Why My Mom is Awesome Part 2: Mother's Day Extravaganza

Prepare yourself for a mushy, sappy, sickly sweet post in honor of Mother's Day! Because I love my mama (and am a horrible person when it comes to giving gifts, sending flowers, and taking her out to dinner because I'm a. poor, and b. 500 miles away), I've decided to compile a list of all the reasons why she's awesome. I've already covered one major facet of said awesomeness, so I know you're dying to know more about the special woman who created the awesomeness that is me.

• Mama Hutch gave birth to five children in ten years the drug-free, old-fashioned way, like a friggin' boss. Not that there's anything wrong with epidurals or C-sections. I plan on going that route myself one day. I don't believe in unnecessary pain. You have to admit, it's pretty impressive to shove not one but FIVE watermelons down your hoo-ha. And we were not small watermelons.

Pictured: Ouch.

• She graduated from high school at sixteen and travelled throughout Scandinavia before college like some kind of overachieving viking. So when she got married at eighteen and had my oldest brother at nineteen, she was already way ahead of the game. 
• She went back to school to get her teaching credential when I was two years old, meaning that she had five kids under the age of twelve and still managed to handle her business. What's your excuse?

No fetching hats required.

• She has taught literally thousands of kids to sing, play all kinds of instruments, and genuinely enjoy music with a passion. From choir to band to piano lessons and musical theater, she has done it all, often spending her own money and free time to enrich her curriculum. The woman is basically a legit Professor Harold Hill, without the fancy hat. She organizes concerts every semester for parents bursting with pride at the sight of their children performing on a huge scale.
• One of those children she taught to sing was me. First in church when I asked her why she was singing different notes from everyone else. She explained what a harmony was, thereby instilling in me an appreciation for the more hard core, under-appreciated altos of the world. I was hooked. She was my Mr. Shue in middle school vocal ensemble, with less hair product, and later the director/music coach for several musicals.

My mom is way less obnoxious though.

• Given her large household of eight (including her mother who lived with us until I was fourteen), Mama Hutch was the guru of grocery shopping. By this I mean, she managed to fit 80 million bags of groceries (everything on sale) into the trunk of a compact Geo Metro. Watching her reconfigure the brown paper Tetris blocks was quite the feat. She could have had her own game show, for realsies.
• Another little known skill is her ability to hide Easter baskets. I wrote an entire blog about that talent alone. I think she was a very successful pirate in another life, burying treasure where no one would EVER find it. It's probably because she is constantly losing things. Her keys, her phone, the remote, her damn mind (haha just kidding!)

OHMYGODSOGOOD!
(And to my theater snob friends,
get over Anne Hathaway. She wasn't that bad.)

• She was the one who introduced me to Les Miserables when all we had was the Anniversary Concert VHS which we watched over. and over. and over. until she finally was able to take us to the real thing in Sacramento. It was very special to finally get to see the movie with her and my brothers Nick and Scott who are secure enough in their manhood to enjoy musicals (cough cough Andy and David...).
• When I went away to college in Southern California, I wasn't homesick in the slightest until six weeks in when it hit me all at once. It was bad. I called her crying on a Friday afternoon and she literally jumped in her car that instant and drove five hours to meet me in Bakersfield to take me home for the weekend.

What I picture my mom doing everyday.

• Did I mention that she's secretly Fraulein Maria (only a former Mormon instead of a former nun)? When I first into my apartment in North Hollywood, she came down to help me get settled. Most parents are willing to take their kids to Ikea. But do they also turn leftover curtain fabric into matching pillowcases? That's in addition to my favorite pink blanket, penguin apron, and countless costumes that she sewed herself. 
• Oh yeah. And she makes OUTSTANDING chicken. Like for real. Even when the power went out because of a crazy blizzard and all she had to work with was our wood stove, she still made the greatest chicken of all time. Also pot roast. And cheesecake. And Orange Goop (family tradition, don't ask).

The Ladies Hutch

Even with all of this, she still thinks that she's a sub-par teacher, a bland cook, a less than perfect wife, a mediocre mother, and an only ok human being. To that I say, poppycock.

Things That Make Me Happy

My life sucks right now for a multitude of reasons that I do not care to divulge. But I am taking a cue from my brilliant friend Jessica right now, and focusing on the things that make me happy.

1. Lists.

I think most of the posts on this blog are at least partially in list format. Lists help me make sense of things. There's some kind of weird satisfaction to be derived in taking inventory of things in an easily digestible format, and checking them off one by one. When I was a little girl I would make lists of my chores (which I would do completely willingly and with joy if I got a little index card to write them all down on). I even won an award for this slightly OCD behavior in my Sunday School class. Even when I'm miserable, writing a list of all the things that piss me off somehow makes me feel better.

