Burgh Baby

Sidney Crosby is Her Boyfriend, but She Would Probably Settle for Rich

2009-11-22T22:10:00.004-05:00

I'm not entirely sure, but I think my first concert was Nelson. Yes, THAT Nelson. Go ahead, mock me. I'll wait.

Are you done yet?

How about now?

Now?

Whatever. Keep laughing, I'm going to move on. So, my first concert was (I think) Nelson. I grew up in North Dakota, so the quality of artists traveling through town wasn't exactly what I would call spectacular. I'm lucky I managed to make it to a concert that is even slightly recognizable, even if it is just because they had better hair than pretty much any woman I've ever known.

Alexis' first concert involved a guy with pretty hair, too.

That's three of the four Imagination Movers. Scott is the one with the pretty hair. Dave is the one behind him thinking, "Dude, is that a bald spot?" Yes, Dave, I think it might be. It happens to all the guys with pretty hair, just ask Andre Agassi.

Now, I only took Alexis to the concert because I got the tickets for free from Disney. There was no way I was going to pay good money to be trapped in a room with a bunch of screaming preschoolers and what I assumed would be over-manufactured Disney ear worms. I planned to not mention the concert at all since I don't do sponsored posts or reviews, but holy majolies, my kid had a blast at that concert. It. was. epic.

I didn't tell Alexis that we were going to see the Imagination Movers until the day before the concert. I think that proves that I'm finally starting to figure out this whole I Have a Kid thing, but then again, I still heard the words, "Is it time to go to Imagination Movers yet?" at least 2346423426 times. In fact, I couldn't get Alexis to eat dinner before the show because she was absolutely positive that if she took so much as one bite of food, she would miss the entire concert. Maybe I need to learn to not mention concerts until we're in our seats. Or something.

Once we were in our seats and the curtain was raised, Alexis was mesmerized.

MESMERIZED. Like, I could have sat there chanting, "Troy Bolton is a poopoo face" and she wouldn't have noticed. She was too busy making sure she didn't miss one single second of the hot Rich action.

I KNOW. My knowledge of names should be embarrassing. It's not my fault they have them embroidered right on their shoulders, yo. Anyway, I had no idea that my kid has a Major Crush on Rich, but I saw it in full effect that night. Alexis watched his every move and very nearly started bawling when he disappeared for a few minutes. She was all, "Where's Rich? Where did Rich go? What happened to Rich?"

I was all, "Dude, take a pill." Then I realized he had gone up to the balcony. A quick explanation resulted in the kid thinking she needed to run up to the balcony and rescue him.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. That's so cute. Blech.

As the concert went on, a mosh pit formed in front of the stage.

I don't know if you can tell from the photo, but there were easily 50 kids fighting to touch an Imagination Mover. It was a wee bit violent in that Short Person mosh pit. I know I saw more than one body go rolling down the aisle.

Alexis wanted to join in on the crazy mosh action, but when I refused to go with her, she decided to stay in her seat. And dance. And sing. Yes, MY KID danced and sang. In public. With other people around. Where she could be seen or heard. MY KID.

*faints*

My kid doesn't do things in public. Like, ever. She imitates a growth on my shoulder, but that's about it. We don't call her Michigan J. Frog for nothing.

Credit for the Crazy Dancing Kid goes to Smitty for busting out this move.

I had no idea that doing the "Walk Like an Egyptian" thing was funny, but I do now. I bust that sucker out and Alexis falls over laughing instantly. Good times!

Overall, the show was not that bad. I don't know why, but I expected the guys to have a Crusty the Clown complex that would show its colors at some point during the show. That's to say that I seem to have the idea that anyone who gets paid to entertain kids is totally faking it on stage and completely miserable behind the scenes. I didn't get that vibe, though. At all. In fact, I dare say that those guys actually enjoy their jobs. A lot. (It might have to do with the fact that they all have kids. I know I'm happier when I get sleep, and being on the road is one way to make that happen.)

I didn't hate the music (my status as a Cool Person demands that I not publicly admit that I maybe kinda sorta like some of the songs). I didn't hate that the guys really do know how to play those instruments pretty well. I didn't hate the storyline. I didn't hate that my kid had the time of her life.

My favorite part, though, was when I got to be all I TOLD YOU SO to Alexis. She spent the entire day before the concert telling me about how if she met The Movers, she was going to ask them 135234646 questions. She swore she was going to pose for a picture or two or ten with them. She was animate that she was going to talk to them for hours.

I told her I was willing to bet she would be too shy to do it.

As we stood in line waiting to meet them, she kept talking her big game. She told me she was going to give Rich a hug. She said she was going to ask Scott if he likes to wear headbands. She bragged about how cute she was going to be in the group photo. As we inched closer and closer, she kept on keeping on.

