Reason #243,435 why I love ma honey: he surprised me with the following background on my desktop, otherwise known as Amber P*O*R*N. Yummmmmmy….

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

I very pointedly avoided divulging anything about the luau I threw for our ward (congregation) and with good reason: I’m still recovering from the whole thing. It wasn’t plagued with the drama of the Christmas party but still boasted its share of trauma. Of the humiliating variety.

In the end, I survived but it was a bad sign when Hunky Hubby, my greatest advocate, added to his long What-Not-to Say List:

“Jamie, I’m nervous about tonight.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Everything will be great as it always is.”
“Yeah, but I’ve had tons of people telling me about a luau this ward had a few years back where they roasted a pig and went the whole 9 yards.”
“Honey, your luau is going to suck.”

With a cheering section like that…

For my”sub-par” luau, we had Hawaiian haystacks, a sundry of authentic Polynesian games, real palm trees flown in (as you can see) and I hired some Polynesian dancers. It actually had all the makings for a fun night and things went pretty smoothly.

Until the performance. I had specified that in addition to their dances, I wanted them to pull some audience members, teach them how to do the hula and embarrass the crap out of them. Because I am just the kind of person you don’t want to have in your life.

Everything was going according plan. They dragged our bishop, stake president and a few other folks I requested. Until the M.C. (who I am sure made a deal with the devil) announced, “And I have a request for Amber and Jamie to join us on stage.”

Now, there are times when unfortunate events occur and my immediate reaction is “Oh well. At least this will make for some good blog fodder.”

This was not one of those times.

Eventually, I was dragged kicking and screaming amidst hooping and hollering folks who were assuredly thinking “PAYBACK!”

As I’ve already disclosed, I hate dancing. I’ve been to two dances in my entire life so such public humiliation was beyond traumatic. In the other corner, black man Jamie was in his element, throwing in a few rock star moves along the way.

“Now, when I call out coconut, you throw your hip out to the right,” evil MC announced. “When I say pineapple, it’s to the right. And fruit salad is back and forth.” Or all over the place in my situation.

“In the islands, we don’t speak with our mouths, we speak with our hips,” she cooed. I think mine would’ve caused a few fatalities.

But it got worse. After we practiced in a line, she then announced each of us were going to step forward and perform to a vignette of music. By ourselves.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to go first so I could analyze everyone’s performance. No doubt we all sucked except for Jamie who, if the Internet goes bust, could have a career on The Big Island.

I decided my only option was to just ham it up because I knew I already looked stupid. When it was my turn, I poignantly performed the coconut, the pineapple and then threw in some bananas, mangos, papaya, and every other tropical fruit I could think of. The result was a montage worth choking over.

My face was cherry-red the rest of the night. I made the resolve that next time around the only Roast will be of a pig….

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

On Saturday night, I was in charge of a luau at the church. A luau with 100+ attendees and a gazillion errands to run. We also had a Grand Cherokee to get ready to sell and car seats to install in the new vehicle. So basically, we were swamped.

First thing in the morning, we drove to the fire station for the installation. Even though I’d talked to a snippy firefighter earlier (one I had likely woken up; what, not everyone is up at dawn?), they were out on a call when we arrived (because they need to fight fires or something?)

Eventually they showed up and Jamie left me to get the Grand Cherokee detailed. From then on, everything was going smoothly. Well, except for when lewd Haddie asked to see the fireman’s hose.

Until we drove home, only to discover that we were locked out. On the day I had a gazillion things to do. Y’see, Jamie had the garage-door remote in the Jeep and I had yet to switch my keys over. Oh, and he forgot his cell phone.

And so I did what all good wives do in a crisis such as this: went to Super Target and bought things I didn’t need. That took an hour. On the third hour of waiting, I decided he just wasn’t coming home and called she-who-has-the-only-spare key: my mother-in-law. Mall rat that she is, she was otherwise engaged on the far side of town but graciously made her way back.

