I think I’m getting sick and have been up half the night. This is exceedingly frustrating because I have a hike and lunch planned today and three Halloween parties in the works for the little Boo on Friday and Saturday. The only advantage of getting sick would be to get out of painting the den with Jamie this weekend. Surely, he wouldn’t drag his dear wife out of her deathbed and subject her to paint fumes, would he?

I’ve had a few folks e-mail and ask what I meant by “it wasn’t pretty” during my roller-blading experience yesterday. I guess it’s confession time. Y’see, since moving to Colorado, I haven’t found a great place to blade. I finally spotted a new trail leading up the canyon to Golden a few weeks ago. I thought the sulphuric Coors factory was the only drawback; I was wrong.

I started out strong. Smooth, powerful strokes. I was completely alone on the trail, which I love. But then I encountered hill #1. No problem. My pace slowed a bit but I triumphantly summited. Then came Hill #2, then #3.

All was fine and dandy until it came time to turn around. But then came the “Ohhhhhhhh fudge” (I blame Ralphie in The Christmas Story). During my jubilation of conquering the trail, I hadn’t realized how truly steep my ascent was. For those who have ever been on roller-blades, stopping while careening 100 miles an hour down a hill can be problematic. For me, it proved to catastrophic. Because in addition to the steep hills, there were also signs everywhere with the squiggly arrow (the official road-sign term, I’m sure). You know, the one that says “You’re dead if you don’t follow the hairpin curves.”

The rest of the story was not pretty. What ticks me off is do you think anyone witnessed my triumphant ascent? Nooooooooo. But now bikers started coming out of the woodwork as I desperately clutched the railing, my legs wedged in a snow-plow…errr..asphalt-plow. In the end, I only suffered a few scrapes and a bruised ego. But worry not for I shall live to blade another day…and bruise a few other egos along the way!

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

I have a sordid relationship with paint. It runs in my family, really. My brother Pat once kicked a bucket of paint down the stairs whilst “helping” my sister-in-law, Jane. He was quickly relieved of his duties. We later suspected that was part of his master plan.

My paint relationship started shortly after we moved into our new house. I was eight months pregnant and we flew in Jamie’s sister Tammy (an interior designer) to help piece it all together. We anticipated she would hang a few pictures here, put our furniture there, etc. Before we knew it, we were engulfed in a full-on Extreme Makeover, with paint, scaffolding and a general disaster area on our hands.

Because I was pregnant, I was relegated to food prep. Tammy and my mother-in-law were busy painting our dining room as I busied myself in the kitchen. Upon completion, I grabbed their plates, turned the corner, called out “Lunch is ready…” and then BAM, I kicked something. Hard. Before I could react, the bucket of paint flew in the air, landing on our brand-new golden carpet. The bucket of deep, deep, deep red paint. In my defense, I couldn’t even see my feet, let alone the dumb paint can!

It took 10 rolls of paper towels and an extractor to get rid of it. Today, that conspicuous spot sports a lovely rose tint; a blazing reminder that I can never chastise my children if they spill on the carpet.

That said, I have been taping off our room (in my sickly state, I might add) in preparation for tomorrow’s paint-fest. Then Jamie, my loving, sensitive and devoted husband made the following announcement:

“Now, this is not directed at anyone. But I would like to issue a decree that there will be no spilling of red paint on tan carpet tomorrow.”

Don’t be surprised if, after a comment like that, he’ll be the next one to kick the bucket….

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

It’s Grandma Day today so I went roller-blading this afternoon for the first time in a loooong while. It wasn’t pretty but it brought back a flood of trail-blazin’ memories. Now, if there’s anything that bristles the quills on this porcupine, it’s when I encounter a guy who is demeaning. I’m not some overbearing feminist who has to prove herself to the world but I just can’t stand being treated like I am incapable of doing something, especially in sports. This has led to some clinical research of the male psyche whilst roller-blading.

Clinical Case Study #1: I was rollerblading along Provo River Parkway (my all-time path in Utah) when I came upon a little guy of about 12 or 13 who was out on his blades. When he heard someone approaching, he started to move over. But when I called out, “Passing on your left,” something triggered within the little guy. Something very male. Something very ugly. Something along the lines of:

“Cannot…let..a…GIRL..pass…me.”