Then it was our turn.

She froze.

She freaked.

She panicked.

We managed to get one crappy photo before she ran for dear life.

P.S. The guy in red is Mover Kyle. He was there to play the drums. Or something.

P.P.S. Warehouse Mouse was backstage controlling the lights and music through the whole show. I think that means he was having a bad hair day and didn't want to go out on stage.

P.P.P.S. Every one of you who asked about the guy in red and the dang rat are dorks right there with me.

Hide-n-Seek Amidst Beautiful Nothing

2009-11-21T23:11:00.002-05:00

Woah! That's a Lot of Christmas Crazy.

2009-11-20T23:50:00.005-05:00

138 amazing people.

Everything from $1.00 to $100.00.

Together we raised $3053.86.

That's going to buy a heck of a lot of toys.

It already made it possible to send a nice-sized stack of gift cards to the Alle-Kiski Area HOPE Center and to The Women's Center and Shelter of Greater Pittsburgh.

A lot of kids are going to have a better Christmas than they would have without you.

Thank you.

More photos to come on November 30th.

"If the Beastie Boys Were to Collaborate with Mr. Rogers"

2009-11-19T23:17:00.002-05:00

Yeah. It Matters.

2009-11-18T21:33:00.003-05:00

Since starting the Christmas Crazy for Kids shenanigans, I've received dozens of emails and messages from people talking about their own craptacular Christmas experiences. Some have been funny, some have brought tears to my eyes, and all have reminded me that it really does matter that all kids have a chance to receive a toy for the holidays.

One email in particular struck a chord, so I asked the author if I could share it. The following are some of her words.

*************************************************************************

Hi,

I just realized that I don't know your name but I have been reading your blog for a long time. I wanted to thank you for all that you have done to raise money for Christmas toys for kids. It has meant so much to me.

2008 was my bad year. It really was more like a nightmare. I lost my husband after he had a heart attack. Instead of having another 60 years with him, I was left alone to raise our two girls. I gave up my job to be home with them so I was completely lost without Jim*. Just getting by every day was a challenge. We didn't have health insurance when Jim got sick, so I was left to try to pay hundreds of thousands of dollars in medical bills. I probably don't have to tell you that it was very hard.

When December came, I knew there wasn't a way that I was going to be able to provide my girls with the Christmas they deserved. They had already lost their dad and their childhood and there I was forced to take away their Christmas too. It was by luck that someone told me to look in to Toys for Tots. Toys for Tots saved our Christmas. Because of their help, my girls had presents to open on Christmas morning.

Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that what you are doing is important and it does matter. Thank you.

*************************************************************************
*Name was changed to protect confidentiality

Thank you all for your help, from her and from me.

I Wish I Could Say the Dora Toys Were Exempt from Procreation

2009-11-17T21:46:00.004-05:00

I could have saved a small fortune if I had known, but I had no idea. I thought that in order to obtain toys, you had to spend money or find someone to give them to you. Nope. Not true. All you have to do if you want some toys is to send a few off to a storage shed. Once that door closes and the mice and bugs start to invade, those toys get . . . ahem . . . "busy." They multiply. They breed. They make like the Duggars and procreate.

There is no other explanation.

When we lived in the tiny little townhouse, it was a constant struggle to keep the pile of plastic toy factory puke under control (sorry, but that's exactly what it looked like in our living room--like a toy factory had puked all over it). I was constantly rotating things out, boxing things up, and sending toys that I deemed "done" off to storage. I often thought about giving lots of toys away, but we held on to the hope that we would be moving soon and would have enough space for them all.

We did. We do. Alexis has a giant playroom complete with a walk-in closet.

(Aside: the playroom wound up in the living room that is off our family room. That would be the room with its own bathroom. It was selected because My Two Army Brats commented that her boys would throw toys off the side of the loft. In an instant, I knew Alexis would, too. I don't really feel the need to have my head smashed by a flying Dora doll, thankyouverymuch.)

It wasn't until I started unpacking all of the boxes from storage that I realized the depths of depravity we have inflicted on our kid. Toys. Toys. Toys. Miles and miles of toys. There are four large plastic tubs of stuffed animals. There are two full tubs of dolls. A shelf is dedicated to boxes and boxes of board games. It's nothing short of a miracle that the kid doesn't spend her every waking minute bawling her eyes out about how we clearly don't love her and she has absolutely nothing to do.

I'm quite certain that daycare would believe her story, if she were to tell it.

Every Wednesday is Show-n-Tell. Every Wednesday I send Alexis into her playroom to pick out something to take with her. Every Wednesday she walks straight to the little bin that holds Happy Meal toys and picks one out.

