Face Painting or Graffiti?

We always know when Halloween is coming.   The hype usually starts the very first of October when a handful of folks,  including myself,
all start slyly trying to figure out what in the heck Mark has planned for the kid's costumes.  Unfortunately over the years he's gone costume crazy and has developed a bit of a reputation.  I think all the interest perked a few years ago with  Chloe's shower costume which marked the onset of Mark's infamous decent into costume madness.

Originally, his odd costume quest was his way of doing anything but help the kids carve up their slimy pumpkins.  His repulsion for all things squishy has driven him to become the Calvin Klein of Costumes and go into Project Runway mode.  The very moment we grab a piece of cutlery remotely sharp enough to whittle a vegetable, Mark gets a bizarre urge to get the glue gun out and preoccupy himself with a sketch pad drawing up detailed plans and schematics for the making of an unorthodox contraption he calls a "costume"---a complex but surefire ruse to get him out of scraping pumpkin guts.

So this year while the rest of us were in the house chiseling our pumpkin masterpieces, Mark was out in the garage with some old moving boxes and spray paint (and yes, a glue gun).  This year it was Chloe's turn for a "Mark Masterpiece".  After an hour or so he emerged with this bizarreness for Chloe:

He made Chloe into a Arcade Crane Game.

Where does he come up with this stuff??
Perhaps the paint fumes.

Meanwhile, after I played the role of "stable single parent" by scraping and carving pumpkins with the two kids, something I rather enjoy,
I still had to come up with a costume for Connor.   Mark had suffered some sort of glue gun or scissor injury that prevented him from making another glorious albeit unconventional costume for the Con-man.

So I grabbed a few wigs, lightened some dark jeans (boy did that take me back to the 80's), and dressed up Connor and his friend Severin:

Nobody under the age of 35 knew who they were.  But everyone who grew up in the early 90's knew right away and gave them a costume 'thumbs up' by quoting a favorite line from the movie. Party on Wayne.

Then it was off to our church carnival.  Here Chloe had a hard time Trick-or-Treating due to a design flaw in her costume which caused a major technical difficulty:  No arm holes=No Candy Bag. A real deal killer there.  Always the quick thinker, Chloe propositioned a friend into holding her bag, by luring her with some sort of complicated candy trading payment proposal.  Problem solved.

Next it was off to the Halloween carnival.  Here she had to ditch the costume.  Kinda hard to get your face painted when your behind a glass panel.

It was at the that very face painting booth that Chloe ran into more trouble:  Trouble by the name of Sheralyn, one of her older cousins.

Here's Sheralyn in Costume.

She's in charge of the face painting booth:

Don't let the pink bunny costume fool you.  

Under that rabbit exterior is a sly little fox. 

Apparently Sheralyn has forgotten how to paint flowers, rainbows, and cute colorful butterflies on happy little children's faces.  Perhaps another bizarre case of paint fume foolery, much like the demonized one Mark suffers from.  This year a peculiar design emerged from her paintbrush--a sign that she may have been working the face painting booth for far far too many years...

Chloe was all excited to have me tell her what "surprise" her cousin Sheralyn painted on her face, and here's her reaction after I tell her:

Uh yeah, I'm thinking this is more like Graffiti than face painting.  Especially when all her handiwork began being plastered all over the clueless children that night:

Soon, Sheralyn's friend Molly was perniciously emboldened and everyone who dared to visit the face painting booth was branded by these two wayward girls:

The paint fumes have apparently taken their toll on poor Sheralyn over the years.  I think it's safe to say it's probably a good thing she's off to college next Halloween where she will be safely away her all carnival paint booth duties.

In the meantime, Mark will still be around next year for costume bizarreness.
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Grandma Can Do Hair!

Let's face it, hairdos have never been my strong suit.  Never.
My poor daughter Cheyenne grew up sadly lacking the latest fashionable hairdo trends.  I was awful with a curling iron, even worse with a hair straightener, and don't even mention the "f-word"...
french braids.  I've been doing this mom thing for twenty years now and I just recently discovered there's an actual difference between a ponytail and a pigtail.  Where was the memo on that? I thought they were interchangeable terms.  Then there's the subject of bows and ribbon.  And all I can really say on that is: absolutely not gonna happen.  This house has had a strict no-bow policy for two decades.

While Cheyenne always went off to school with a homeless hairdo, Chloe did a little troubleshooting and always sports great looking hair.  But quite honestly, it has absolutely nothing to do with me.  Nothing at all.  She figured out at an early age that if she wanted nice fashionable hair she'd better figure it out herself...

...or outsource her do's.  She borrows other peoples mothers who have amazing hair skills or she seeks out friends and family.  Here's Chloe her cousin Sheralyn Shumway and our friend Amanda Petersen trying Amanda's famous "Manny Bun":

But now that I'm (gulp) a grandmother, I thought I'd better try a little harder to develop a few basic mom-ish skills that I've so wretchedly lacked with my own kids.  And since my first grand baby is a girl, what better skill to try and tackle than the hairdo?!