In the meantime, Haddie, Bode and I played sporadically on the porch and when it got too nippy, we’d head back to the car (thereby destroying any evidence that it was new and clean merely 48 hours prior). Haddie would also periodically announce,

“Hey, I’ve got an idea!”
“What?”
“Let’s go inside.”

Because we were playing House Lockout for hours just for fun.

And then she’d laugh raucously at her little joke as a reminder I have birthed Mini-Me with the same insipid sense of humor.

Eventually, my mother-in-law finally showed up, saving me from myself. And of course, so did Jamie the moment we walked in and we were happily reunited. Well, with a few rants and raves as welcome.

The End.

There is an addendum to this story. Several hours later, I noticed the backdoor was unlocked. That same backdoor that has been locked the entire winter. I haltingly queried Jamie,

“Err, please tell me you’ve been outside in the last few hours.”
“Naw, not since I let Haddie outside to play early this morning.”

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

To all those wretched souls out there who didn’t receive cars on your birthday: it sucks to be you. Hehhehehehe!

Ahhh, such elitism is liberating once and a while. Kind of like the one and only time I got bumped up to first class. As I was settled into my seat complete with beverage, ice cream and ample legroom, they herded in the rest of the lowlifes from Economy. You know: those same people with whom I usually commiserate.

Lest you are blown away that Jamie bought me a car for my birthday, let me clarify something: we’ve been in the market for a while. We were thrilled when he got his promotion because we could finally afford an extra car payment. My understanding was we’d hold off until after our tax return and company bonus came through. Or so I thought. Sneaky, sneaky honey.

My birthday turned out to be my second-best one ever, my No. 1 being when I celebrated it on my honeymoon in Costa Rica. Kinda tough to top drinking from the well that had been dry for 30 LONG ABSTINENT YEARS, y’know. I think we even made it outside once and a while.

For my latest birthday, we went to a new snazzy restaurant. Our cruisin’ friend Ivan gave us a $50 gift certificate he and his fellow attorneys received for their grand opening. That should have been tip-off #1 that we’d have to mortgage our house to pay for the balance.

Tip #2 was when there weren’t any menus…or prices listed anywhere.

Tip #3 wasn’t until we received our bill and learned they charged us $20 for Haddie’s meal. You know: the food she picked off our plates that consisted of one green bean, three bites of meat and a roll.

I won’t divulge how much we ended up forking over for our fantastic dinner, even after the discount. Just know in the last month we’ve blown our entertainment budget. For the entire year.

And then for the pick-me-up conversation with my mother I had that day:

“Yeah, I’m 35. Can you believe it? Doesn’t that make you feel kinda old, Mom?”

“It should make you feel old, Amber!”

Good to know the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree…

Bode also had a birthday gift for me: he slept through the night and didn’t wake up until 5 a.m. Or so I thought. Until I realized that my poor rheumatism-ridden honey woke up with him.

Jamie: “You mean you didn’t hear him screaming bloody murder?”

What I said:
“I didn’t hear a peep! I’m so sorry you had to endure that!”

What I wanted to say:
“Thank you, NyQuil.”

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

I admittedly haven’t been too thrilled about my birthday and it isn’t because I have any particular angst about turning 35 (it is, after all, better than the alternative). In fact, I just spent the entire year thinking I was already 35, which made my transition that much easier. Next year, I think I’ll turn 25 and take advantage of this whole Alzheimer’s thing.

The real reason I wasn’t too thrilled for my birthday is because I already knew what I was getting. Because aren’t birthdays allll about gluttony? But ma honey pulled off a show-stopping performance with some amazing surprises during my own personal session with Monty Hall Himself. OK, well in paper:

Behind Door #1 was the gift I have coveted for months: The Ergo Baby Carrier. And the same one I requested for my birthday, then later recanted because I was going to just go buy it myself with money my folks sent me. Only to have Jamie rant and rave that he already bought it for me and how could I blow his cover blah, blah.