Despite a room full of toys that didn't come free with some french fries, the kid takes a Happy Meal toy to school every. single. Wednesday.

I wish I had known that all a kid needs is a few Happy Meal toys before I sent all those things off to storage to procreate.

7 Layers of Fun

2009-11-16T21:28:00.006-05:00

It's been nearly two years since it dawned on me that some of my most favoritest bloggers (who also happened to be parents) lived close enough for me to stalk in person. A few comments and emails later, 17 of us had a dinner date.

Chaos ensued.

The chaos was so spectacular that we decided to make that dinner date a regular thing. Pretty much every month since, a group of us has gotten together. Some people have joined in on the fun only to fade away soon after, but others have come along to take their places. At any given Burgh Moms and Dads get-together, you'll find twenty or so people.

And then there is our annual cookie swap. When you throw cookies into the mix, amazing things happen. Mostly, you know, cookies, but also HOLY LOT OF PEOPLE. At our house. Because I love love love love love that we finally have a house big enough to entertain, so bring it on!

I don't know how many people were here Saturday, but I know that there are ten dozen cookies in our freezer. Actually, hold on . . . make that nine dozen. I was hungry and there were Buckeyes to destroy.

There were kids EVERYWHERE. You couldn't walk five feet without having to make sure you weren't stepping on tiny, adorable, chubby little fingers. You couldn't see the carpet in the playroom because the toys were strewn about. And then you couldn't walk through the dining room without eating a cookie or ten.

Heaven. That's what it was. Heaven.

I would have photographic evidence of the heaven, but it seems I can't figure out how to use my camera lately. Apparently while Mr. Husband and Alexis were battling the flu a few weeks ago, I came down with an epic case of ForgotHowToTakePictures-itis. Please send a cure.

In exchange for a cure to my disease, here is the recipe for the Seven Layer Bars that I made. Easy and kind of generic, but we've already established that I can't be trusted to finish anything. I had to go that route.

4 tablespoons butter
1 1/2 cup crushed graham crackers
1 cup chocolate chips
1 cup butterscotch chips
1 cup chopped walnuts
1 1/2 cup shredded coconut
1 14 oz can sweetened condensed milk

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Melt the butter in a 9x13" pan (I use glass). Smother the melted butter with the graham crackers and even it all out. Add the remaining ingredients in layers, making sure to evenly spread the sweetened condensed milk over the top. Bake for 25 minutes, or until the coconut is lightly browned.

Make sure to score the sides of the pan once the bars have cooled a little bit, unless you want to have to eat all of the ones on the edge. They kinda suck to get out of the pan if you forget to score them and the edge ones will fall apart, turning way too ugly to be given to other people. Ahem.

When 97% Gets Knocked on It's Butt

2009-11-15T22:09:00.004-05:00

I am the Queen of 97%. I've always been the Queen of 97%. The proof is everywhere. Alexis' chair? 97% reupholstered. The curtains for the family room and kitchen? 97% done. The front yard landscaping? 97% done.

And then there is our dining room.

In theory, it's more than 97% done. All that is left is to finish sewing two curtains. It'll take maybe two hours. Rather than just finishing them, I'll probably spend a few more months procrastinating, but that's just because it's so much more fun to think about what you need to do rather than just getting it done.

Despite my expert procrastination skills, I thought the dining room was going to be the first room completely finished. Just for the record, this is what it started out looking like:

Of course, that photo conveniently doesn't show the giant hole in one wall, but whatever. The point is that the dining room used to be contractor primer white accented by a shade of gray that can best be described as the exact color of the dead mouse I found in my pajama drawer when I was six.

The hole and the dead mouse are now gone. Like I said, all that's left is to sew a couple of curtains. See:

Almost done.

Or so I thought. Kind of.

You see, something has been bugging me in there. I couldn't put my finger on it, but there was something about the whole room that I didn't quite love.

And then I got the email from Short Brush Stroke Painting making a donation to Christmas Crazy. (Psst. . . Have you donated yet? Because you should.) A little clicky click and it came to me.

AGGLE FLAGGLE KLABABBLE.

It's the paint.

*INSERT MORE NOT-CUSS WORDS THAT ARE CUSS WORDS.*

I can't utter the words out loud because that would result in Mr. Husband getting acquitted for homicide because JUSTIFIED. Painting that room SUCKED ROTTEN DINOSAUR EGGS. The wall to the right of those photos is two stories tall and that paint color ends up wrapping all through the loft and all the way down the hall. It's a lot of paint.

That I hate.

Like, really. I hate that paint. I picked it. I still hate it. Why did I pick a neutral color? I don't do neutral. At all.

Gah.