And so this kid practically killed himself until I finally put him out of his misery and zoomed by. MEDICINAL GENIUS FINDINGS: Chauvinism and the fear of being one-upped by women starts at a very young age.

Clinical Case Study #2: A couple of weeks later, I was rollerblading with my brother Jade. He was not denied the opportunity to play hockey (like some people we know) so he absolutely kicks butt on skates (though he can’t do pirouettes). Anyhew, we’re zooming along and we saw this guy on his blades. Now, I had just experienced Mr. Junior Testosterone and this new guy had “Macho” written all over him. Sure enough, he glanced over his shoulder, saw me and “it” was triggered. He started busting his butt to keep ahead of our rigorous pace.

Now dear friends, I had three choices. I could 1) Fall back and let the guy strut his stuff, thereby proving his sheer animal magnestism. 2) Zoom past him in two seconds flat, thereby crushing any semblance of an ego he may have had. 3) Toy with him. Follow him closely for a while, see what he was made of, and THEN pass him.

Of course, I chose No. 3. And what a show Mr. Macho put on for us. He panted, he sweated and he REFUSED to let up. When my brother realized what I was doing, he laughingly called out, “You’re AWFUL!” Yes, I am awful when provoked by chauvinistic men and I enjoyed every mutinous minute of it.

Finally, he pulled the biggest copout of all: what I have termed a “Tonya Harding.” He veered off the side of the trail and pretended there was something wrong with his skate. I have yet to process this pitiable copout in the lab but I will let you know as soon as the results are tabulated. The results aren’t looking good.

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

We threw a housewarming BBQ last night and invited some of Jamie’s oldest friends. Of course, we actually finished building the house more than a year and a half ago so a bit of the excitement had worn off. Go figure. Better late than never, right?

Somehow the subject of my blog and Jamie’s comb-over was breached. Dentist Jon quipped he was aghast with my cavity fairy entry; rotting teeth must keep him up at night. I didn’t take it too personally. Y’see, it’s Jon who has ruined the true spirit of Christmas for me. He somehow married a really sweet girl, Leah, and they have been cast every year as Mary and Joseph in the Church’s nativity pageant. Leah makes the perfect Mary; irreverent Jon is not the archetypal Joseph. Poor baby Jesus being born under such conditions. I also always marvel how Leah errr…Mary is pregnant one moment and the next, she just reaches down and gives birth in mere seconds. Immaculate labor? Sign me UP!

My favorite person in the group, though, is 4-year-old Joey. If I could bottle this kid up and sell him, I’d make millions. He is just that lovable and funny. Even though it was my butt he pinched all night, I have great hopes for Hadley snatching him up someday. For this reason, I ensured she looked particularly fetching yesterday.

Some of my favorite Joey moments:

1) As the youngest of several siblings, he’s often stuck at home with his mom while everyone goes out and plays. After a particularly difficult day of being a “Mama’s Boy,” he complained about this to her and wailed, “I don’t got no friends.” This has become my favorite all-time quote.

2) After a fight with his 9-year-old sister, in frustration, she ordered him, “Joseph Hubert Call, go to your room this instant!” (or whatever the heck his middle name is). He broke into tears and weepily said, “Rachellllllllll, don’t call me by my time-out name!” Classic.

3) There is a little vixen in our neighborhood, Sadie, who’s Haddie’s greatest competition in snagging Joey. For a bit of background, three-year-old Sadie once hit on my husband after he watched her in nursery. She then went around for the next few months telling everyone she was going to marry him. Also, when Haddie was a newborn, she came to visit and in her most Chuckie-like voice conspired, “Let’s kill the baby.” Somehow, Sadie knew she would be competition down the line.

That said, Sadie is already making her moves. She and Joey are in a dance class together that his mom teaches. One day, Sadie reached out and grabbed him. Joey looked at her, startled. She then proclaimed to him that he was just so HOT that she had to reach out and see if he was on fire. How’s that for a line? This is what my poor Haddie is up against. Is there any hope?

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

Tourist, n, traveler, voyager, sightseer, ugly American.

-Roget’s College Thesaurus, 1985

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

Welp, the Colorado Avalanche are playing again tonight. It’s been two weeks since they extinguished my Flames and I’m finally more approachable on the subject. May I just say that I despise the new NHL rules? They are contrary to everything the game has always been about. I just hate when organizations (and people for that matter) bend to appeal to the masses.

Y’see, many of you don’t know this but I was on the path to becoming the first female in the NHL. As a Tom Boy Extraordinaire, I could keep up with the best of ’em in street hockey. For years, I didn’t even know I was a girl except for the times Grandma Wilde would drag me into the kitchen and make me cook as punishment.

Imagine my shock/dismay when all my street boys went to sign up for community hockey and I was turned down. Denied. Discriminated against. If I’d known it possible, I’d have sued for all my future wages lost as an NHL star. My parents explained to me that “nice little girls didn’t play hockey.” Who said anything about being nice? Their solution was to promptly enroll me in figure skating. So instead of killer slap shots, I can do stupid pirouettes. How impractical is that?

We’ve had a busy and fun Saturday. It’s another gorgeous Colorado day so we went hiking up Deer Creek Canyon. Hadley has become the personal trainer from hell. Not only am I hauling a small ton, she has started kicking me when I slow down and bouncing up and down during our ascents. Sometimes I’d rather run suicides than the torment she puts me through.

Hurricane Hadley has also decided she doesn’t need to sleep anymore. Last night was the topper. At 2 a.m., she started bellowing for us. Jamie is usually in denial and doesn’t stir. I think he practices this when I’m not around because there’s no possible way to sleep through our little natural disaster.

Last night, I put his teachings into practice. And it worked until he finally got up and brought her in with us. It’s kinda hard to ignore her when she stretches herself horizontally across our king-size bed. I was her footstool, Jamie her headrest. The topper, though, was when she mounted Jamie’s head and started doing horsy-rides. No amount of parental love could ever tolerate this in the middle of the night so he did what any loving father would do: he ditched me and slept on the couch. I don’t blame him but he got his first warning: if he ever leaves me with her again, he’ll be sleeping in the doghouse next time. Oh, and he’ll be the one hauling her up that mountain….

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

Hadley had an unprecedented lunch today: clam chowder, mashed potatoes with bacon, a grilled-cheese sandwich, a Boca burger, tequila-lime wings, a beef chimichanga with guacamole, chicken potstickers, chicken pot pie, lamb shanks, chips and salsa, and she then finished it off with bagels topped with epicurean wild blueberry and orange coconut butters (for babies with distinguished tastes).

Costco is her second-favorite place on earth (Grandma’s being the first). We wanted to go biking today but the crummy weather forced us indoors. We were sad and bored until we remembered that Friday at Costco is to dieters what hunting season is to deer: deadly. But it is also the epicenter for free lunches.

Haddie joyously hopped in the cart and we did the rounds. Following our first course, I set her loose at the Costco playground–the crates made for great hide-and-seek, the 20-lb flour bags a stellar climbing gym. We were having the time of our lives.

And then something glorious happened: we figured out The Sample System. Every half hour, the folks manning the sample stations rotate. New station, new people. If you want, you could do the rounds all over again. And again. Uh. Not that I would ever teach my child to do such a thing. Well, except for the really tasty stations.

On the way home, a blast from the past came over the airwaves: Thriller by Michael Jackson. I don’t care who you claim to be. If you were a child of the 80s, Halloween music = Thriller. I still remember doing the moonwalk to the video in Avril Watt’s basement back in sixth grade. We defied coolness. I think she even wore the white glove.

Though I always loved Thriller, I can’t say I was ever a fan of the King of Pop. This was put to the test in 7th grade when I made the 8th grade soccer team. Even though I was in, I had to prove I was really in with older girls. Their test question? Whether or not Michael Jackson was cool. I was frazzled. He was still popular enough that the wrong answer could’ve ruined my season and potentially my life (remember the melodrama of junior high?)

I finally answered honestly that I wasn’t a big fan of Wacko Jacko. They gave me the golden handshake and finally, I was in. I have Michael’s uncoolness to thank for my own coolness on the 7th grade soccer team (well, if leg warmers, blue eye shadow, big hair and shoulder pads constitute coolness?…)

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

I just returned from two hours at the dentist. Y’see, I broke my crown a few weeks ago. The culprit? Noooo, not hard candy or anything you’d think that would make a tooth self-destruct. But rather, I was eating an omelet at Country Road Cafe. Now, this just wasn’t just any omelet, but a chicken, broccoli and tomato omelet with the most heavenly chipotle cream sauce. I’d almost say it was worth it.

