A Utah Family Travel Writer's Adventures with Altitude
As I hacked, whined and moaned in the middle of the night, my beloved James made what I thought was a sweet gesture when he gave me some sympathetic snuggles and backrubs. But when I awoke an hour later, face-planted and drooling on the sheets, I realized his true intentions:
During his feigned pity session, he stole my pillow.
It’s official! My first ever letter-to-the-editor got printed in the Sunday edition of the Denver Post. I expect all my fan mail to start pouring in anytime now. Waiting. Waiting. Still waiting….
OK, so maybe the only responses I’ll receive are from pissed-off attorneys and ultra-liberal feminists. But there was an article in last week’s paper that spurred me to action about how female attorneys are being made partners in their firms, and what a “wonderful” job they’re doing balancing family and home life.
I don’t have issues with their career aspirations; we all have hopes and dreams to pursue. I also know many women have extenuating circumstances and need to work. What ticked me off was the false praise that was given to this women for her non-existent balancing act (she was NEVER home for her kids and had brainwashed them to believe her absence was for a nobler good). When I think of all I gave up in my career to become a stay-at-home mom, I don’t have any regrets. It was my decision to have kids and though this is 100X tougher than any job I’ve ever had, I’m grateful for the opportunity. Well, most days. Anyhew, an excerpt from the letter I sent:
“According to your article, attorney Kristin Bronson has absolutely no balance in her life in regards to her family; i.e., she “can go weeks without seeing her children, and she says she relies heavily on others for child care.” How is this to be commended? Bronson has erroneously programmed her children to believe it’s a good and noble thing to choose work over family. Kids at 5 and 8 don’t need career aspirations; they need a mother to instill values and love on a daily basis. It is said that no success in the workplace can compensate for failure in the home. I sure hope Bronson can figure this out before it’s too late.”
P.S. Don’t mess with THIS Mama!!!!!
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….
KARMA. That’s what Earl Hickey calls this. Because I tempted all those unassuming weight-loss masochists with Girl Scout Cookies yesterday, I have been downtrodden and beaten up with the plague. Yep, I am barely functional today with what I hope will not be strep. And so in penitence, allow me to share a little-known weight-loss secret. Here’s the story.
There is something that every pregnant lady dreads during her regular checkups: the weigh-in. I endured something exponentially worse yesterday: the weigh-in after the holidays. To be honest, I was supposed to go in last week for my 12-week appointment but pushed it back. My surface reasoning was because Grandma was out of town and I needed her to watch The Hurricane. But my real reckoning was I wanted to take an extra week to lose a pound or two. Yeah, right. I’m sure the pound of jelly bellies I ate yesterday helped out the poundage count considerably.
The doctor’s office called to confirm my appointment yesterday with Dr. Ganter. Never in my wildest pregnant lady pee dreams would I have chosen Ganter out of the other four female doctors. She is the Nazi of weight gain. And is not above reducing bloating pregnant ladies to tears. Big, FAT tears, of course.
The waiting room consisted of the usual routine: all of us subtly checking out each other’s bellies to see who was biggest. But then it came time to take part in the one thing I excel at: offering up a pee sample. I strutted on in there, grabbed my cup, assumed the position…and nothing. NOTHING! Now, there are many things I cannot do on demand (i.e. belching, passing gas, etc.) but peeing is not among them. But for the first time I knew what it was like to be a guy at a urinal experiencing “Pee Fright.” Don’t deny it, Men. Jamie has filled me in on urinal etiquette.
When I finally emerged from the bathroom, there was the nurse waiting for me by the scale. As far I was concerned, that thing was about as big and intimidating as the life-size scale on The Biggest Loser. I half expected to see my weight displayed in big, blazing numbers for all to see. I tentatively stepped on, wondering if it would be too extreme to strip down to nothing to save myself the extra ounces but I decided to keep my dignity instead.
And my total weight gain? Five pounds. Now, I’m sure most women would be wailing over that but I about jumped for joy. I would’ve gained that much just inhaling the food at the local Chinese buffet. It just goes to prove that maybe jelly bellies are the dietary miracle drug of today.
For all you Mad Dad weight-loss masochists out there, here’s a little road-bump:
Girl Scouts will be knocking down your door with their perky personalities and irresistible wares starting on Saturday. These little temptresses will be bringing you all the regular indulgences, as well as the Cafe Cookie. This crisp cookie has caramelized brown sugar and a hint of cinnamon spice. If you’re gonna cheat, this is the one.
P.S. Do you find it coincidental those little vixens always proselyte after New Year’s when the world is repenting from their holiday gorging?
P.P.S. I’ll buy an extra box for the abstainers and thank my lucky stars for my weight-gain diet….