Mr. Husband, I'm not saying we should repaint that room. I'm saying it's going to bother me forever and ever and ever and each time I walk in there I'm going to cuss under my breath because I want it to look more like this:

(Image totally ripped off from Short Brush Stroke's site)

And if the rest if you don't hear from me for a while, it's because I'm in hiding from a husband who probably still has blisters from painting that room the first time.

Does that Sweater Come in My Size? Because it Needs To.

2009-11-14T23:54:00.000-05:00

When I Say the Dog Will Do Anything for That Kid, I'm Not Kidding

2009-11-14T00:11:00.000-05:00

Another Way to Spread the Crazy

2009-11-13T23:53:00.003-05:00

In case you hadn't noticed, there are a bunch of really amazing people who have bought ad space in support of Christmas Crazy. They have pretty little badges way over there --------------------->

You should go check them out because every single one of them is worth your time. For reals.

Also falling under the category "amazing" is Amie Powell. Amie is an fantastic photographer based in Pittsburgh and she has offered a little sumpin sumpin. She emailed me asking that I share this:

"I would like to have a session with one of YOU - and donate the money to Christmas Crazy. It will be awesome to be able to help out such a great cause, also give a family some fun photographs before the holidays. If there is more than one family interested, I will donate $50 of every session."

So if you're looking to get some great photographs (perhaps family portraits for Christmas cards), check her out. Make sure that you tell her I sent you.

P.S. for Mr. or Mrs. FTC law enforcer--No compensation here. Zero. Zip. Zilch. You may now carry on.

"Thank You" Doesn't Quite Do It Justice

2009-11-12T21:56:00.005-05:00

Can we talk about Christmas Crazy for Kids for a minute? Please?

YOU GUYS!

After watching donation after donation roll in and after reading amazing email after amazing tweet after amazing email, I'm beginning to wonder a little something. If I ask y'all for some help curing the common cold, are you going to manage to cure cancer? I set a goal, y'all smash it, again and again and again. Words can't even express my gratitude.

All I have is "thank you." So, thank you.

We (and I do mean "WE"--none of this happens without each of you) are currently sitting at just over $2100. Already Alle Kiski HOPE Center is looking to have a better Christmas than they expected as $750 worth of gift cards are headed their way tomorrow. And, yes, I said gift cards. You see, they are a short-term domestic violence shelter, meaning their residents are limited to a 30 day stay. They do get help from various groups to provide Christmas magic, but it requires that they provide the information about residents now. The people who are in the shelter now will not be the ones there next month. Y'all saved them from their usual annual scramble to try to pull something together for kids who they may not even know about yet. Gift cards will allow them to shop for specific items for those kids, and may give some parents a chance to select gifts for their kids at a time when they are mostly focused on survival.

You did good.

Additionally, because the original goal was smashed in such magnificent fashion, I did a little digging around regarding another domestic violence shelter in Pittsburgh. The Women's Center and Shelter of Great Pittsburgh is another agency that does amazing work, and we're going to be adopting two families for Christmas this year.

The holidays are often a time of year when domestic violence agencies provide the most support, so your help is about as perfectly timed as it gets.

(Slightly off topic--I know so much about what these agencies do because I used to work for a company that sold software to them. I spent mucho time in shelters nation-wide providing support and training, so I've seen firsthand how needed their services are. If you are outside of Pittsburgh and interested in starting a little Christmas Crazy fund for your local shelter, send me an email. I am more than happy to help however I can.)

That brings us to the rest of the money. HOLY SMOKES! TOYS! LOTS OF TOYS! I'm going to be delivering a mega-truckload of toys to Toys for Tots on November 30th. I can't wait. More information about that bit of fun (including lots of pics) is headed your way in the days to come.

So. I was going to close up the PayPal account tomorrow and declare a job well done. However, a few people have emailed and asked to be able to help beyond tomorrow. I think there is enough time to make it all work, so I'm extending it by a week. If you've got a buck or two sitting around, you've got until November 20th to toss it in the Christmas Crazy pot. Can we make it to $3000? I think we can.

P.S.
I'm not above making you all weepy again, so compliance is probably your best option. Just sayin'.

The Christmas Ball Doesn't Fall Far From the Tree

2009-11-11T22:33:00.003-05:00

When I picked her up from school, Alexis should have been wearing a sign around her neck. It should have said something like, "Caution: Operating without a nap," or "Warning: Subject to wild mood swings." That is to say, she was not what I would call stable. Or happy. I take that back; she was happy. It's just that she was happy and then she was devastated and then she was happy and then she was devastated. And then she was happy. And then she was devastated.

And then momma wanted to slam her head through a wall.

