Have you ever felt judged by a snotty pharmacist? When I was taking care of business yesterday at Walgreen’s, I innocently asked the woman behind the counter about a certain fiber product. She gave me a “You wanna be a Pupur” kinda look and then gave me the standard, stupid answer, “You’d better check with your doctor.” I’m still trying to figure out why pharmacists go to school for so many years…to learn how to count pills? They certainly never give sound advice.

Case in point: the rude pharmacist at the Rite-Aid in Hollywood. I flew out to California a few years ago to visit my friend Garritt. It was, BAR NONE, my worst trip ever. It rained the entire weekend, soiling our boardwalk roller-blading and beach-frolic plans. Then, Garritt’s psycho ex-girlfriend tried to break the door down and kill me while he was at work. Then he didn’t come home for hours and I thought she had murdered him but didn’t know because I accidentally erased the message he left on his dysfunctional answering machine. Then we got stuck in traffic for hours and hours on the way to dinner with a bickering couple. In the rain. Only to wind up eating greasy food at the food court.

By my final night, I had enough. Garritt promised me a fun evening of Wolfgang Puck’s and the Laugh Factory in Hollywood. I was stoked; could this trip finally be redeemed?

Nope. Because during dinner, I was suddenly doubled over with the most agonizing stomach pain that wouldn’t go away. Worried my appendix was going to burst, Garritt offered to drive me to the UCLA Medical Center. I weakly told him we should just find a drugstore and see if they could medicate me.

We drove to the Rite-Aid in Hollywood. We had no idea what I needed so decided to ask the pharmacist. I have never seen a busier drugstore and the line was at least 15 people long. Fifteen snooty Hollywood types who were dropping in to get their prescriptive buzz for the weekend. And me. Doubled over in agony.

By now, the pain was like a knife gashing into my stomach. When it finally was my turn, I limped up to the pharmacist and wheezed, “Do you have anything for excruciating stomach pain?” She took one look at me and then at alllll the Hollywood royalty before shrilly announcing, “Is it GASSSSSS?”

This question still resonates today. Garritt slunked away and all of Hollywood snickered as I hissed back, “It is NOT gas.”

Turns out, it probably was. And it was bad enough to ruin the rest of the night. And so (in keeping with my Murphy’s Law life) instead of The Laugh Factory, I spent the night doped out on Garritt’s couch experiencing The Gas Factory. Take it from me, there was nothin’ funny about it….

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

On TV, we’re bombarded with ads about the miraculous “Purple Pill.” I am here today to tell you about the “Pink Pill.” This miraculous little invention reverses the course of mankind…releases the water gates and makes that which is plugged become unplugged.

Yes, I have a little bowel problem this week. Jamie’s family cannot relate and have the polar-opposite condition. They don’t know what it’s like to set up camp with a month’s supply of magazines in the bathroom. They’re lucky to make it there in time.

I took my Pink Pill early this morning and nothing had materialized. By evening, I was doubled over in pain, cursing the Poop Gods and praying for relief. I enviously changed Haddie’s stinky diaper. She seemed blissful about her state of sitting in her own crap. This caused me to do something rash–I overdosed on the Pink Pill. Yep, in my desperation, I popped another one. And nothin’.

When I made my junkie confession to Jamie, he cursed me that it would hit at 3 a.m. He then called his mom and informed her of my condition. Picture the most prim ‘n proper woman in the world who has never passed gas or belched a day in her life. “TMI” (Too Much Information), she weakly replied. “Too much information.” I am sure she’ll never look at me the same. Imagine: a daughter-in-law who POOPS. Unthinkable.

Sick Haddie woke up at 11:30 a.m. and screamed until 2:30 a.m., making me temporarily forget about my plight. And then, just as Jamie predicted, the flood gates opened. And haven’t stopped. It is currently 4 a.m. and I am still up. I’m trying to figure out which condition is worse. Despite everything, I’d have to say my overdose was worth it.