Jesus bonding with my dad.
(This sentence is hilarious if you know
my vehemently atheistic father)

2. Jesus.

I don't mean your Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. But Jesus, my family's dog back in Foresthill. My parents call him something else, but that's not his real name. I don't call my dog Jesus because I'm being sacrilegious or deliberately insulting (though I do admit to feeling a bit of mischevious glee due to this moniker). He is Jesus because he is kind, loyal, protective, and loves unconditionally. He can tell when I'm feeling sad and just his quiet presence is comforting.

3. Stan.

I know that Stan is an inanimate object. He can't really think, complain, or sympathize. But there have been many times that I have just sat in my car and felt like I wasn't alone. In a not-creepy kind of way. It's like being with an old friend who has been with me through so many ups and downs (some of which he actually caused), and is still trucking along.

It only comes around once in a blue moon.
Unless you go through a LOT of peanut butter I suppose.

4. Peanut Butter.

Specifically the first spoonful from a brand new jar of Skippy creamy peanut butter. Simple pleasures.

5. Being Employed.

I have had some rocky times with my career, though so far, the move to a new property in Pasadena has been amazing. I'm still adjusting, but at least I have a reason to get up and put on pants in the morning. A few years ago, pants were optional, and that was a very depressing state of mind. So I'm grateful to have a job.

I love it. Not ashamed one bit.
Even without the iconic theme song.

6. Netflix.

Netflix is my escape. I love being able to come home and lose myself in a ridiculously long marathon of whatever show I happen to be obsessed with at the time. Right now I'm knee-deep in Dawson's Creek, a show that I absolutely loved as a middle schooler, before I really understood half of what they were talking about. When you watch something is just as important as what you watch. And right now, it's so much easier to focus on the contrived problems of 30-year-old, narcissistic teenagers from a bygone era, than my own.

7. Cleaning.

While I am far from being a neat freak, there is something very cathartic about putting things back in order. When my apartment is cluttered, I feel like my brain is cluttered. Putting myself in project-mode, makes me feel productive and proactive, not useless and helpless. The best feeling of all is scrubbing my shower. While I keep things usually pretty tidy, this is one task that does not get done as often as it should. And it seems to happen mostly when there's been a big change in my life. Some girls get haircuts, I break out the Scrubbing Bubbles. There's some sort of symbolism there, but I don't feel like analyzing it right now.

The other side is pink, thus the name,
'Pretty Pink Blanket.'

8. My Pretty Pink Blanket.

Yes, I have a security blanket. I never really dragged it around with me like Linus in Peanuts, while sucking my thumb. But I still have the pink, floral bedspread with white lace around the edges that my mommy made me when I was probably around 6 or 7. It will always be the most warm, comfortable blanket ever. Even when it's too damn hot for a blanket, like right now, just seeing it draped over my crappy black futon makes me happy.

9. Taking a Walk.

I've been wallowing the past two days of my belated three-day weekend. I haven't really left the house other than to go to Sally Tomatoes practice, and 7-11 to buy some ill-advised Cookies & Cream. As important as that is for me to recharge, sometimes you just have to get out of the house. My favorite place to walk is down Magnolia in Burbank. There are a ton of cute little antique and vintage shops that I never actually go in, but love to pass by. I love just listening to my iPod, which always knows the right song to play, and figuring things out while shuffling along aimlessly.

10. Writing.

I don't really mean blogging, though that makes me happy too. Whenever I'm trying to deal with something, I open up a blank Word document and just start typing. It's amazing feeling to channel the crazed thoughts swirling around my chaotic brain into actual words. Writing the things I can't really tell anyone, and don't even like admitting to myself. It's the best therapy, and I highly recommend it. I also recommend securing the document with a password, because no one should ever have to read those manic, self-absorbed rants. (Though these blogs are only slightly less manic and self-absorbed...)

There are very few pictures of my entire family,
and even fewer that are easily pulled from other online sources.
I'm the little one inexplicably sitting in a car seat while not actually in a car.

11. My family.

Having a list of 11 items may seem like an odd number (get it? Odd? ba dum chhh!), and I guess this one kind of goes without saying. I also keep trying to think of a clever Spinal Tap reference that hasn't already been done, but just insert one here. Anyway, my family is amazing. They're all truly incredible people (except Nick. He's pretty dumb. Just kidding. He probably won't even read this) and even though they sometimes drive me nuts, I'm glad they're in my life. I include my friends in this category as well.

I'm including this one because my mom isn't in the one above.

Anyway, that's enough sap to fill an entire bottle of syrup. I need to get going on my cathartic cleaning rampage. That shower isn't going to scrub itself!