One of our favorite family pastimes is to snuggle in our king-size bed and wrestle with The Hurricane. For her, snuggling is equal unto a day without Grandma. She hates anything that is a restriction from her path of destruction.
So the other night while we were torturing her with snuggles, Jamie blurted out he was working on a surprise.
“A surprise?”
“Yep!”
“So, what is it?”
“Not telling.”
This went on for a few minutes until I decided to clam up and pretend I could not care less. The problem is, I was intrigued. And I did care. More. Especially if I was the one to benefit. I finally exploded.
“OK, what is it? Give me a hint?”
Now relishing that he was in control, he teased back: “What do I get out of it?”
“Love.”
“I get love every day.”
“Even more love.”
He persisted, trying to exploit my innate sense of curiosity. I finally caved.
“OK, fine. You’ll get a back rub.”
Defeated, I listened as he divulged his secret–a 5-day trip to Crested Butte for our anniversary next month. ‘Twas a stellar reward for my trouncing but it was only the battle that was won. After all, shouldn’t love be the best payback of all?
He whipped off his shirt and assumed the back-rub position, languishing in his victory. And his reward? Hurricane Hadley covertly came up behind him and administered his prize: a 9 second back rub/horsey ride/back breaker.
The war was won.
Is insomnia genetic? If so, I blame my father, Stan, for my condition. Of course, Stan’s condition is probably not due to an overwhelming necessity to pee every two hours. And he probably doesn’t obsess about it to the point that on his way back from Relief, he’s already thinking about the next round. Rather, I should probably blame my latest sleep problems (this has been going on for years) on pregnancy. Sadly enough, it only gets worse. I don’t even have a baby bouncing on my bladder yet. And those blasted doctors want me to drink ONE GALLON of water every day? Why? So Baby can practice backstrokes in the womb?
I used to be the Queen of Bladder Control. Or rather, “The Camel of the Pee World” (as my friend Dave christened me during a backpacking trip through Yosemite a few years ago when I rarely had to stop for potty breaks). Oh, if he could see how much the Great Pee Camel is peeing now.
Is there a solution, a plug, a pill I can take? Perhaps we can all learn from Haddie’s resolution: a diaper. But a big one. The kind that would only fit Sumo wrestlers and pregnant ladies. I mean, if Haddie can blissfully sleep away the night soaked in her own urine, why can’t I? Though I just don’t know if their “thong” look is in….
Introducing my Saturday delight: the Police Beat! I’m not obsessed, really. But imagine my excitement when they also included favorites from 2005. I’m nominating the column’s writer for the equivalent of the Police Beat Pulitzer. Whatever that may be. Talk ’bout great writing!
“A Wheat Ridge police officer witnessed a man leaving a trail or urine as he walked through a grocery store parking lot… In defense of his mobile urination he said he had to “go real bad” but did not want to enter the grocery store. He was issued a summons for public urination.”
“Wheat Ridge police were called to check on a crying, naked man on July 9th.” Note: I’ll leave the rest to your imagination. It shouldn’t be surprising that drugs were involved….
“A thirsty man who may have self-esteem issues was reported to police for harassing residents. The suspect rang the doorbell , brandishing some sort of identification card. He then repeatedly said, ‘Tell me how obnoxious I am.’ He continued talking, inquiring as to whether it as his hair or the way he dressed that made him obnoxious.”
And for all you weight-loss challenge/sweat hogs out there, this one’s for you:
“An unhappy member of a fitness club reportedly threatened to blow up the facility.”
Hmmmmm, can anyone relate?….
Finally, I have an OUT!
If you haven’t jumped on the bandwagon yet, Mad Dad is putting on a weight-loss challenge: every pound lost goes to charity. I was feeling a bit left out from the whole venture due to my pregnant status when I thought, “Wait! How about doing it for every pound gained?” Rest assured while the rest of you are cheating with your chocolate temptations, my indulgences will be for someone’s betterment. And not just my rear end’s.
So when my doc gives me crap for packin’ on the pounds? (as they always do):
“I’m doing it for charity.”
Signed,
Crazy Bloatin’ Canuck
Hurricane Hadley
Best: Big, fluffy dog twice her size, a potential tripping hazard for anyone in its wake. An Elmo rug that does not sing annoying songs.
Worst: Any toy that makes incessant noise (according to the parents)
Amber
Best: $ for new camera, panini machine, chocolate fountain
Worst: Cute new clothes…that this bloated bod won’t fit into for another nine months (if ever).
Hunky Hubby
Best: Ice cream mixer, smoker for the BBQ, Harry and David’s licorice that I devoured all week…GREAT gift.
Worst: When Calgary Flames fans (my parents) impart their obsession upon Avalanche lovers (Hunky Hubby).
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