My favorite radio station had a gal call in last week who was debating keeping her maiden name when she got married. The reason? Her fiance’s last name is Pupur (yes, pronounced just as you think). At first, I sided with her her but after this week? To know I would become a Pupur and that my children would become little Pupurs? BRING IT ON. Just no more Pink Pill…please?…

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

Snow is in the air in Colorado and winter conditions are upon us. Our ski resorts received 30 inches of snow, which took me back to my first job after college: the voice of SkiUtah (the PR/marketing end of Utah’s ski industry). Yep, I was the Craaaaaaazy Canuck ski reporter on all the radio stations and one of the perks of my job was I skied all 14 of Utah’s resorts….for free. Pretty idyllic? One would think. But then I remember…..

January 13, 1998– my first powder day in Utah. I remember it well. Mark Eubank sported his legendary white jacket on KSL’s evening meteorology report, which meant only one thing: snow, and lots of it. I was like a child the night before a very white Christmas and I could not sleep a wink.

I had planned to go to Park City Mountain Resort with my friend LeAnne, but she bailed mere minutes before our departure. I resolved to go without her. Nothing could have prepared me for the conditions on that perfect morning–all was white, all was powder.

I hopped on the lift and gazed down upon all the skiers making their tracks in the soft, untouched snow. I saw the powder shoot up behind them as they connected with the very soul of that mountain and I imagined myself carving my own signature in the sea of white.

I was soon at the summit of Jupiter Bowl. I started down Main Bowl strong and fast, and the whole experience was almost surreal.

And then I turned.

Or rather, my body turned, but my skis kept right on going. And I met the soul of the mountain in a way I had not anticipated: face first.

I laid there in shock for a moment, and then attempted to dig my skis out underneath three feet of powder. Despite the fact that my foot was technically still attached to me, I had difficulties locating its whereabouts. Fortunately, I found it long enough to snap it back into the binding.

I blew off my little setback. After all, it was my first ski day of the season and I was still a bit rusty. With renewed vigor, I once again started my descent. Seconds later, I was down. And then again. And again.

Then I remembered the terrible truth: I did not know how to ski knee-deep powder!

Somehow in my visions of a perfect ski day, I had overlooked that minor detail. I soon became a flailing ski bunny in my miserable attempts. Gone was my perfect form, and gone was my morale for that “perfect” ski day.

And then the blizzard came.

I didn’t have any goggles. Blinded, gasping for breath with my legs screaming out in pain, I somehow made it down the mountain.

My ski day ended officially at noon.

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

A: Jamie, I think Hadley is really sick.
J: Naaah, she’s just got a little “thing.”
A: A little “thing?” She is completely hoarse and can barely talk!
J: She couldn’t ever talk.
A: OK, babble. Whatever. My point is we need to go get her something.
J: You’re overreacting. She just lost her voice, that’s all.
A: When was the last time you lost your voice, without anything else being wrong with you?
J: Uhhhh. Puberty.
A: You are so sweet and wonderful and you are always right. I’m sorry I doubted you.
J: And don’t forget it. What’s for dinner?
A: Anything you want because I am here to serve
J: Make it quick and make it good
A: I will have it for you right away. Would you like any ice cream while you are waiting?

Husband’s note: The second half of this conversation was edited by Amber’s good husband who found this unedited entry on the screen before it was posted. Better be more careful next time Honey!

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

Happy Remembrance Day to the Canadians and Happy Veteran’s Day to the Americans out there!

Welp, our house remains a hotbed of infection. Good thing we have our regional volleyball championships plus are entertaining this weekend. Heaven forbid we’d actually want to rest and get better!

I am so excited that some of my best friends, Lori and Rob, are coming to stay with us! We go waaaay back to the first day of my freshman year. We participated in a two-month class called “Natural Science Field Expedition.” Picture two months of backpacking to the most gorgeous destinations all over the United States. Throw a few classes in there–geology, field and environmental biology, religion and English– and you have the most amazing outdoor classroom experience imaginable! I was so inspired by it all that I declared my major as “Off-Campus Wildlife.” I later switched to “Campus Wildlife” when I made my way back to the classroom.

We have so many great memories. Like the time we ran out of the water on the way back from summiting the South Teton in Wyoming, and Rob drank the stream water. He was introduced to a fun little thing called Giardia.