Obligatory Holiday-Themed Post

Since commenting on the arrival of any given holiday always seems to be a proven goldmine for blog topics, I thought I would continue my grand tradition of lameness and discuss this most glorious of days, Easter. And by glorious, I mean, 'meh.' Seriously, if you're not a kid, you don't have kids, and you're not religious by any means, Easter kind of sucks. Especially if you don't even have any family nearby to at least use it as an excuse to gather boisterously, eat too much Orange Goop, play an overly competitive round of Apples to Apples, and drink boxed White Zinfandel (is that just my family?).

Happy Easter Island!

Because I disdain of most religions, I'm not obligated to give up my Sunday off and sit around in a drafty church getting high off of incense or torn up bits of Wonderbread (that last part makes since if you are now or ever were Mormon). So that tradition is out. Because I'm four and twenty, not just four, I can't rationalize a good Easter egg hunt (because that would look kind of creepy for a childless grown-up to hang out around an event meant for children. Plus, the best hunts were always at my Grandma's in Sacramento). And because my mommy is five-hundred miles away, I can't even re-enact the best of my childhood memories: searching for my skillfully concealed Easter basket. My mom was seriously a Wiz at hiding our baskets. Our house was not huge, and yet it always seemed to take me at least an hour and a half to find it. But when I did, there would be waiting a giant chocolate ostrich-sized egg filled with fudge or peanut butter. *DROOLS*

Sorry, Chuck. Never a good idea.

Mom came to visit me last year right before Easter. She left the morning of, but left me a note that I had to find my "basket." And by "basket" she meant the white, plastic kitchen colander she re-purposed and filled with Ikea chocolate she bought when I wasn't looking the day before. Pretty sneaky, Mom! So that was awesome. But then the rest of the day I spent doing laundry and drinking a bottle of Two Buck Chuck Chardonnay. Then the rest of the night I spent puking up the Two Buck Chuck Chardonnay. (The lesson learned was that if you're going to go with Chuck, stick with red. And eat something besides Ikea chocolate first, for God's sake!) Maybe the Easter bunny will bring me some Cabernet Sauvignon, since I'm on a diet and can't technically eat most treats associated with the occasion.

Totally irrelevant, but this made me giggle.

But this year, I'm all by my lonesome. Just sitting at my computer, reminiscing about holidays and massive chocolate eggs gone by. Woe is me! But at least I had eggs for breakfast. That's somewhat festive, right?

Why thank you Rob Pattinson!

Happy Easter to you too!

(I don't think he actually knew he was posing for an Easter-themed greeting, do you?)

(Sidebar, I'm not really a fan. I just thought this was really random.)

A Very Long-Winded Update

Yes I am aware of how much time has passed and I have multiple bruises from the amount of times I have kicked myself for being lazy and not writing when I really had no excuse because I had plenty of time, energy, and topics and I am now writing this uber-sentence to prove how many words have been bottled up inside of me because I suck at writing even lame little blog entries even though they're really the only writing project I've stuck with because I can't finish anything to save my life and even starting something takes a Herculean effort on my part and I've never been a big fan of Hercules.

Unless he's played by Kevin Sorbo.

*BREATHES.*

So what has Hutch been up to these last several weeks? Well I will update you all in the form of a list: The things I meant to blog about but never got around to!

1. My painful inability to keep anything to myself, especially when it comes to boys I take a shine to. Namely, Sexy Jesus (no, it's not his legal name, but it damn well should be. He's the most attractive man I've ever seen in real life and he bears a striking resemblance to our lord and savior. If our lord and savior moonlighted as a latin-flavored Chippendale's dancer. Now that I would pay big money to see... Sorry I was waiting to see if I was going to be struck with lightening just then. All clear! But seriously, he's like the ridiculously attractive Carl in Love Actually that Laura Linney could totally have tapped and was like, no I have to go hang out with my brother who looks like a lumpy John Cusack and tries to hit me even though I'm trying to get the Pope and/or Bon Jovi to exorcise him, the ungrateful loon!)

"Rock me, rock me, rock me Sexy Jesus!" ~Hamlet 2

Holy Sacrilege...

Long story short, every single one of my co-workers, including the Big Boss Man knows that I am head over heels in love with Sexy Jesus (even though he's married and his wife is going to have a baby. Now I'm really going to Hell). I have got to learn to not blush, giggle, fawn, and in all other ways swoon over this man and any other attractive menfolk that walk through my door. But it's just not possible. Sigh. There's also the Nutcracker (so named because he could crack many-a-walnut with that ass. Not that anyone would want to eat an ass-cracked walnut. But still, impressive, right?), but he has since moved out, much to my chagrin. But everyone knew I had the hots for him too. Why can't I play it cool like Don Draper? Why do I lack any sort of mystery whatsoever?

2. The Downtown Pub Crawl with my UC Irvine/Bordeaux Study Abroad/Vegas Shenanigans girls. We discovered the second greatest Irish pub, called Casey's (A-MAZING, but still not quite as good as Maeve's), and the Library Bar (which is exactly what it sounds like. Super pretentious and hipster-y which we celebrated by drinking grapefruitinis and reading aloud Shakespearean sonnets to complete strangers.) We also unearthed a libation entitled the Pickle Back, which is a shot of Jameson followed by a pickle juice chaser. This made my friend Jessica who did it on a dare, promptly vomit moments later.

Have I mentioned how much I love Irish pubs?

The Pickle Back is not to be confused with the band Nickleback, which sometimes can have the same effect. This night was also momentous because I discovered that I could resolve my hatred of Downtown (most of which stems from difficult and expensive driving, parking, and navigating) by taking the Metro. Who knew? Of course the night ended when we decided to skip the expensive taxi and take the bus back to my friend's place. I must have been pretty drunk if I willingly agreed to take a bus, because not only did we trek super-far to the bus stop, but I did it walking barefoot on the nasty-ass Downtown streets in lieu of wearing my painful heels. Who knows what gnarly things have oozed, splattered, died, or crawled on those sidewalks....Not the smartest thing I've ever done, but at least I wasn't driving!

3. I finally went to an LA Kings Hockey game! I scored a deal on Living Social and it was glorious! Again, I took the Metro, which proved to be an excellent decision. Only we weren't sure exactly where the Staples Center was, so we just followed a group of burly guys in jerseys until we found the place. For a girl from Sacramento, it was super weird to root for the LA Kings. (I've been bred to loathe all Los Angeles-based sports teams, especially those that have the same mascot as my sometimes-beloved basketball team.) I consider myself a Ducks fan, though it's mostly because I love the Mighty Ducks trilogy, and that was the first (and only) game I ever went to.

It's a beautiful thing.

It. Rocked. My. World. I love Canadians. I love big burly Canadians. I love big burly Canadians beating the crap out of each other on ice. Hockey really is the greatest thing ever. Only we lost by three in a shut-out which was kind of embarrassing. Plus, there were no fights. LAME!! But it made for a great date, which was followed by a second visit to Casey's (conveniently within walking distance of the Staples Center!). Yes, I was dating someone for about three weeks (who knew that Plentyoffish would work out after all?), but it just kind of fizzled. No one's fault, but if the chemistry isn't there, you can't force it. But the point is, yay hockey!

4. My 24th birthday on October 15th! (Technically my birthday is October 16th, but since I spent the entire anniversary of my birth regurgitating bile in my very understanding friend's toilet, I'm gonna stick with the 15th). We celebrated with another one of our legendary Sally Tomatoes' visits to Gabe's, the karaoke dive bar extraordinaire since that tradition began on my birthday last year. You should know that I have very strict rules when it comes to drinking. These are my rules and a description of how I broke most of them (here comes a list within a list. Blow your mind just now, did I?):

a) Always eat a big carb-y dinner. I am currently on the South Beach Diet and carbs are in short supply. I didn't have time to grab real food, so I wolfed down a salami sandwich on that thin, round bread that resembles a whole grain hockey puck. It was not enough. And for some reason, I was trying to be good and refused to eat any greasy, starchy french fries that might have absorbed some of the booze and prevented me from tossing my non- existent cookies. (It occurs to me that I talk about vomit way too much on this blog. My apologies.)

b) Make sure you have a ride home. Thankfully my friend Eric took over designated driver duties and drove Stan and myself back to his place to crash. Not literally, because then he wouldn't be a very good designated driver.

c) Never drink sugary drinks. For one thing, they're bad for you. For another, the sugar is what makes you super-hungover. Every single one of my drinks, excluding the tequila shot, was a delicious, sugary catastrophe.

d) Speaking of tequila shots, Never never never ever mix liquors. Pick your poison and stick with it! I learned this lesson the hard way at my brother's wedding where I sample shots of every kind of liquor available at the open bar. But I ended up paying for it in vomit for hours on end afterwards. But since my friends were paying for the drinks, they insisted that I mix an AMF with a White Russian, with a Long Beach Iced Tea, etc. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME!

Drinking anything this color is never a good idea.

Audios Motherfucker indeed.

e) Know your limit. I am usually very good at this. I know exactly how much I can handle to feel pleasant, but to avoid getting sick and/or sloppy. No one likes a sloppy drunk girl, even if it is her birthday. I was done, but the DJ who quickly became my best friend after high-fiving me for choosing "18 and Life" by Skid Row, bought me a vodka tonic. I'm a sucker for free drinks, but I should have 'Just Said No.'

f) Drink tons of water before, during, and after drinking booze. This one I actually followed faithfully, but I still was hurting so bad I could barely get out of bed until 5pm on the 16th. Not the best way to spend a birthday.

