailings. To this day, I have blocked out what the screw-up was but just know it was BIG. To rectify the situation, I immediately sent out another one with a correction. Or rather, an incorrection. I got it wrong the &*#*$ second time as well. By the third try, I was so humiliated I wanted to hide my head under a rock and not emerge until I saw my shadow. I mean, it works for that stupid Groundhog every spring, right?

You'd think I learned my lesson to be careful with the whole email thing but nooooo. My latest screw-up was last week. With Jamie's new boss, Pam, of all people.

She sent an email to the various directors of the company inviting them to an Oktoberfest celebration on Tuesday night. Jamie, in turn, forwarded it to me so I could take note that he would be getting home late that evening.

In a perfect world and any email account other than my STUPID gmail account, when I pressed "reply," it would send my response back to Jamie. Welp, not gmail. I wrote some snide/sarcastic comment about the big invite being from THE Pam and sent it off. Only to realize the second I pressed the "send" button that it had surpassed my dear husband was sitting in his new boss's Inbox. Smooth.

That whole promotion thing? It was good while it lasted.

P.S. I won't get into the sordid details, like how Jamie had to bribe her assistant to delete it off before Pam saw it. Just know if we see some changes in Jamie's employment over these next weeks that I had nothing to do with it.

Wordless Wednesday

As I prepare to throw my Second Annual Kiddies in Chaos Costume Celebration (a.k.a. Halloween Party), allow me to reflect upon last year's memorable bash. With pictures, of course...

http://www.wedpagedesigns.com/party.asp

San Francisco: From Riches to Rags

Well, our riches to rags story is a sordid tale of our condescension from the Ritz to the Ramada. Normally, I wouldn't deem this to be a bad thing, except for when it's a blatant reminder of our station in life. I.e. Glamorous Ritz Carlton: company tab. Dumpy Downtown Ramada: our sad little dime. But I digress.

First, our San Francisco experience. I LOVE that city but it rained. And rained. And rained. It didn't start out raining. It just waited until we were too far away from Said Dumpy Hotel to turn back. We were optimistic and believed the weather would clear because of the blue skies intermingled with storm clouds. Yeah, right. I guess in California, it still rains when the skies are blue. Who knew?

And so we walked. And walked. And walked. For hours and hours. And miles and miles. To Union Square, China Town, random neighborhoods with near-naked homeless guys and finally, Fisherman's Wharf. And it rained and rained and rained. Don't get me wrong. It wasn't all bad. Bode made a friend.

And despite the deluge, we kept our spirits up and just enjoyed being drenched as a family. We also had an amazing lunch at a shamelessly touristy restaurant in Fisherman's Wharf with stellar views as Blue Angels dipped over the Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge.

And the weather did finally clear. Of course, we were on our way to the airport.

But back to Said Dumpy Hotel. It was quite a miserable experience, notwithstanding the stellar view.

Oh wait. Wrong day. This was more like it:

Yippee. It was possibly the worst hotel I've ever stayed in. Maybe it was the lights that didn't work most of the time. Or the shoebox room with only one foot of maneuverability. Or the sticky bathroom floor. Or the lack of elevator for our second-story room. Or the television with crappy reception. Oh, and don't ask about the pancakes...err...pillows.

Suffice it to say, it wasn't our most memorable night of sleep. But imagine our delight when leaving the next day and we spotted this sign we had missed on the way in.

Next time around? I think I'll just mortgage my house and stay at the Ritz.

Putting on The Ritz

So, Jamie, Bode and I survived our big California adventure. Both of my boys were a dream and made me fall in love with them even more. Especially the little one. At least he didn't ditch me to go golfing with the good old boys.

Of course, the pampering at The Ritz Carlton definitely helped. As we drove up to the breathtaking grounds, I hestitatingly asked Jamie "How much do you tip at a place like this?"

His response was indicative of cheap buggers everywhere: "Whatever you do, avoid everyone at all costs." No pun intended.