Or the time he opted not to bring a sleeping bag when we backpacked the north to the south rim of the Grand Canyon. This may have been feasible in the summer but October’s temperatures were downright freezing. I still remember him huddled up in his little Indian blanket, cursing everyone around him. It’s almost as bad as when my dad forgot his sleeping bag…while WINTER camping.

It was Lori who first introduced me to blowing gobs of money and also my love affair with my first bank account. Well, I loved it; it didn’t love me back and kept sending me all these nasty “bounced check” notices. ‘Twas more like an unrequited love affair.

And then something funny happened. After being The Inseparable Three Stooges, Lori and Rob fell in love. Sniff. And thus began my life as a third wheel. I was seriously thrilled, though. What could be better than your two best friends getting married? And leaving you behind? Alone? Miserable. I have gotten over it and hold no resentment towards them, really…..

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

I am a terrible mother. Not only has my bronchitis evolved into some unknown virus, I have passed it onto my little Hurricane. Now she, too, is hacking away and has started to lose her voice. In the comment section, Manny perceptively sugggested that we should downgrade Haddie to a tropical storm until she gets better.

I’ve been sitting here looking at Jamie’s autographed hockey puck. I’ve never understood the whole autograph/star craze. I mean, what do people actually do when they get someone’s autograph? Frame it? Sell it?

I’ve had a few brushes with fame but my most memorable was at the New York airport. I was in a long line waiting to board when I overheard the two men behind me, “Yeah, I think that’s him….I really think that’s him!” I turned to see who they were ogling at. Lo-and-behold, it was Mr. Star Wars himself, James Earl Jones, waiting to board a neighboring flight to Toronto.

The men were as star-struck as a couple of giddy school girls. Not wanting to humiliate themselves, they attempted to embarrass their posterity,two unsuspecting 11-year-old boys. After much prodding, pleading, and bribery the boys finally agreed. The deal was they had to go over to James Earl Jones and in their most Darth Vader-esque voice, tell him to “Come over to the Dark Side.”

By now, we were all watching as the boys made their way over to James Earl Jones. Only problem is, they kept walking right past him…to the Orthodox Jew standing close by. As soon as these fathers saw they had the wrong guy, they bolted over there but not in time to stop them from delivering their line to a very shocked…and offended Jew.

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

I am officially an addict. For some, it’s Desperate Housewives. For others it’s football. For me, it’s pumpkin.

It all started a couple of years ago when I was pregnant. I called home for Canadian Thanksgiving and my kinsmen Canucks were all gathered around the table gorging themselves on pumpkin pie. My obsession for it was unsatiated after that. I dreamt, slept, lived pumpkin pie. But I would not allow myself to buy it for fear I’d eat an entire pie in one sitting.

Sick of enduring my lamentations, my mother-in-law finally bought me one. A Costco pumpkin pie, no less. Over-sized and over-satiating. I was partly angry but mostly grateful she gave in. I did manage to hold back on it and only ate half the pie the first day and polished it off on Day 2. Now that’s self-control.

Every subsequent year has been the same. The second the leaves change color, my thoughts turn to those glorious orange creations. I have made pumpkin gnocchi, scones, pies, chicken enchiladas with pumpkin sauce, pumpkin soup, ice cream, waffles and just recently, bread. The list goes on.

The History of the Great Pumpkin
My pumpkin pedigree dates back several years ago whilst on my mission. We were living in Switzerland when Thanksgiving rolled around and decided to have a grand Thanksgiving feast. Soeur Ingy and I were assigned to the pies.

We had a some uphill battles: 1) We’d only been in Switzerland for a few months and weren’t fluent en francais yet. 2) No one in Switzerland knows how to make pumpkin pie. 3) Possibly our biggest challenge: we didn’t know how to cook. Yet. We are now Domestic Divas (whose talents are sadly wasted on Southern Redneck hubbies).

Ingy and I somehow dredged up a recipe and hit the marche (market). We made improvisations when canned pumpkin was nowhere to be found and bought fresh. But we got stumped when it came to buying ginger. As the foremost expert on pumpkin, I now know that good pumpkin pie recipes do not call for ginger. But ours did. And unfortunately, we didn’t know the French word for ginger. After a half hour in front of the spice rack, we finally grabbed something that bore a strong resemblance.

