Things That Go Bump in the Night...in Tucson

Let me set the stage for what will surely be a phenomenal story and will eventually be made into a "made for TV movie" with actors like Neil Patrick Harris and Heather Graham playing my husband and me...

'Twas a stormy evening. The monsoon rain rattled the windows with such force that it sounded like millions of tiny fists pounding against the warmth of our Tucson home. The thunder shook the foundation and the lightening streaked silver along our living room floor. I went to bed with the monstrous sounds echoing inside my head. Curling up with my husband did not bring the usual calming effect. Dreams did not come easy. Instead I seemed to drift into a black, remote world of sleep. At exactly 1:00 am, I woke abruptly, sitting straight up in bed like some corpse coming to life in a horror flick. I rushed out the bedroom door, and was alarmed by what greeted me. I heard a strange noise. At first I thought it was my innocent little girl crying in the bedroom next door. I rushed by her side and realized she was fast asleep. As I tip-toed back out into the living room with trepidation, I realized the noise was coming from only a few feet away from where I was standing. "Jason! Jason!" I urgently whispered to my husband. No need, he was awake listening to the creepy, foreign sounds that filled the room as well. He dutifully searched our darkened living room for the culprit, tripping over our daughter's toys in the process. Soon we realized it was coming from right outside the window next to the pool. I ran to grab a flashlight. A vision of a baby bobcat being tortured by a ten foot rattle snake flew through my mind. Or maybe it was the ghost of a young child come to torment and possess my baby girl! I ran back into the living room grabbing the video camera on the way. By now, the storm had passed, leaving the air outside thick and heavy. Jason and I peered out the window and this is what we heard.

Note: These are true events not dramatized or manufactured for TV purposes in any way (but will eventually be a TV movie with Neil and Heather).





Jason and I must have stood by that window for at least fifteen minutes until we finally got a glimpse of the fiendish imp. It was grotesque, swollen and puffy around the jowls. Its greenish skin glistened in the moonlight. Bulging eyes stared at us. I could feel the evil in its gaze. It was terrifying. Jason soon realized the nature of the beast. It was a...




little itty bitty...






:-)

Survivor Story: A Tale of the Youngest Sibling

I'm part of the Grubi Clan, a sub species of race that are half martian and half human, at least that's what my family told me when I was maybe six or seven years old. To this day, at 28 years of age, I still believe that to be true. How else could I explain the unique nature of the family that raised me, the youngest, with two much older and wiser brothers? The Griswolds and the Kardashians are also descendants of this special breed of people recognizable by bubbly derrieres or fake wood-detailed station wagons. So what was it like growing up with such a family you ask? Well, I survived.

"The Goo-Goo Drop" was just the beginning...

As a parent myself, I cringe at the thought of my kids performing "The Goo Goo Drop" without nets. Here is how it's performed. Subject A (older brother) would hold Subject B (little sister) as high as he could in the air. The little toddler girl would scream "Goo GOOOOOO!" Subject A would then let go of Subject B, catching her the last second before Subject B became floor splatter. This death defying trick was lovingly nicknamed "The Goo Goo Drop". My oldest brother, Matt, never dropped me (as far as I know). Thankfully I survived my toddler years, well besides the time I almost got eaten by an iguana, but that's another story.

Thus, I grew from being the adorable little girl to the annoying little "princess" as my brothers lovingly referred to me. From six to twelve, I survived the "The Dark Years". This part of my life is comparable to the fith and sixth Harry Potter novels. Instead of Voldemort, I had my second to oldest brother, Mark. Instead of a kindly old wizard, there was the school janitor who always gave me candy (which kind of creeps me out thinking back on it).

Mark used to practice for his school sports with me. I know you're thinking, how sweet. No, no, no. It was torture. First was wrestling. I nicknamed our practice sessions "Big Foot". Really I don't know why. Neither of us were hairy or had big feet. Anywho, Mark would practice his wrestling moves with me and instead of simply pinning me...well, he'd toot on my face. That was a blast, or should I say, a gas! Ba Ha! Then he joined hockey. I'd get to wear all of Mark's sweaty smelly hockey gear and stand in front of the staircase while he shot pucks at my head. That was great fun. Good times. My only saving grace was my oldest brother, Matt. Screaming "Maaaatttt" at the top of my lungs always brought him charging into the room where he'd headlock Mark and administer an awesome noogie.