So that was my birthday. It was totally worth it too, so thanks ladies (and Eric) for the serenades and for not judging me for christening the toilet at Gabe's with low-carb stomach butter!

5. Speaking of my birthday, I got Target gift cards for gifts (always acceptable!) I finally bought myself a real dresser, since I had been using plastic and fabric storage containers for the past 6 years. I had picked it out and put it back for months before finally pulling the trigger. I put it together almost all by myself, a fact that I was super proud of. One month later, the damn thing is completely falling apart. It was expensive too, even with my gift cards. Stupid crappy Target furniture. One day, I'll own things that aren't terrible...

I was so proud when I took this picture.

Future Me laughs derisively at past Me.

6. Halloween and the Monster Massive that Wasn't. My big brother Scott flew all the way down here from Northern California to see Armin Van Buuren ("The World's Number One DJ" according to him as I shrugged in ignorance) perform at Monster Massive in Orange County. My friends have gone to Monster Massive in years past and from what I understand, it's a massive concert/rave/spectacular filled with tens of thousands of bedazzled club kids in crazy/slutty costumes. I was down, even though I didn't know crap about techno music. We were about to leave when we decided to check the website one last time. Monster Massive had been cancelled a few weeks before. Seriously. They never sent an e-mail, they just refunded the money without a word.

See, World's Number One DJ!

Which to me is like being the World's Number One Pole Vaulter.

It's certainly impressive, but it's still not really my thing.

He is rather attractive though, isn't he? No Kevin Sorbo, but still...

So we had to find something to do on a Saturday Halloween Eve in Los Angeles. Seems easy enough, but while there were a myriad of parties, costume balls, and other events of debauchery, all were either sold out, super lame, or really expensive. We ended up going with our back-up plan which was to see DJ Sasha (like the Number Seven DJ in the World, don'tcha know) spin at Club Avalon in Hollywood. I had never been before, but apparently Avalon is, like, super famous. It took us two hours and forty bucks each to get in and from the moment we walked through the door, our ears were assaulted with the loudest, most obnoxious music ever. Did you ever see that episode of How I Met Your Mother with subtitles? It was like that, only worse. There were costumes. And Asian tourists who push you around. I hate to be pushed around, especially when the floor is vibrating so hard my esophagus was shaking. But we had a good time nonetheless. After a while, we walked down Hollywood Boulevard and saw all the crazies out and about at 2am. Many of which were entranced by my shiny, silver, satin, sequined dress (that I bought for South Pacific in 10th grade. Nothing goes to waste in my closet!). That weekend, we fit in trips to the Hollywood Overlook, the Santa Monica Pier and Promenade, The Getty Center, and The Griffith Park and Observatory. Pretty damn good considering Scott was barely here more than 24 hours. It's nice having someone come to visit so you have an excuse to do all the touristy things you never get around to doing when you live here. Plus, Scott and I hadn't hung out just the two of us since I was 13 and he was 23 and he took me to an N Sync concert in San Francisco (what a stellar brother!). By the way, the Getty is the coolest place ever. Go.

7. Thanksgiving Vacation in Foresthill. I actually scored 6 days off in a row and had my first real time off in about a year. I got to go home to Foresthill and jammed literally 10 pounds of fun in a 5 pound bag. There was the Mountain Mandarin Festival (like the orange, not the Chinese), where I saw about eight people I used to know, most of which I tried to avoid, including the mythical Skank who stole my man in high school, that bitch. Then the reunion with my friends I've known since 5th grade and that I haven't hung out with altogether in about 5 and a half years (they have kids now! Weird!) There was also our annual visit to Apple Hill, which is this awesome apple orchard with delicious pies, beautiful views, and cheesy crafts for sale. It's the best way to celebrate my favorite season.

Post-Soggy Turkey Trot.

The morning of Thanksgiving itself, my friend Jenna and I decided randomly to do the Roseville Turkey Trot 5K for charity. Not sure why, since I usually hate running, doing good works, missing the Macy's Parade, and being outside in the rain, but overall it was a fabulous experience that I totally want to do next year! I came in 812th out of 997, badass! The meal afterwards was epic, and pie at my grandma's was even better. I loved being surrounded by the adorable mini-mafia that is my nieces and nephew. We started decorating for Christmas the next morning, before I visited with more of my best friends that I never get to see. Then I flew home and it was back to reality. Or as real as Studio City can get.

8. I guess I'll go ahead and toot my own horn too and announce that I have lost about 36 pounds since August 16th! Toot toot! Turns out that eating healthy and powerwalking every morning is a potent combination. I even survived the terrifying obstacles of my birthday and Thanksgiving, and managed to come out unscathed.

One of these days, I'm hoping to take the iconic,

"Look at how big my pants used to be!" picture.

Normally when I lose momentum, I can't get back on that proverbial horse for another 8 or 9 months. But I refuse to beat myself up about eating pie on Thanksgiving, because you can't deny yourself everything. You can't indulge every craving either. I'm striving for balance and so far it's working. But ask me again in a few months. We'll see. December is going to be a bitch.

9. Oh I almost forgot! I also survived the freaking delicious Sally Tomatoes Formal Dinner Pah-ty (you have to say it with a hoity-toity accent)! Survived as in I was strong enough to eat Dana's monumentally amazing food without going crazy on it. You can read more details and get recipes on her delightful cooking blog here!

So that brings us back to today when I had to fit in nine days worth of work into one since it is now my regular weekend. But at least I got to spend a good hour showing potential transfer apartments to Sexy Jesus (and his pregnant wife who is annoyingly delightful and normal looking so I can't even hate her). If you are still reading this, congratulations! You must have even less to do than me!

Pretty Much the Cutest Thing Ever

I'm tired and still semi-cranky so I'll make this one short and ridiculously sweet. You know when you have a bad day and all you want to do is call your mom and vent about it? (Because you're a hopeless mama's girl/boy like me?) Well when I called my mom tonight after what I call a classic example of Clusterfuck Friday (where everyone is terrible and everything goes wrong and for some reason it usually happens on Fridays) she was babysitting my kickass little nephew Ayvind.

Ayvind is about 18ish months old now and smart as a whip. (Though how whips have any sort of intelligence is beyond me.) He's quiet and contemplative for a baby, taking in the world and forming his own tacit opinions of it. But he can still giggle and peek-a-boo like a boss. He's a man of few words, though he possesses great understanding. He knows exactly what you're saying, he just chooses to communicate back via sign language. According to my sister-in-law, he can speak about 50 words, but can sign up to 230.

Pictured: Baby genius.

Also I'm not sure what he's signing here,

but it is probably something like

"Holy crap, I'm friggin' awesome!"

Anyway, so my mom was giving Ayvind a bath while she talked to me on speakerphone. The whole time Ayvind kept shouting "Pooe! Pooe!" (Which is my brother's nickname for me -long story-, so now I'm 'Aunt Pooe' which also prevents confusion since his other aunt and I have very similar first names). Ayvind knew exactly who I was, although we haven't spend nearly as much time together as I wish we could.

According to my mom, (who could have been lying since she was also trying to cheer me up) he signed "I love you," and tried to kiss the phone. Then he tried to give the phone a rock to play with, all the while saying "Pooe! Pooe!" Since he doesn't talk much, it was an honor to hear him say my name. Especially since I had such a crappy day. He also loves rocks, (which is a bizarre family trait I thankfully did not inherit) so giving me a rock was a symbol of great sacrifice and love.

The point of this is that you can't stay upset and frustrated when you have an adorable little guy 450 miles away who adores you right back. (Though I still find it hard to believe he remembers me even after not seeing me for at least 4 months. That's roughly a quarter of his life!) You pretty much made my day, Little Ayvind. Aunt Pooe loves you too!

Penguins, Nuns, and The Nintendo Workout

I got a Wii Fit for Christmas, which is basically my mom's way of saying Merry Christmas, now get off yo' ass! (Just kidding, she would never talk like that in a million years). But who am I to turn down free exercise/gaming equipment? So here is how I started my new Nintendo-inspired workout:

This dude is just begging for a swift kick in the ass

with a frozen boot.

1. Turn on Wii.

2. Sit and wait for it to warm up.

3. Wince as the Wii Fit balance board goes "oooooh" at my heft.

4. Walk away as the annoying little cartoon guy blabs about posture and eat some See's candy.

5. Come back and hula hoop until I just can't hula hoop no mo'.

6. Run in place (Then reward myself with more See's candy)

7. Attempt to do yoga, but just get pissed off at the douchey male trainer and the bitchy female trainer. (In the argument over which is worse, douche vs. bitch, the jury is still out).

8. Eat some more See's candy.

9. Put in Just Dance 2.

10. Shake my blues away for an intense 35 minutes, whilst working up a surprisingly good sweat.

11. Congratulate myself with some more See's candy. Boo, all gone!

I don't know if I can keep up this rigorous schedule, but I do know that it's awesome! Gyms should start offering the See's Candy/Wii Fit/Just Dance diet and exercise plan. It will overtake Curves in popularity, if not effectiveness.