This, coming from the man who, after seeing a purchase from R.E.I. on our bank account went on R.E.I.’s website and figured out the exact item (and even calculated in the tax). Some Christmas surprise those snowshoes were.

Anyway, the carrier is below. Mullet baby not included.

Behind Door #2 was a reminder of the fantastic pre-birthday present he surprised me with when his flight was delayed coming up to Canada: a newly-painted bedroom.

But the real kicker was behind Door #3.

Too bad I’d already chosen Mullet Baby…..:-)

YIPPPPPPPEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

[Instructions: retrieve record, put on turntable, place needle, listen to incessant repetition: "We're still sick, we're still sick, we're still sick."]

Not to sound like a broken record but…

Well, you figured it out. However, I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel and we’re merely at the cough-all-night-’til-you-drop stage. Bode and I had started to turn the corner when we did an illegal U-turn last week. I could barely get out of bed on Valentine’s Day and had to cancel the dinner party I had hopefully foolishly planned. Because why would I dare to think I’d be well enough to do it after eight weeks on the sickness track.

The next day was our anniversary (and special thanks for all the well wishes!) The good news: I felt a bit better after hitting rock bottom. The bad news: Hunky Hubby was not and stayed home with rheumatism pains. Our anniversary was a fast-forward 30 years into the future with both of us limping around and whining about one infirmity or another. We spent much of the day in bed. And not the good kind of time in bed. Judging from this picture, it must have been worse than I remembered:

Late that afternoon, Haddie dragged us both down to the dungeon of despair (I think organized people call it their basement), a place we avoid at all costs. It’s unfinished and has become the dumping ground for every random item in our house. We have a goal to organize it this year but something was ignited within me when I saw it. Something that must have been due to my own delirium because before I knew it, I was waist-deep in boxes. Because what better way to spend our anniversary than by wading through memories of our life together?

Yeah right…who am I kidding? My trip down memory lane was more along the lines of “Why does he want to keep this crap?” And then I’d toss it in the Jamie-crap-to-goodwill pile. Because someone’s stuff had to go and it certainly couldn’t be mine.

I also discovered a few mystery articles that I’m still trying to figure out what they are?…

The Return of the Broken Record

Lala suggested we check our house for mold since we’ve been sick for so long. Mold? In my nearly brand new, impeccably sanitized home? OK, well at least it’s new. I blew off her theory and turned my attentions to cleaning out the humidifiers that have been running non-stop since we got sick.

But then I accidentally dumped about two gallons of water from the humidifier all over our carpet in our bedroom.

And within the hour, I knocked 32 ounces of water over on our couch.

And so yes Lala, thanks to you, we probably have mold.

And at this rate, you probably won’t see us again until spring….

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

One of the many reasons why I love my hubby: his honesty.

Yesterday when he woke up after a particularly bad night with a rheumatism attack, I asked him if he was still going to work. He warily viewed the kids and me moping around and hacking away.

“Yeah, I’d better go to work. It’s better than the alternative these days.”

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

So, I didn’t win the Share the Love blog awards. Funny thing was I didn’t even know I was in the running. A special thanks to all those who nominated me though I’m ashamed of the shabby campaign I ran with no speeches, no buttons, no promises of sexual favors for the voters. Oh wait. That was my strategy for kindergarten class president.

In my defence, I was out sunning myself on the beach during campaign week. Isn’t that just like a politician?

Even though my ticket has since expired, I will do my belated plug for the categories in which I was nominated.

Best Humor. Obviously. You can see my next stand-up routine on Comedy Central next week, right next to Larry the Cable Guy. Though don’t tell him I prefer satellite.

Person You’d Most Like to Meet: I don’t know what to say about this one. Only that those who know me say the whole thing is highly overrated. I don’t’ think it’s a coincidence the only people who leave comments on my blog are strangers, while my alleged friends and family only lurk.

Blog You’ll Never Stop Reading: I’ve got news for you: this is the one I should have won. Because I plan to live forever.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog