A Utah Family Travel Writer's Adventures with Altitude
[The following conversation was in the car after an accusation was made from Hunky Hubby]
Amber: Do you really think I’m bossy?
Jamie [diplomatically]: Only on Saturdays.
Amber: Hadley, do you think Mommy is bossy? SAY “NO!”
Hadley [emphatically]: NO!
Jamie: Does anyone else see the irony here?
I am generally a likable person. Unless I decide to be otherwise. And then, watch out. Yes friends, I had one of those watch-out days.
At church, we don’t have any paid clergy which means folks in the congregation pitch in and are called to different areas (i.e. working with the men, women, youth, children etc.) This is generally a good thing and it’s fun to serve in many different capacities. Usually. I just received a new “calling”–as the Ward Activity Chair. This means I am responsible for planning about six activities/year for 200 grumpy, complaining people, many of them old fogies whose only calling is to grump and complain about others.
I was thrown into planning a huge dinner on March 11th with a limited budget ($200) and even more limited committee. Instead of throwing their standard boring affair, I threw caution to the wind and am planning a Cinco de Mayo bash. Sure, it’s in March, but not to be dissuaded, I have renamed it our Cinco de Marcho, complete with Taco Bar, chocolate fiesta fountains and karaoke.
I printed up fun fliers and distributed them to everyone, only to learn by the Ward Nazi that he had recently banned chocolate fountains from the building due to the mess. He nastily told me it was my father-in-law (who’s over the buildings) who had issued this edict. One phone call and a threat to never see his granddaughter again undid any such edict, which turns out was never an edict but rather a recommendation in the carpeted areas. But Hitler, I have learned, doesn’t work with recommendations and made them contraband everywhere. Don’t be surprised if his anti-chocolate-fountain-world domination comes to you someday soon.
Adolf’s Wife was part of my first committee meeting today and you’d think I suggested burning swastikas* on the lawn. (*Note: Oh wait. My brother Pat already did that as a teen-ager to our hateful neighbor’s grass. Another story, another day.)
Most of the committee was on my side but she wouldn’t budge, despite how irrational the whole thing was. I finally threw in the towel and will do something else (recommendations on easy and cheap Mexican desserts?) But she just wouldn’t stop needling me.
A.W.: “Don’t you think it’s misleading to name it Cinco de Marcho when we’re not even doing it on the fifth?”
Me: “Don’t cha think Eleveno de Marcho would kinda lose its meaning?” (Nobody in the icy room dared correct my Spanish-Canadian interpretation.)
A.W.: “I thought you were having a taco bar but it says here you’ve having soft shells. That’s misleading. You need to instead say it’s a burrito bar.”
Me: What I wanted to say: “Last I checked, they called them soft taco shells.”
I bit my tongue on that one, secretly plotting my contraband chocolate fountain I’d stash away for all my fellow rebels in the kitchen as I secretly wished I could get my way with everyone by threatening ‘em with limited access to their granddaughters.
I love to snuggle and much to my chagrin, Hadley has never been a warm ‘n fuzzy kinda child. My resolution? Well, hold her down and force Family Snuggles out of her, of course. This has become a nightly ritual as she giggles her objections to us.
The other night, she and I were bouncing around on my bed before bedtime when she stopped, plopped herself down on my pillow, put her arm out and announced, “SNUGGLE!” Shocked, I asked, “Did you say ‘snuggle?’” She nodded and repeated herself again. I didn’t hesitate a moment longer and dove right on in like an attention-starved puppy. With tail wagging.
Now, lest you think I’ve converted her to Family Snuggles, think again. She laid there for her obligatory 10-second snuggle as if she was counting down the moments. She then plopped back up and announced we were “Alllllll twue” (in Haddie speak: I gave you what you want so can you pul-ease stop attacking me, Woman?)…
Crested Butte was one of those places I fell in love with instantly. You know, the kind of place you momentarily wonder what would happen if you picked everyone up and moved there. It had everything I love about a mountain resort: gorgeous, remote, funky, and unpretentious with small-town camaraderie.
When we arrived, a storm was brewing and sub-zero temps pervaded. I wanted nothing more than to bundle up in front of the fire but had been looking forward to our anniversary dinner at a charming gourmet restaurant with the top-rated chef in the region. I thought for sure the weather would scare off our fair-weather friends…until I realized that I am the fair-weather friend! I was shocked to see Main Street bustling with activity and the restaurant almost filled to capacity. We gorged ourselves on French bread, appetizers we couldn’t pronounce and a cut of fillet Mignon topped with a delicate wasabi sauce that made my food-connaisseur honey proclaim, “The man is an artist!”
We spent the next few days soaking it all in by the fire watching the Olympics and movies, checking out Main Street’s eclectic shops and restaurants, snowshoeing the pristine backcountry and enjoying impressionist sunsets. It’s the kind of place where after a few days, everyone seems to know your business and yet you feel dwarfed by the large business of nature. Where The Gronk, a chunk of old concrete outside of town, is a local legend and somehow has charisma.
And where wild animals (my husband) leave their mark in the snow on your patio. Bonus for anyone who can figure out what kind of track is pictured below?…..