To fill the time between dinner and an early-but-still-reasonable bedtime and, hopefully, avoid a bit of drama, I decided to start dragging out a couple of the Christmas trees. Now, first of all, shooooosh with your "it's too early" crap. Of the 14 days between now and Thanksgiving, I only have 8 of them with spare time for Christmas decorating and such. I'm starting to panic just a weeeeeee bit. Second of all, the kid has been asking to do some Christmas decorating for over a month. If I have to deal with a three-year old turned tiny sleep-deprived terrorist, I'm very willing to give in to her more reasonable demands.

So, I drug up all of the pencil trees and told Alexis to come help me decorate her tree. We started out with a little discussion around which tree was hers and the fact that all of the rest of them are mine.

It went really well.

(embedded video)

A few things:

1. It's really hard to deny that she is my kid when she throws that sort of epic fit over wanting the biggest Christmas tree. It almost brings a tear of pride to my eye.

2. It's even harder to deny that she is my kid when the method for ending that fit was to plug in the lights. She was all, "Oooooooooh . . . look! It's so pretty!"

3. You'd have to be a complete moron to not realize that she's my kid considering that when we were putting the ornaments on the tree, she repeatedly gazed lovingly at the multi-colored balls as she said, "Oooooh . . . shiiiiiny."

Now that I think about it, perhaps we should both wear signs around our neck. They should say: "Caution: Easily distracted by shiny things."

Oooooooh . . . shiiiiiny.

In Which I Consider Disowning Her

2009-11-10T21:52:00.004-05:00

I've given up. I've relinquished control. I've stopped fighting it.

My kid likes lame music.

While I would prefer that she immerse herself in the superiority that is modern rock, she is a pop girl. All. the. way. The mere thought of her grooving to the latest manufactured pop machine makes my skin crawl, but I've decided to embrace the horror and roll with it. As a bonus, I don't have to worry as much about the language that might spew from my car speakers. I still have to worry because some artists SUCK (I'm talking to you, Black-Eyed Peas), but overall, the word choices are a bit safer.

As we bumped and bounced down a gravel road on our way home tonight, I had a pop radio station playing in the background. Alexis sang along to a Taylor Swift song (which, I'm sorry, but PUKE), and then went quiet when a Britney Spears song came on. I glanced in the rear view mirror as we passed near a street light, and saw that she was mesmerized into silence. As Brit belted out a few more choruses, Alexis began to dance. Then she asked, "Who is singing, momma?"

"Britney Spears," I replied. I would like bonus points for not adding, "but I wouldn't really call that 'singing.'"

"I like Britney Spears," she said.

Shoot me now. Please.

She's Really Good at Faking Sick. Or Something.

2009-11-09T22:17:00.003-05:00

As I sat at my desk furiously typing data into the LMS, my phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID and let out a groan. There are many numbers I'd rather not see, and real high on that list is the one for daycare. They never call to tell me how well-behaved my kid is. Rather, it's always about a fever or puke or something equally delightful.

Puke it was. Delightful!

I begrudgingly drove over to daycare to pick up The Puker. Apparently she didn't have a fever, but she had earned a Get Out of Jail Free pass by projectile vomiting all over the preschool room. My inability to remember to send extra clothes to school stood proudly on display as The Puker was forced to don horribly mismatched gear and no shoes.

I think the bad outfit was to blame for what happened on the way home. If I had been dressed in pink heart-covered leggings and a ridiculously too small Hello Kitty sundress, I would have puked all over it, too.

It's too bad Alexis was in the car when she decided her outfit was vomit-worthy.

At any given point in time, there is enough food in my car to concoct dinner for four. If only I could find a recipe that calls for stale popcorn, crunchy fruit snacks, withered Lima beans, dried up blueberries, and dog hair, we would be all set for a gourmet feast. (It's my own fault. I'm the one who lets the kid eat in my car. However, Alexis gets at least 2% of the blame. If she didn't eat soooo freeeeaking slooooooowly, I wouldn't have to let her eat in the car once in a while.)

I don't think I have to tell you that puked up Strawberry Shredded Wheat doesn't really do much for the Crumb Casserole I had going on in my car. I quickly rolled down the windows so I wouldn't gag. Meanwhile, Alexis sat in the back complaining that she was dirty and needed napkins. I am an awesome parent when puke is involved, so I handed her a napkin and wished her luck. I just don't get why she doesn't enjoy sitting in a puddle of her own puke. I REALLY don't get why she thought I should stick my hands in that goop.

As we pulled into the driveway, it was pretty obvious that whatever had made the kid sick was splattered all over the car. She was feeling mighty fine, even as I sat gagging while trying to find a clean spot on her seat belt release. Once her clothes were changed, she ran off to torture a dog or two and left me to clean up the Puke Casserole that had been converted to Puke Stew. It took a hose, four towels, and every ounce of willpower I had to muddle through the disaster zone.