And with a little gel and I think I've got something...

Not bad eh?  I'd even be willing to compromise on my "no-bow" policy.  It might add that special delicate touch to the Mohawk giving it that "My-Grandma-did-my-hair-but-really-I'm-a-girl-and-this-is-the-only-hairdo-she's-good-at-so-far" look.

This most successful hairdo really boosted my confidence.  I may start working on my other motherly shortcomings like scrap-booking with my kids.

Then again, let's not get ahead of ourselves.   

Pan Plundering & Marker Misdeeds

There are a few things in my life that are absolutes.  It's my personal addendum to the Ten Commandments.  "Self-evident truths" for a quality well lived life.  And thus far, I've always optimistically assumed these tenets were basic ideals readily held by all non-cave dwelling peoples. But sadly, it has become apparent that some folks just never got my memo. And the ones that did, they like to vex me with their feral misdeeds.

Here's my little list of absolutes:

• Chocolate will make anything better.
• Never put Ketchup on your eggs.
• Never use the words "Jello" and "Salad" together.
• Plastic cups are for camp-outs.
• Forks are the superior utensil for eating everything.
• Corelle is not fine china.
• Never, ever, label your kitchenware with your last name.
• and ALL pets should be released into the wild--most especially Edward Scissorhands, our cat.

I get made fun of all the time for these simple standards of truth (mostly by cave-dwelling ketchup people), but no matter how badly I get mocked, I never budge. [And yes, it does seem odd that most of my ideals have to do with food or it's consumption, go figure.]  Immoveable as I may be, sadly it is my fine moral standards that have resulted in a series of serious pan persecutions. 

Over the years I have brought serving dishes or cookie sheets full of homemade something-er-other to some event and because I didn't label the pan with my name, I got back the most wretched baked-on greasy pan that ever existed.  And yes, I know that if I'd just abandoned my ethics and succumbed to the pressure from that do-gooder pan-labeling coalition, I'm certain I'd still have my lustrous well-cared for pans. 

It appears that everyone is under the false impression that their pan is the next cover model for a Williams and Sonoma catalog, and the end result is that I always get stiffed with the one from hell's kitchen.  It's happened so often that I am now the owner of eight of the most dodgy looking baking sheets you've ever seen:

A crust-ridden crisis to be sure.  My poor sister-in-law has suffered through my fowl cries over this awful plight of pan-handling far far too many times, but still I refuse to label them.  I think she's had enough of my ranting because recently someone with her EXACT handwriting tried to help me out and slyly grabbed a marker when I wasn't looking and did the unthinkable...

Clearly, HER handiwork.  A nice and kind sister-in-law to be sure, but a violation of my absolute #7.  Poor Wendy knows me all too well and surely won't be surprised when I scrub it all off with a Magic Eraser and then keep on complaining when I end up with an even crustier looking pans, if that's at all possible. But it guess things could be worse, it could have sparkling pans with my name on them.  Ewww!

Sometimes, when I have trouble sleeping at night, it's because I know somewhere in a kitchen nearby, some pan-plundering homemaker is making a jello salad in one of my pristine shiny pans! [shutter]

More Magazine Mayhem

I've got more troubles in the loo.

I thought the "issues" from a previous post  had been long ago resolved but it appears my tank side trouble is back. 

More bathroom beefcakes!  And instead of smirking and pointing at me, this new guy's scowling at me. 

It seems cover-boy and I are at odds with one another and I can't quite say with a 100% confidence which one of us is more disapproving of the other.  I'm not sure what he's upset about, though my guess would be that perhaps ending up on the backside of my toilet instead of some posh lobby at a doctor's office has got him a tad bit cranky.  I'm none too pleased about it either.

It appears as though Mr. Beefcake and I can come to an agreement on our most disagreeable situation; that neither of us are happy about his present location!

Perhaps I'll set him free next time I go in for a check-up.

Favorites

Over the last couple of years I've been feeling sort of guilty that my own husband was not #1 on my cell phone's favorites list.  As you can see, that honor went to our son Mitchell who has really been my go-to guy when most of my phone calls are made...

I've sort of hoped Mark would never catch on to the fact that he wasn't "El Numero Uno" and have worked very hard to keep my phone out of his hands so he would never discover the shameful truth.

Then recently, the depth of this scandal was wholly exposed.  It was while Mark was running his marathon, when he gave me his phone to hold while he ran his race, that things took a different turn.  At some point I decided to make a call from his phone.

I pushed the phone button

Then, because I didn't know the number I needed to dial, I pushed Mark's Favorites button, assuming there was a good chance the number I needed would probably be listed there (I was looking for Cheyenne):

...and this is what I saw...

Apparently I'm not his #1 favorite either!  