My Crested Butte commentary will have to wait. Vengeful Jeek posted some childhood pictures I thought I had burned in the comments section of yesterday’s blog. Something about my failure to post humiliating/incriminating stories about myself in honor of my birthday. So, baby brother Jeek, FOR YOU, I shall include one of my many “Amber Murphy” moments.
Back in my travel writing daze, I was invited on what is called a “Media Familiarization Tour.” Basically, this is a time when publicists invite you to their destination, schmooze the heck out of ya and hope you do a good writeup on their venue. I know this process well because I did it both as a publicist (schmoozer) and as a journalist (schmoozee).
Welp this particular Fam Tour was hosted by the travel and tourism board of the Dominican Republic. Basically, there were about 10 of us on this adventure trek that took us all over the DR (see my Travel Log Top 10ish sidebar for the story). There was one other athletic journalist there who delved into the many activities with me but the rest were New Yorkers who didn’t have a clue. I was the youngest in the group and felt I was trying to set a credible reputation amongst all the other established journalists. Note: I said trying. Because it didn’t take me too long to fail.
We were traveling to the interior of the DR for a white-water rafting trip. The curvy mountain roads inspired much car sickness for the others so I sat alone on the back row of our van. Upon arriving at our destination, we ate lunch and then a few of us went back to the van to grab our swim suits. Because my gear was at the back of the van, I went first. I reached beneath my seat when something FLEW out, nearly attacking me. Instinct took over and in typical Amber fashion, I freaked out. And I mean freaked out by screaming, “It’s ALIVE!!!!!”
Now, I swear this is what I said. Witness accounts differ as they all attest I instead screached, “Run for your LIVES!” A miniscule difference in messaging, wouldn’t you agree? Regardless, I soon had the entire camp running from from some unforeseen beast that was going to devour us.
I should just end the story there and let you all think I was the hero and saved the day. But that would be a lie. When we crept back to the van, we found our van driver laughing hysterically, holding his pet chicken that he had stashed under my seat. Yes, a chicken. Unbelievable. I’m glad I didn’t speak Spanish because I figured out he wasn’t all too complimentary in his commentary.
So much for my “cred” among the other journalists. I’m just hoping that chicken we coincidentally had for dinner was in no way related….
Yes, I am alive! Barely. Our extended trip to Crested Butte was nothing short of blissful and restful…until Hurricane Hadley arrived on Friday with the in-laws. A teething Hurricane Hadley. All aforementioned rest was replaced by all-nighters tending to a howling Hurricane. Despite the tempestuous conditions, our little vacation was one of my all-time favorites, of which I shall expound upon at a later time. And I have even begun reading a 400-page novel. Me. The woman who doesn’t have time to read more than three consecutive pages at a time. I think I’ll go into withdrawals when I conform back to normal life.
One thing I need to comment on is my alter-ego’s (Lindsey Jacobellis) Olympic debut. At first I thought we only shared the same hair. Until I saw her perform in the final match of the Snowboard Cross. I then knew that we live parallel existences. I marveled as she pummelled the competition on her way to victory and Olympic history (not to mention big-buck endorsements.) When, mere moments away from the finish line and her cash cow, she decided to show off to the crowd, only to wipe out. In front of millions. This is something that would happen to me. To add insult to wipe-out, to then have little miss Swiss Miss cruise on by to claim the gold. Ouch!
The big news of the day is it’s my birthday! I’m not anti-birthdays but just don’t approach them with the same alacrity I once did. Especially since I can’t remember how old I am half the time anymore. To celebrate, I straightened my hair. Yippee. Hadley looked at me perplexed, probably wondering why I put the effort in curling hers, which painfully squeals out in protest every time it spots a curling iron (I blame the Jamie genes.) Haddie and I are hitting story-time this morning, lunch with Grandma and then dinner at the Cheesecake Factory tonight with the rest of the clan. It should be an enjoyable day of gluttony. Too bad Hadley didn’t get the sleep-through-the-night-birthday-gift memo. Better luck next year.
We’re heading out to Crested Butte for five blissful days this morning but I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that today is our anniversary! I am truly grateful to be married to the most wonderful man I know.
And so by popular demand: my courtship story with Jamie. Y’see, my beloved James and I were BYU students at the same time, graduated from the same department, walked through the same graduation ceremonies and regularly played volleyball together on the same court one summer…and yet never met.
It took a glorious thing called the Internet to finally bring us together many years later. I was in the midst of terminating an on-again, off-again five-year relationship and was cruising a popular Mormon singles site, adding unsuspecting prey to my Little Black Book. Jamie had also ended a relationship a few months prior and was looking for some nice local Mormon girls to date. I, however, was not local. (Or nice for that matter; really, my only qualifier was I was Mormon). He was in Denver, I in Salt Lake City. I had just endured a long-distance romance and vowed I would never do that again. That avowal lasted about a week. He, too had no interest in something long distance.
Despite the odds, I came across his profile. It was not his dashing good looks that initially struck me (his photo was taken from five miles away) or his poetry and prose (i.e. “I like eating good food”) but rather the strong impression that I needed to write him. Immediately.
Our connection was immediate. Jamie first knew it was love when I expounded upon mountaineering and the definition of the horned sacrificial altar in Ancient Israel (yep, we’re two of a kind). I knew Jamie was The One when he googled my name and read every single article I had ever written. Either that or he was a stalker. Fortunately, he proved to be the former.
After countless e-mails and phone calls over the next two months, we planned to meet. By this time, it had been revealed to both of us in a very powerful way that we would get married. Imagine, if you will, how you’d feel opening the door to a person you’d never laid eyes on, yet knowing he was The One. Suffice it to say, the week prior to our meeting, I was a wreck.
Another confirmation I received was when The Family Curse came upon me. Y’see, when both of my brothers met their spouses, something unfortunate always happened. For Patrick, he “accidentally” passed gas when he was introduced to Jane. For Jeek, he had developed a horrible boil smack in the middle of his nose when he met Shannon. For me, I developed an allergic reaction to some flowers at work, which resulted in a stye in my eye. Y’know. The really pink, pussy, ugly kind. This was yet another sign.
And so despite my pussy, makeup-less state when I finally laid eyes on him (albeit one good eye), I knew then what I know now: that we were meant to be together. And despite all my Murphyisms and idiosyncrasies, he still loves me. And keeps loving me. I don’t understand or question it, I’m just grateful for it.
Happy Anniversary, Honey!
Hi,
It’s ME, Haddie! Mommy is busy so I decided to tell you about my Valentine’s Day Party yesterday! I had my good friends Rowan, Adde, Haley, Megan and Nolan over for my Sweetheart Bash. Nolan was what the mommies called “The Token Stud.” I’m not sure what that means but I think they’re talking about how cute he looked in his sassy Valentine’s Day antennas. His mommy told my mommy that she’s worried his “sensitive nature” will lead to something else in the future. I think olden-day people called it “happy.” I don’t know why they’re worried about happiness but that Nolan sure seemed happy just being one of the girls!
We had fun, though. We ate yummy food and decorated our own cookies. I decided mine would look the prettiest with half the container of sparkles and I was right! We also got to find all the hearts that mommy hid in the house and then we exchanged valentines! Mine had fun tattoos with cats and dogs. We had fun making our animal sounds as the mommies tattooed us. I told Mommy I want a big one that says “Grandma” on my bum but she said we’ll talk about it later.
We had a very fun Valentine’s Day Party but then it was over so I gave everyone kisses bye-bye. Even the happy boy. He seemed to like it. Even though they said he wouldn’t.
Happy Valentine’s Day everyone!
XO
Haddie
Lest you all be deceived, let me dismiss any preconceived notions of sporting greatness by letting the cat out of the bag. The winner of The Greatest Sport on Earth is none other than curling.
Y’see, I owe my very life to this great sport. My parents, Stan and Chris, MET whilst on a curling team in the Motherland. I don’t know what the initial connection was. Maybe she liked the way he threw that big ol’ heavy rock like a hunka-hunka burnin’ love. And I’m sure he was enthralled with her sweeping technique. I mean, what man wouldn’t? It was, after all, the 60s.
For this reason, I felt it requisite to participate in the curling competition during the Salt Lake Olympics. So maybe I wasn’t an actual Olympian but I did make it to the podium (see photographic evidence below). My best friend Stacey was in town from Canada with her sister, Heather. We decided to hit the Olympic Strip one day, which hosted tons of booths and Olympic activities.
The Coca-cola tent was the highlight of the strip. Not only could you go down a mini luge run but there were several interactive Olympic games, including curling. Heather and Stacey were proudly toting Canadian hats and upon entering the tent, a cute guy asked if they were Canadian. When they responded affirmatively, he requested their autograph. I barely had time to shout at him that I, too, was Canadian but he seemed unimpressed.
We opted to participate in the curling competition. I didn’t want to stress the girls out but in addition to my inbred curling roots, I also took a unit of it in high school. I was the first to throw my rock down the ice towards the house. I made some good shots and was immediately sent to stand on the gold-medal position of the podium to await the rest of the competitors. I fully expected to stay there.
Until Stacey went. In just a few shots, she knocked me down to Silver. And then came Heather. In a seamless throw down the ice, she humbled both Stacey and I, claiming the Gold medal position. Suddenly I, the person with curling in my veins, was only Bronze-worthy!
I’ll stop there. I won’t even get into how the little 7-year-old boy who followed knocked me out of contention all together. Me. The very offspring of curling itself. He never actually claimed his prize; something about being knocked out by a curling rock. Hey, what can I say? Tonya Harding isn’t the only one with a few tricks up her sleeve…..
I’m not sure but does having a guest go into anaphylactic shock due to the peach and mango salsa we dropped off put a damper on a dinner party?
P.S. Good to know we were gone but not forgotten….
I'm a Canadian-born mom of two, former Denver Post columnist, family travel writer, editor of MileHighMamas.com and 9News contributor. Expert on all things Utah, Denver, family and travel. Lover of laughter and life. Happily married to a man obsessed with growing The Great Pumpkin. Learn More