Awwww, this parenting thing is just *so* glamorous.

I Still Have Her.

2009-11-08T22:29:00.002-05:00

Her name was Violet. I hated her.

*********************************************************

I didn't know it at the time, but it was the last Christmas that would live up to my expectations for the holiday. No one knew that the glue of the family, the grandmother that bound everyone together, was soon to be diagnosed with bone cancer. No one knew that within months she would be in a assisted living home, and not long after she would pass away.

I was in first grade. I really had no understanding of what was to come.

All I knew was that Christmas Eve was supposed to be spent at my Aunt Susan's house. It was supposed to be spent with my mom's family--her parents, her brother, her sister, and all of the cousins. It was supposed to be spent in a little family room, gathered around a giant live Christmas tree adorned with handmade ornaments and a rainbow of lights. My cousin Sheryl was supposed to sit under the tree, read the tags on the gifts, and hand them out, one-by-one. We were supposed to pause and watch as the gift recipient opened the carefully wrapped treasure, all taking turns as to relish each gift for as long as possible.

When it came to be my turn, Sheryl read my name then paused, a confused look on her face. "It says it's from Mary," she reported. I remember her words exactly. They are forever etched into my memory.

Heads turned to look at my mom, who instantly realized her error. It was one of Those Years. The Bad Years. The years when Christmas wouldn't have happened if not for the kindness of strangers. The gift had been donated to the Salvation Army, and I was the lucky beneficiary. My mom had intended to change out the name tag. She had intended to cover up the fact that there wasn't money for gifts that year. She had meant to avoid that embarrassing moment.

She just missed one little piece of paper. One gift tag.

Silence enveloped the room as each person individually came to their own conclusions as to why a gift from a stranger had wound up under the tree. At last, the awkward moment was interrupted by my grandma, "Go ahead and open it, honey."

I looked around the room, my eyes taking in the harsh looks of judgment and disapproval. Through tears I tore off the paper and pulled out a brown-haired doll dressed in a purple floral shirt. The tag that hung from her arm said her name was Violet. "It's a doll," I said, my heart silently pleading for Sheryl to read another name.

*********************************************************

As soon as we got home, I ran to the bathroom. I grabbed a pair of scissors out of the medicine cabinet and hacked at Violet's hair. I dug around until I found a black marker and I took it to her face, violently changing her appearance. I wanted her to look as ugly as I felt at that moment. I wanted her to pay for my embarrassment. It was her fault that people knew we were poor.

*********************************************************

Weeks later, I walked past the spot where I had hidden the defaced doll. Pausing, I considered the fact that it was the only toy I had gotten for Christmas that year. I pondered the fact that it was my birthday and that the day was nearly over. I thought about the birthday presents that weren't, that would never be. I pulled Violet out from behind the dryer, took her into the bathroom, and did what I could to clean to her up.

Her name was Violet. I hated her, but she was better than nothing.

*********************************************************

If every person who reads this pitches in $1.00, together we can smash that $1000 goal and provide a whole lot of Christmas Crazy to a whole lot of kids. I was one of those kids who benefited from programs like Toys for Tots, and I can tell you it makes a difference. Every little bit makes a difference.

November. Barefoot. I Could Get Used to This.

2009-11-08T22:26:00.001-05:00

I Bet You're Jealous of Our Super Sexy Deck

2009-11-07T23:58:00.000-05:00

Wouldn't Want Anyone to Accuse Me of Playing Favorites

2009-11-07T23:47:00.000-05:00

Why the Long Face?

2009-11-06T23:12:00.002-05:00

Zooma Zooma Zoom and a Crash Crash

2009-11-05T22:43:00.004-05:00

Long before I fell madly in love with Mr. Canon, I used a sort of moderate/sort of low-end point and shoot camera. It was an OK camera, except for the fact that it liked to take a long walk, read War and Peace, smoke a cigarette, and run a marathon before actually taking a picture. We're talking about an epic delay. For a while I blamed that delay for causing my photos to always be blurry. Just about every single photo of Alexis would have her arms all blurred out, her legs blurred out, or would have a cloud where her head should have been.

I blamed the camera, but really the problem was that the kid is built like an octopus. A very fast octopus.

By the time she was a year old, I had figured out what was up. The kid could simultaneously pull my hair, steal my glasses, throw something at the dog, and play peek-a-boo while darting for the stairs. All those extra limbs she came equipped with moved so fast they just couldn't be seen. ZOOM!

So, when Alexis came home from school yesterday with this self-portrait, I wasn't at all surprised.

I knew she had too many arms and legs. I KNEW IT.

At least she has finally confessed.