Other notable mentions in the Christmas gift category:

Well, they're not Nude, but they do have big guns.

1. Nun Shrinky Dink earrings and a Nuns with Guns cigarette case (which I will use as a wallet), thanks to my big brother who knows me better than I thought he did.

2. A homemade penguin apron courtesy of Mama Hutch (righteous.)

3. A penguin stuffed animal from Aunt Bonnie

4. A penguin mug (from cousin Brittaney via Yankee Trade)

5. A penguin spatula (also from Mama Hutch, I have a thing for spatulas. It's a long and amusing story which I might tell some other day. But it involves the day my first niece was born, a build-a-bear stuffed duck, and a purely ironic expedition to find porn in Ashland, Oregon.)

Pretty spiffy, eh? Check out the fine, hand-crafted Mormon stitching!

When did I become the penguin queen? Sure I like penguins. I have penguin speakers in fact. But I wouldn't say they're my favorite animal. I don't have a favorite animal. I'm not a big animal person at all actually. But I guess if I'd have to pick one, it would be penguins. I can hardly escape them now. Their beady little eyes follow me wherever I go, judging me for eating See's when I should be Wii Fitting. I wonder if it's because I like nuns that everyone assumes I like penguins. They bear some similar characteristics. Black, white and judgmental. Anyway, I'm completely satisfied with this year's haul. And if nothing else, seeing my brothers, mom, and sisters-in-law busting a move on Just Dance for the Wii, was enough to fuel ten Christmases. If we gave my dad enough boxed White Zin, he'd get his groove on too, and then I'd never need another present ever again.

Yankee Trade, Jungle Style

I'm up far too early on Christmas morning, just like the old days. So instead of playing Upwords with my mom to kill time (a 4am Christmas tradition for a few years, because Upwords is so much cooler than Scrabble), I'm going to catch up on blogging. I've been a bit MIA recently, due to the new job (where I was promoted to Santa and pushed around a shopping cart full of UPS and FedEx packages wearing a Santa hat, instead of just logging and organizing the boxes like a lowly elf) and generally being lazy pants.

The other, less jolly reason is that my grandfather just passed away a few days ago. The only upside to lung cancer is that you get time to say goodbye. So my (sometimes) lovable curmudgeon of a grandpa got to go to Disneyland one last time (and gleefully rode the carousel over and over), eat pralines and cream ice cream, and make sure all of his guns were safely out of the house (retired cop, not a psychopath). Everyone has just been exhausted and emotionally drained, but Christmas comes despite heavy life events, so our family will celebrate the only way we know how: viciously and without mercy.

The grand Christmas Eve shindig takes place at our house with all my bazillion aunts and cousins, and various other family members. We have many traditions, like reading the nativity story from the Bible (even though most of us are agnostic/atheist), reciting the "Night Before Christmas," eating Aunt Carole's world-rocking bean dip, and torturing the grandkids by making them sing Christmas carols. My mom will seriously look over from the piano at anyone not singing and give them the elementary school teacher glare until they submit to a third verse of "Oh Come All Ye Faithful." It's awesome. And it's all worth it because the main event of the evening is... YANKEE TRADE!!!!

Yankee trade is known by many names (according to Wikipedia), White Elephant, Chinese Gift Exchange, Dirty Santa (sounds like a porn...), or Thieving Secret Santa. Basically, everyone brings a present, and then you take turns opening them. But if you don't like what you got, you get to steal someone else's. And it. gets. ugly. Every year we argue over what the rules are going to be, should there be a limit to how many times a gift can be stolen, do you open the gift before deciding to trade, if the gift bag is pretty who gets to keep it. And every year we decide on the most ruthless rules. Basically that there are none. Except eye-gouging. No eye-gouging. Gifts range from the silly (I once put in a romance novel called "Desiring the Highlander," tee hee, and last night my cousin submitted Tater Mitts, which also sounds dirty but are those gloves that can peel potatoes in 6 seconds), to the actually awesome (See's candy, the Ellen Degeneres Bluetooth that I won, and more).

My family is hilarious when they play Yankee Trade, because there are always tons of people, everyone's shouting and laughing and arguing but in a pleasant way. My grandpa was exceptionally funny when we played in years past. He did not like having people steal his crap, and to try it meant certain death or at least a good berating. (Imagine trying to take anything from a guy who strongly resembles Marlon Brando circa the Godfather). I used to get just as upset and cry if someone took my gift, so I don't blame him. When I was about 6 or 7, I threw a fit when a cousin tried to steal my minature lantern key chain and gumballs. I still have that key chain to this day, so you can tell who won that battle. This year I ended up with an adorable penguin mug and a beautiful glass pitcher.