Our room was, welp, let's just say one night at the Ritz cost as much as our entire week-long cruise we're taking next year. We stayed in a garden-level room with our own private deck and firepit.
Upon arrival, we went for a brief walk along the cliffside to smell the ocean. And money. As we meandered back we eavesdropped on a cigar-smoking group of millionaires hob-nobbing around a firepit: "Yeah, when we were down at Pebble Beach, we cruised around in our $120,000 Mercedes. Blah, blah, blah." We believed him, too. When waiting for the [$40] valet, our PT Cruiser rental was the only vehicle worth under $50,000.

Bode slept marvelously in his luxury Ritz baby crib, only waking up a couple of times to eat and then sleeping in until 9 a.m. I had been such a sleep-deprived wreck that getting my eight hours almost made me make out with the little guy in gratitude over it all. Jamie ended up reaping the rewards. I think he's finally cluing in that it doesn't take illustrious vacations or 1,000-thread-count sheets (though they certainly help). Just get me some freaking sleep!

While Jamie was in meetings the next day, Bode and I found a coastal trail and walked for miles along the cliffside. That afternoon, we hit downtown Half Moon Bay and then hung out on the beach together. He had a great time and was a very amiable travel companion, though he did say he always thought his first trip to the beach would involve a bit more skin.
As for Jamie, he had his first exposure to The Big Boys on the Block. You know: the VIPs of Yahoo, eBay, Amazon, Microsoft, etc. Jamie even had one of them retrieve his golf ball. I couldn't have been more proud.

Several hours and calls from uptight golf widows later, The Boys called it a day. Or maybe it was the rain that did that. Regardless, I started to get an idea of the life these widows lead. Which is why when Jamie's golf clubs never showed up at baggage claim after our trip, I oh-so-briefly considered tipping the United worker to have them "mysteriously" stay missing.

But then I remembered our tipping policy. Or lack thereof. I just hate it when being a cheap bugger comes back to bite you....

Next edition: From Riches to Rags. Our Condescension to San Francisco....

We're outta here!

The Makings of a Romanic Getaway?

+

+

=

Hmmmm....

Oh well. Two out of three ain't bad. :-)

P.S. #3 is sick. Was up with him all night.
P.P.S. Rain is forecast this week. In sunny California. Thanks, Murphy.

Computer Woes

To all those computer-savvy folks out there:

I've been having problems with my site since I had it designed and switched to Blogger. The problem is specifically with Internet Explorer; it crashes every time. I've had folks tell me the same thing when they attempt to access or leave comments on my site. In order to even access my site, I have to use Firefox.

My graphic designer thought it was due to .png file types that conflict with IE 6 and she switched everything over to .gif, which didn't work. She thinks there may be bugs in the browser but hasn't been able to figure it out.

Any ideas/recommendations from anyone who's had similar problems?

And so it begins

What a great weekend! The weather was superb and we spent oodles of time picnicking and hiking through Colorado's resplendent backcountry.

Another highlight was attending church from home. Huh? Twice a year, we have a big ol' General Conference where LDS church authorities speak in several sessions that are broadcast via satellite. I love the inspirational talks but admittedly the true highlights for me are rolling outta bed and watching in my PJs. Oh, and taking a catnap during the final session. The only bummer is Jamie's own snoring is rather disruptive. Yep, Model Mormons are we.

As for updates, Jamie got it. The promotion, that is. They extended the offer on Friday and the real fun begins on Monday. Well, not really. As Jamie mentioned on his blog, the chaos will be delayed since I conveniently invited myself along on his business trip to California this week. Nice of me, right?

You can't blame me, really. When I was a pregnant Beluga Whale, he had a business trip to a beach-side resort in Florida and he left me here alone with the Hurricane. That was his first mistake. His second mistake was raving about how family-friendly the resort was and how much we would have loooooved it.

And so when he mentioned his latest conference at the Ritz Carlton, I don't think he finished his sentence before I was on the phone asking Grandma to take Haddie for a few days and then booking my flight.

Of course, Jamie will be occupied with demanding meetings [on the golf course] but I've got plenty to keep me busy with my back-up man, Bode. I.e. sippin' virgin pina coladas together, taking walks along the beach with him nuzzled against my chest, those memorable all-nighters. Ahhhhh, there's nothin' like California lovin'....