Played for a Joker

2009-11-04T21:26:00.003-05:00

Walking into our dining room is like leaving Barbados and entering into Antarctica. A weird configuration of walls and ceilings causes it to be at least 20 degrees colder than in our family room. Because I am a wuss, I frequently refuse to make the trek through the dining room and into the play room. When it became apparent that Alexis needed some one-on-one time last night, I pondered freezing my face off to go look for a board game, but then I figured I would try to get Mr. Husband to go fetch a game for me. When that mission failed (curses!), I remembered that there was a deck of cards in the drawer, easy accessible from lovely Barbados.

I had never tried to play cards with the kid before, so I figured Go Fish was a good place to start. After wowing her with my mad shuffling skills (seriously, I wish someone went, "Ooooooh!" every time I performed a simple task), I started explaining a watered-down version of the rules. I assumed the game was going to quickly morph into 52 Card Pick-up, but somehow Alexis actually managed to understand the premise.

We made it through about five rounds of perfectly scripted Go Fish. She would ask for a card, I would send her fishing. She would accidentally show me her cards, I would ask for what I needed, and she would hand it over. (P.S. I show no mercy, not even to three-year old kids. Don't show me your cards if you don't want me to cheat, yo.)

Perhaps it was because she initially played the game correctly. Perhaps it was because I'm a control freak. Perhaps it was because I'm a jerk. Regardless, when suddenly the kid stopped playing the game "right," I started to develop a nervous twitch.

"Ask me for a seven," she said.

Twitch. "What if I don't want a seven?" I replied. Twitch.

"Ask. me. for. a. seven." Apparently freedom of choice was voted out in Go Fish World during the elections yesterday.

"Fine," I replied. "Do you have any sevens?" Twitch.

She flippantly tossed the seven at me, simultaneously yelling, "GOOOOO FISH!" Double insult.

Twitch. "OK, your turn to ask me for a card," I said as I grabbed another card.

Alexis looked down at the pond of cards and start flipping them, one at a time. "Look! I found an eight! I have a match!!!!!" (Yes, she really does speak with that many exclamation points. It's very endearing, in a I'd Like To Show You Where to Shove that Extra Punctuation sort of way.)

"And another match!!!!!!"

Twitch.

And so on.

In a matter of minutes, she sat empty-handed while I had more cards than even seems possible in a so-called friendly game of Go Fish.

I thought I was slick doing a little cheating here and there, but in retrospect, I think I totally got played by a 3-year old. Wonder where she learned that whole Play Dumb routine?

Ahem.

You're Doing it Wrong, Minot

2009-11-03T21:42:00.003-05:00

I thought I knew how Halloween was done, but really I had no idea.

I thought trailer parks were the best place for candy. When I was a kid, we always hit at least two trailer parks because the po' folk give the BEST candy. If you wanted Bit 'o Honey or Jolly Ranchers, you went to the neighborhoods with the big houses. If you wanted Reese's cup, Snikers, and gum, you strolled down the streets lined with single-wide mobile homes.

I thought you had to knock on the door if you wanted the homeowner to acknowledge your existence. Before you go knocking, though, you better make sure the porch light is on. No porch light, no candy. Period.

I thought trick-or-treating was for kids. There were those questionable teen years when you're probably too old for trick-or-treating and had to balance the desire to be cool with the lure of candy. It was hard to claim to be cool if you were 13-years old and still going door-to-door. Any older than that? Forget it.

I was so wrong.

When we moved to this neighborhood, I knew we had found our kind of people. When Halloween night rolled around, I nearly wept with joy. As the clock struck 6:00, people poured out of their houses. In a matter of minutes, hundreds of costumed kids appeared out of nowhere, laughing and smiling as they walked house-to-house. The kids didn't have to check porch lights or even walk up the sidewalks, though. Nope. Instead, they walked up to adults in driveways who looked to be set up for a tailgating adventure at Heinz Field. I kid you not, there were costumed adults with tables and chairs, buckets and buckets of candy, and coolers filled with beverages in front of nearly every house.

It wasn't trick-or-treating. It was a BLOCK PARTY.

As the kids collected candy so elaborate and extensive that even *I* was impressed, some adults collected beverages. "Trick-or-beer!" they would exclaim. I had no idea this concept even existed, but the police officer set up at one street corner to keep an eye on the festivities clearly did. As he handed out candy to the kids, he remarked that our neighborhood is the best one around for celebrating a holiday.

I think I need a redo for the past thirty-two Halloweens. I thought I knew how to celebrate the holiday, but clearly I've been doing it all wrong.

50 Pounds of Solid Courage

2009-11-02T21:23:00.003-05:00

As we approached the green-faced witch, I whispered, "Say it."

