flashback: reasons i hate halloween

Halloween has never been my favorite holiday.  I don't always dig getting dressed up, probably because I can't ever come up with a good costume idea. And I don't really like the whole spooky death, get scared, creepy vibe. And a pillow case chuck full of candy is just too much for me. So it's a general so-so on Halloween. But this year was just so, much, worse. Here's how it's going down by costume #:

ONE and TWO:  I ordered two overpriced kid costumes - a monster and a dinosaur,  one was too big, one was too small

Sloane as a little monster?
Obviously she didn't buy it!

THREE and FOUR: Back-up plan was running to the store last-minute and they are out of EVERYTHING, a couple of princess outfits and the dumb stuff left and of course not even those are the right sizes

FIVE & SIX: And we're back to online shopping but now we are shipping new costumes overnight which = the ungodly cost of the costume PLUS 40 bucks in expedited shipping PLUS a hope and a prayer that they get here in time while mentally working on back-up costumes in case they don't arrive. Can you really put a baby in a sheet and call him a ghost? 

Me and Christi...that is a real safety pin in her nose.

SEVEN: Had to make a work costume (roller derby) 

Natalie, Lindsay & me with our 80s gear and our medal. Lindsay rocked the thong unitard, on a 3 mile walk back to the car, through Provo. Very cool.

EIGHT: Had to make a half-marathon costume (running the Halloween Half as 80s workout chicks)

Zombie eyes...excellent! And I forgot costume #11
donated by Christi, the little black ki

NINE: Had to make a party costume for me (lost-sock fairy...I don't know, I had a dress, bought a wig and actually sewed and it was still kind of dumb) and, finally,

TEN: Helped Scott find and order his Evel Keneval costume while also custom decorating the helmet. With tape. 

That's TEN F-ING COSTUMES in ONE year, for a family of four where two don't really like Halloween and the other two don't really get it. Where the hell is the candy, hmmm?

Funny thing? Tagg decided they should be Monsters because that was his current favorite movie but when we put his monster costume (after a bit of cajoling, mind you) it was way, way too small. So, not so funny. Now he wants to be Nemo - no, mommy, I no cowboy, I no puppy, I no (insert whatever noun, character, etc. you like here). I NEMO! So now we have a Nemo costume and a 6-mo old Squirt (the little turtle) costume are on their way, hopefully arriving before Halloween. 

Luckily (I think) Tagg now loves candy and cookies, especially this gift box from Nana and Papa so he'll really dig the whole trick or treating concept this year. He'll also be on a sugar high for the next month but I guess that's okay.

This was our ivy patch making the summer to fall transition...on Sunday. Pretty, yeah?

On Wednesday morning, we woke up to this...all white. What the...!?!?! Tagg stood at the window and said, "Mommy, it not Christmas. It not." No joke, son, no joke.

Okay, I really might like Halloween. Just a little bit...

weird stuff you say

Sometimes when you're an adoptive parent, you say stupid shit. I did that at the airport the other day. I was in the little kid play area and the kids were exploring what I'm sure were germ infested blocks, balls and cars along with a couple of other children. One was a little African-American boy a little older than Sloane. His mom was on the bench next to me, tall, blonde, pretty white, kind of granola and a little older than me. Her husband came by to get her coffee order and he was pretty white too. So in my judgmental, stereo-typey head I put two and two together and figure they must be adoptive parents too.

I was making small talk about how old her kids were and she was amazed that Tagg was only 3. Like really blown away that he was only 6 months older than her son given the 6 inch height difference. "His dad must be really tall." Obviously she had noted that I am a shrimp and had some familiarity with genetics so she immediately assumed my husband is an NBA player. So I say, "He is." thinking of Paulie who is in fact tall. And then, for some unknown reason, I start to say, "So is his birth mom" but then I realize I can't say that because she doesn't know that my kids are adopted and it's rude to assume that hers are and, honestly, is it any of her business that he's adopted and his birth mom is an amazon queen? Can't his dad just be tall? So, what comes out of my mouth as I'm going on the fly is, "So is his...mom."

What?! Nooooooo!!!!! Why did I say that?! Of all the incredibly awkward things to say...just shut up! Shut! Up! The words were still hanging in the air in one of those cartoon bubbles where my face looks stricken and awkward, when Tagg comes running up to me and says, "Mommy, mommy! Can I play with that truck."

Well, shit. Now she thinks Tagg has two mommies. And a daddy. Or that I am a complete whack job which at this point might be closer to the truth. Needless to say, she packed up her kids and left shortly after that little exchange. Before her coffee even arrived. I'd love to read her blog post about the encounter with the weird height-obsessed lady at the airport.

I guess maybe this is a portent of things to come. More awkward conversations, situations, implications. Maybe I'll get better at it. Or maybe I'll be the one to leave in search of a coffee escape.

well-traveled shoes

My running shoes have a lot of miles on them. Airline miles, that is. I pack those suckers in my suitcase on every trip, even the trips where I know I've only got a couple of jam-packed days. And most of the time, that's right where they stay. Safely ensconced in my bag while I hit the snooze button a couple of times or mosey past the gym on my wait to meet people for dinner, trying not to make contact with the empty treadmills.

I don't know what my problem is. The few times I've actually made it out the door of the hotel to run on a trip, I really really love it. But most of the time my mild paranoia of getting lost and ending up in a "bad part of town" becomes a great excuse to skip the healthy exercise and head for happy hour. I guess the good news is that I haven't given up all hope of exercising while I'm on the road. If I can't find more running buddies than drinking buddies, I guess I have to make the mental shift on my own. It would be nice if the frequent flier miles me and my shoes are racking up were on the pavement.