To make a long story short, it wasn’t ginger but a very similar-looking, white powdery substance called Anise. Ever had Anise? Picture the strongest piece of black licorice you’ve ever had in your life and that’s Anise. If you’re ever in question: stringy pumpkin + black licorice flavoring does not make for a tasty pie. Or even an edible one.

It was a pumpkin pie-less Thanksgiving that year.

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

Hurricane Haddie has diarrhea. The explosive kind. I wonder if the liter of eggnog we wolfed down last night has anything to do with it?

BIG ANNOUNCEMENT: Jeek is a new father! The pink elephant did not do permanent damage (see Nov. 2nd blog) and his wife gave birth to 8 lb 9 oz Jaxson Jeek Borowski on Monday. We are all praying for his survival in that family.

Also in the news front: Three Blog Night’s son gave a riveting social commentary yesterday. While helping his mom sort the laundry, he announced that a sock got a divorce. She told him socks can’t get divorced and he replied, “Well, they must be separated then, because I can’t find a match for this one.”

This has led me to ponder the deep complexities of the sock world. My question to you: I am currently wearing one brown sock and one black sock. Does this amount to bi-racial marriage?

Just wondering.

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

Most kids Haddie’s age have an affinity towards at least some pop culture cartoon characters such as Sponge Bob, Dora, Sesame Street, Teletubbies etc. But Haddie has shown no interest in television. Until now.

Jamie was watching the Today show this morning and suddenly, Haddie became entranced. She started singing, dancing and mooooving to the music. Puzzled, I asked Jamie who was performing. Imagine my shock to discover it was none other than the Jazz Singer himself, Neil Diamond. (Note: Rapper 50 Cent was on just prior to Neil and nothin’, he did nothin’ for her). Haddie could possibly be Neil’s youngest fan ever; aren’t most of them over 80? (Note: I’m sure I’m setting myself up for some hateful comments over that one. OK, let’s knock that age down to 70.)

I’ve never been a great fan of what I deem the “Elevator Music Genre” but my good friend Jason tried to convert me in college. We used to take lots of road trips, during which time he’d pop in John Denver and Barry Manilow. One particular day, I decided to make a concerted effort to listen to the lyrics. And when I did, I was shocked. Completely and utterly shocked at the perverse subject that Barry was droning on about. Even worse was the zippy music that was accompanying it. Finally, completely offended, I turned to Jason and snapped, “Is he singing about date rape?”

His reaction was even more shocked, and then he turned angry. In the very controlled voice of one whose idol has been desecrated, he seethed. “No, AMBER, he’s singing about daybreak. Thanks for ruining this song for me forever.”

Oh. Suffice it to say, that was the last time he ever made me listen to his music again.

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

As I was working out this morning, my little Half-Breed pulled out So You Want to Be Canadian, a book my family graciously gave Jamie for Christmas. For story time today, we reviewed the history of “eh,” how to dress like a Canadian and learned how to make Beaver Tail Pastry. Tomorrow, I’ll quiz her on the Canadian anthem. In French (it’s never too early, right?)

Haddie took particular delight in learning to say “eh” so we thought we’d impart upon you the history of this sacred word. Y’see, unlike its slow-witted cousin “huh,” “eh” is a flexible, multipurpose word, perfect for a variety of situations. Its uses are endless but as an example, adding “eh?” to the end of a statement is a handy and efficient substitute for:

This is just my opinion, but don’t you agree with it?

Non-Canadian statement: “The weather sure has turned chilly, don’t you think?”
Canadian Statement: “Cold, eh?”

This is a fact to which anyone would acquiesce, so I’m being rhetorical here.

Non-Canadian statement: I can’t believe you bought that girl a drink and she didn’t even give you her number.”
Canadian Statement: “That’s cold, eh?”

You know what I just said? I actually believe the exact opposite.

Non-Canadian statement: “Yes Bob, I agree it’s very hot in Penticton today. I’m positively burning up.”
Canadian statement: “Right cold, eh?”

This is the end of Lesson #1…cool, eh? If we all work on this together, perhaps we can overthrow dim-witted “huh” by year’s end.

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