Alexis gripped my hand tightly as she slowly inched closer. She cautiously whispered, "Trick-or-treat" before quickly dragging me away from the stranger.

"Good job!" I told her. Most days the kid makes Michigan J Frog look outgoing. I try not to worry about her painfully shy ways, except for when it borders on rude. No child of mine is sticking out a bag and silently demanding candy. Period. "Now, next time let's see if you can remember to say, 'Trick-or-treat,' AND, 'Thank you,'" I urged her.

"OK," she replied.

And so it went, house after house, person after person. I repeatedly reminded her to be polite, and she repeatedly tried to rip my arm out of its socket as she dragged me far away from the strangers. Depending on who you ask, her success rate differs. I think she managed to be polite to about five people, but if you ask Alexis, she'll say it was way more than that. As we rounded the neighborhood, Alexis asked to stop at our house so she could tell Daddy how good she had done.

After she was done reporting her successful use of manners, I asked Mr. Husband to find the Bulldog's leash. I figured we would take her with us and hit a few more houses. I might have mostly been interested in acquiring some gummy candy, but I'll never fully confess to anything other than wanting to get the Bulldog engaged in a little exercise.

Alexis was THRILLED to have the Bully Beast as a companion. Meg was sporting her ridiculous pink princess costume (Sorry, but a face like that demands to be forced to wear clothing). I held her leash in one hand and a flashlight in the other as Alexis danced around the two of us, trying to find a way to grab one of my hands. All the while, she chattered to Meg and pointed out the houses that looked like they were handing out candy.

At some point this summer, I forgot how much of a spectacle a Bulldog can be. If you ever find yourself desperate to get people to talk to you, get a Bulldog. I guarantee that the snorting and wiggling and general exuberance the breed radiates will have people stopping in their tracks to acknowledge the beast with you. The trip down the street to trick-or-treat was no exception. EVERYONE stopped to pet The Beast, some even digging out cell phones so they could take a picture of her obnoxiousness.

"Everybody likes our dog," Alexis commented proudly.

"She's pretty crazy, isn't she?" I asked.

"Yeah, but I love her," Alexis replied.

And then something happened. As we walked down the street, Alexis stopped struggling to find a way to hold my hand. She started to let the distance between us grow. Then she --SHE WHO IS TOO SHY TO MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH A STRANGER-- walked up to a door.

All.

By.

Herself.

"Trick-or-treat!" she said to the homeowner.

I stood twenty feet away, unable to move. I was in shock. Totally, completely in shock. If I had tried to take a step, I'm certain I would have tripped over my own jaw as it sat dropped to the ground.

Then she did it again.

So, I now have a plan. Any time the kid is about to embark on a mission that involves strangers, I'm going to strap the Bulldog to her back. Apparently courage comes in the form of a 50-pound, slobbering, wrinkly, stinky dog.

(The kid thinks she's Madonna and needs to have at least six wardrobe changes per day. By the time she had worn the Violet costume to school and for photos, she was TOTALLY over it. So, she went trick-or-treating as Gabriella from High School Musical, except she only wore the wig for about 3 seconds. So, really she was just a short person in a red dress.)

Christmas Crazy for Kids

2009-11-01T22:08:00.004-05:00

If you've been reading for any length of time, you know that I have a . . . uh . . . "thing" for Christmas. As in, I like it. A lot. I especially like the decorating and stringing lights and giving presents and decorating and did I mention that I really like the decorating? Well, I do. A lot.

This year I wanted to spread a little Christmas cheer to some kids in need. Things didn't exactly go as I had hoped, but enough people said, "We can dooooo this," that I figured I better not let it drop.

So.

Christmas Crazy for Kids.

The mission: To raise $1000 and hook up a whole lot of kids with some really fantastic toys for Christmas. The deadline: November 15th. After that, I'll be taking every penny that winds up in the PayPal account, doing a little shopping, and delivering as many toys as possible to Toys for Tots (via Stuff-a-Bus) and the kids at a local domestic violence shelter (specifically HOPE Center).

There are two ways you can help.

Donate: There's a handy-dandy Give Christmas Crazy button over in the far right column. Click that and it'll take you to a PayPal page where you can make a monetary donation.

Advertise: Revenue from all advertising sold on this site between now and November 15th will be added to the Christmas Crazy for Kids monies. Email me at burghbaby (at) gmail.com to reserve your space.

Image Links--$50 per month: Your image linked to a site of your choosing over in the far right column. It will be the same size as the Give Christmas Crazy image (150 x 150). Images will be placed in the order in which they are received.

Text Links--$20 per month: Your text linked to the site of your choosing over in the far right column. Text links will be placed at the bottom of the column.

Let's spread some Christmas Crazy!