In addition to my crown, I got some bad news today after the dentist reviewed the X-rays. Any guess on how many cavities I have in this big mouth of mine? Not 3, 5, but 7 FRICKIN’ cavities! How is that humanly possibly? I brush AND floss every day. It’s not like I’m Billy Bob from Arkansas who has never been in a dental office!

As I sat there examining my X-rays, I grew suspicious of my new dentist. How do I know that she’s really legit? Maybe she just got a black marker and shaded in allllll those teeth. I love when they explain everything to you like you know what the freak is going on. Even worse is I always nod like I know what the freak is going on.

Though I never even had a cavity before college, I am not a stranger to dental trauma. I still remember when I was on my mission and living in a little Swiss city, Bienne. My comp was Katie Ingersoll, probably one of the nicest and sweetest gals out there (and as one tactful elder once told us–we were polar opposites. What was he trying to say?)

Anyway, I had a tooth that was giving me major problems so we shopped around trying to find a dentist that spoke English (French and German were the city’s main languages). We found one; only problem was, his assistants didn’t speak a lick of it. The gal he assigned to me was a Pollack mercenary, whose only English words were “open” and “close.”

I showed her my bad tooth and before I knew it, she started drilling away on the wrong tooth. Did she try numbing my mouth first? Giving me painkillers? Such would not be befitting of a Pollack mercenary. I had never been in more pain in my life. Sweet Katie was crying out of sympathy through the whole ordeal. Or maybe her ears just hurt from all my screaming.
In rebellion, I finally clamped my mouth shut (yes, smart alecks out there–that is humanly possibly). Through the international language (charades), I told her she was drilling on the wrong tooth and she’d better numb my mouth or else (Canadians have a few mercenary tactics of their own).

She finally gave me some shots and started working on the correct tooth. Only problem is the shot didn’t take effect until the bus ride home. So there I sat in pain as I wondered if the Swiss have a higher pain tolerance than Canucks. I was so flaming mad that my only consolation was to think of all the mean Pollack jokes out there. Until I remembered that I, too was Polish. What a predicament. I hope none of you are ever in it.

So back to the present day. I called my beloved cavity-free husband to get some sympathy after my appointment. We calculated our dental bill out to be hundreds of dollars. I joked, “Well, Merry Christmas to me.” Problem is, he didn’t joke back when he said my present would be a nice bow for my mouth.

Merry Christmas.

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

Especially during your death-bed repentence brush en route to the dentist. The frothy toothpaste does wonders to a new wax job.

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

After surviving craft night with only a poorly-painted sculpture and a few glue-gun burns, the rest of the weekend turned out just grand.

The big news? Our volleyball team won the stake championship. I was as shocked (OK, more so) than anyone. The game wasn’t even that close but probably would have been if our three weakest players and the other team’s two star players had been there. I’ve gotta be honest–I wasn’t too disheartened when I reviewed the team roster. If it had been a full ship, the playing field would have been leveled. Not that I mind. Victory is sweeeet anyway it comes! We’re off to the regional championships in November.

I even tried to take a team picture. It took a while to get everyone rounded up and posing prettily, only to discover my camera batteries were dead. Such is my life–anticlimax is my specialty.

Jamie, Haddie and I then headed up to the hills to enjoy some fall scenery. Only the locals and I know about this gorgeous hike nestled up a verdant canyon. The views of the Front Range are some of my favorites–the charming mountain hamlet of Kittredge, swarmy golden foothills and lofty 14ers that provide the backdrop to it all. Oh, and vacant trails–a rarity in Colorado!

From there, we went to the mother lode of all breakfast places: Country Road Cafe. Seriously. If you’re ever in Colorado, you need to eat here. This place serves up the most delicious carb-loaded food I’ve ever had. One heaping serving is a day’s worth of calories. My hiking friends and I are addicted. Anytime we hike anywhere near it, we make an excuse for the detour.

Later that afternoon, we hit a doughnut-and-cider hoedown at the church. Jamie hadn’t been feeling well and it suddenly augmented around the impending threat of line-dancing lessons. Haddie and I opted to play football outside with the boys. She had a great time chasing everyone around but just couldn’t figure out why no one wanted to pass to her. Sexism starts at an early age, I told her. It’s never too early to start teaching her the harsh realities of life.

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