Don't let the below pictures fool you. When the camera was on, we were all smiles and hugs. Off camera...whew. Torturer #1 on the left: Matt Torturer #2 on the right: Mark

I'm really working with my therapist to unlock more early childhood memories. The trauma was just too great that I've buried the memories deep within my subconscious. "Princess" they called me. HA!

The Toddler Mullet

Wizened, war-beaten mothers of the world love to give advice to inexperienced, aspiring young mothers. I received this "welcomed" advice daily when I was pregnant the first time around with my daughter Cadence. This advice ranged from the best boob accessories to chants to say in my baby's room to ward off evil spirits (I'm not kidding). Well why oh why didn't anybody tell me about the toddler mullet? My poor baby girl no longer looks like a baby girl but more like a baby boy from the hills of the Ozarks or one of Gwen Stefani's kids. Thankfully the other kids at school don't know how to bully yet so she is safe from public scorn. Plus she is so darn cute that she can pull off any look at this age! So jealous. Another bonus--I'll have pictures to embarrass her later in life, hopefully during her wedding day slide show. Here is one of those classic pics.

Awe JUST KIDDING! That's not my daughter silly. I just wanted to share this picture because it really is the epitome of baby mullets. I mean, this kid has some pretty rad parents. Heck, it's probably a picture of Zumba, Gwen's kid! My daughter isn't that lucky in the hair department. The picture below is my adorable little girl.

See! She is beautiful no matter her hair style and will always be beautiful. I was too late to save her from her little blond mullet though. She's just going to have to endure a few more haircuts from Daddy*. I have recently come upon some tribal knowledge on how to avoid the toddler mullet stage of development! Why did I not receive this little golden nugget of advice earlier? Why wasn't it in What to Expect When Your Expecting? I will share this little super duper secret with new moms out there in hopes they can save their little munchkins from Mulletville.

When your baby girl's hair really starts to come in, give'em a crew cut! Seriously! Shave those little perfect heads. Then the hair grows in at the same length!

Shaving those innocent noggins seems just plain cruel, right? But the Underground Society of Meddling Mothers swears by it. They say, "Don't worry! Your daughter will be ready for those cheesy Christmas cards and Pantene Pro V commercials by her second birthday."

*Daddy is the better stylist. Mommy actually cut baby's hair to look more mullet-esque.

Proud of My Pee

I know, I know...gross, but I can't help it. I'm proud of my pee. More specifically the color of my pee. So I'm 34 weeks pregnant today and had my weekly gyno appointment this morning. Every time I see the doctor I have to leave a urine sample. Pretty routine stuff here. Well the amazingly chic 80's decor clinic I frequent is quite high tech in my standards. Here's how it goes. I sign in at the front desk and go wait by the only bathroom available. You would think an obstetrics clinic with a bazillion pregnant women all having squashed bladders could factor in another bathroom somewhere in the building, but that would take away all the fun! Once I get into the bathroom, there is a nice plastic tupperware bin with plastic cups, lids, and wipes. I always swipe extra of the latter for future emergency use caused by my 1 1/2 year old daughter. Anyways, there's also one nice deliable marker to write your name on the pee cup. I always hesitate before picking up that one shiny black marker. Thoughts of the previous ownership and adventures of toliet land flash through my mind. But I've got pregnancy brain so I forget about all those images after a couple seconds and write my name as legiably and quickly as humanly possible. Then, of course, I pee in the cup. I won't go into the step by step process on how to pee in a cup. It's written on the bathroom wall in English and Spanish so...just follow instructions. But let me tell you it's always harder than it looks in the instructional pictorials. Inevitably you get peed on. No biggie. Now the part where I get a huge surge of pride. There is this nice metal rotator shelf built into the wall. You just slide that baby around and slip your pee cup inside. AND there is always one or two other pee cups to keep yours company! I judge those pee cups like a group of eighteen year old girls judge each other's tans on spring break. Mine is almost always the lightest of the bunch, almost transparent like Nicole Kidman's skin! It's breathtaking really. I'd like to thank the 64 ounces of water that find their way into my system daily which is no easy feat considering my pancake-like bladder. I just wish my docotor would acknowlegde the wonders and hard work of my off-white pee.