A big grin spread across my face, what a relief!  We've both listed each other as our #2 favorite.  How beautiful is that! And even better, Mitchell ranked #1 on both our phones.  Two years of guilt totally gone!

Then suddenly, I realize that now a new quandary now arises.  Clearly this list will get us both in a wee bit of trouble with the rest of the folks who made the list and a few who did not. I can just see an argument brewing on the methods each of us used for our individual ranking systems-- which should land us both in hot water.

But before our daughter Cheyenne starts crying fowl that Mitchell is clearly both her parent's favorite child, (should come as no big surprise really, perhaps she should learn to troubleshoot more of her parents electronic problems--a surefire way to up her ranking),
I would like to point out that at least Chey made it onto my list.  While she may be ranked fourth behind my good friend Kathy I would like to call her attention to the fact that she tragically doesn't even make her father's top 8 list of favs.  And, even more scandalous, Mitchell is listed TWICE as #1 and #7.

It looks like my 2nd ranked husband has some explaining to do.

My 'Icy Hot' Hubby

Mark just ran his first Marathon. After doing Triathlons for the past few years he decided to park his bike for a season and focus on his footwork.  He decided he wanted to run in the St. George Marathon and finish with a 3:25

On race day, he was off to a great start and ran with the 3:15 pace runners for the  
first 22 miles--something I couldn't do even if I was in a car.  Then, at 22 1/2 miles his calves started cramping up and it was all he could do to walk slowly to the aid station up ahead. When he limped in under the canopy, it was there that Mark learned the miracle of extra strength Icy Hot.

He said the best part of the race was there at that aid station when he got his calves slathered in icy hot.  He was in so much pain he said he didn't even care if he was getting a calf rub down by "two dudes". 

At this point, I will tell you that this is exactly why you aren't gonna catch me running a full marathon anytime soon.  When the best part of your race happens at an aid station, that should tell you something.  And although getting my calves massaged by "two dudes" does sound enticing to me, it's just not enough to lure me into the whole deal.  SO, as for me and my muffin top, we shall remain happily contented at the finish line with camera and sign in hand.  And as an experienced race sign holder, let me just say that cheering on racers is a highly under-appreciated job.  It takes a lot of stamina to stand in the hot sun and hold up a sign while you wait for your man to come through the finish.  Next time I'm bringing more electrolyte drinks to power me through that whole ordeal.

Once Mark got his calves massaged he was off and running again.  His finish time goal had already slipped by from having to walk, or more like limp into the aid station, but he was determined to finish the race with a decent time.

Here he is crossing the finish:

...and not a bad time either...

Here's Mark after downing several ice creams, a chocolate milk, and a gallon of Gatorade after his finish. 

As fit as my Marathon Man seems to look in this picture,  Mark was so sore it took him a half hour to walk two blocks to our rental car.  It seems he only moves fast when there's a shiny metal to reward him.  Meanwhile, I was so hot and sweaty from waiting at the finish line I wanted to pick up the pace and get in the air conditioned car.  But not Mark, he could barely walk.  So next time I plan on getting him to the car faster by bringing a dollar store medallion and luring him to the car faster by telling him he can earn a metal if he can get there in under two minutes--and if he can do it in under one, I'll throw in an ice cream.  That should do the trick.

My favorite memory of the whole race adventure was back at the airport two days later on our flight back home.  After they announced our flight was ready to board they invited anyone who needs assistance or extra time boarding because of disabilities to come forward and board first.  That's when my 'Icy Hot' hubby slowly rose to a decrepit standing position, muttered "I think I qualify today for that",  and then shuffled his way forward towards the plane while I followed behind carrying his bags!

Do Not?

Connor and Nick were super excited when they spotted this in the store recently:

It's a Double Barrel Shotgun that loads up like the real thing. 

Apparently they've been watching re-runs of Elmer Fudd or something because they got really excited about snapping the thing in half to load it up as if it were "Wabbit Season".  As soon as they spotted it on the store shelf, Connor and Nick were unloading their pockets and pooling their money together to buy it. 

Before we even got to the parking lot the boys had the thing torn out of the box and had it loaded and ready to go just in time for a shooting spree inside my car-- which I might note, made for a lovely drive home.  If lawmakers think cell phones are the number one distraction for drivers they need to think again.  They've obviously never tried to navigate a car while it's "Air Warrior" passengers were engaged in "double barrel dart blasting" practice.

When I got back to the house, I picked up the box the boys had carelessly discarded inside my car and I noticed this little warning printed on a small area on the back of the box:

Within the first ten minutes of shotgun ownership, these boys had defiled Do Not number 1, 3, 4, and Warning numbers 5 and 6.

Apparently the makers of our fine new shotgun DO NOT have any experience raising boys.  If they had, they would know these warnings highlight the exact reasons why kids like Connor and Nick love to buy stuff like this.

...Meanwhile, the people and animals mentioned in DO NOT #1 have all run for cover until target practice is over or, blessed be, when all the darts have been safely lost--whichever comes first.