After the madness, the jungle mentality wears off and people are nice (sort of) to each other again. Deals are made, candy is shared, and everyone eats my mom's homemade cheesecake. People gradually clear out, since according to Carole, Santa won't come if you're not in bed by midnight. We take that pretty seriously around these parts. When it's just the immediate family, we get to open one gift, usually our Secret Santa present to each other. Then it's off to bed to sleep off the Bailey's and boxed White Zin (classy folk).

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!

Should be interesting with five kids under the age of five tearing around the house high on sugar and consumerism...

Snow Can Suck It

I hate snow. I hate it more than the Lakers, more than grammatical errors online, more than Asian food of any kind. And that's a lot. It's fun when you're a kid, and you can spend hours making giant snowballs named Big Bob Pataki (true story), or make four-foot deep snow angels during freak snowstorms. It's pretty if you get to stay home and watch it turn the world around you into a magical, sparkly wonderland. But if you have somewhere to go, or someone is coming to visit, snow turns into this dark, dangerous, diabolical entity disguised as a natural phenomenon. It turns a normally blissful twenty-minute drive on the beautiful pine-tree covered Foresthill Road into an exercise in terror. Especially if you drive a car like Stan who has only one sad headlight that does little to illuminate the pitch black forest from which deer, raccoons, and other creatures could sprint out at any second.



The 450ish mile trip from L.A. to my tiny hometown halfway between Sacramento and Reno went fantastically, if only because one of my best friends, Kelly-Bean hitched a ride with me. We jibber-jabbered like lady chickens, rocking out to my cheesy girl power playlist (Pat B., Kelly C., Aretha, and the Spice Girls mostly), planning our future weddings like the super girlie girls we so aren't. So even though it was dark and raining most of the way, the hours seemed to fly by, driving into the abyss. But once I dropped Kelly off at her house, I immediately started to panic. My mom had called to warn me that it was snowing on the Hill. I could have crashed (bad choice of words) at Kelly's, which probably would have been smart. But you know how it is when you just want to get where you're going and sleep in your own bed. So I forged on into the wilderness.



Luckily the roads weren't icy and treacherous yet, but there was a half-inch of snow and Stan does not carry chains. I had to drop my speed from the 55mph limit to about 30, but eventually made it home alive. I just had to trust that Stan would deliver me home safely to my mommy, and he came through big time. I could barely see a thing between the one headlight and the thick snow flying at me, reminding me of Star Wars light speed. It's been a long time since I've driven in the snow (having lived in So-Cal for the past five years), but I forgot how cool that aspect is. I was pretty much driving blind, but imagining that I was co-captain of the Millennium Falcon alongside Han Solo helped with the fear. Yep. Major nerd moment, but at least I survived.



So now that I'm back in Foresthill for Thanksgiving, I've decided to make a list of everything I like about being home:



1. TV!!! I actually get to watch television! What a concept! Specifically, What Not to Wear, which is my biggest guilty pleasure and one of the few shows I love that I can't watch online (believe me, I've tried) And it's on a screen that is actually bigger than my laptop unlike my own TV.



2. My dog, Jesus (don't be offended, I named him that because he's gentle, loyal and friendly and protects us from burglars, bears, and squirrels and loves everyone unconditionally)



3. My cats, Piccolo and Peter. Though they can be little bitches sometimes. Like most cats I suppose.



4. This probably shouldn't be this low, but seeing my family, obviously. Especially my baby nephew Ayvind who is pretty much the cutest little boy alive. I have proof.



5. My dad gives Stan a check-up to make sure everything is all right. Currently the back windows are stuck open which isn't a problem in balmy L.A., but when it's snowing outside, that's probably not a good thing.



6. Foresthill really is beautiful. It's a crappy town to live in, with an extremely sparse population of rednecks (imagine all Southern stereotypes without the accent), and an even sparser (?) selection of food and entertainment venues. But with the trees and the canyons and rivers, and wildlife, it's what a lot of people would call paradise. Not me. But you know, if you like that sort of thing.



7. While there is never any food in my parents' house, there is a current pool and hot tub in the renovated garage with a tv so you can swim and watch movies at the same time. Sweeeeeet.



8. Getting to see old friends, going out to breakfast at Awful Annies, Waffle Barn, or 2AM sausage and applesauce at Denny's (keep your fancy restaurants, give me Denny's any time)



9. Playing a real piano. Especially since I have to practice my solo of Rufus Wainwright's "Hallelujah" for the Sally Tomatoes winter concert. Ack! I must apologize to Rufus in advance.



10. This might sound really trivial, but the water here is frickin' delicious. Especially if you suffer from the floater-ridden off-clear murky suspect crap they pass of as H2O in L.A. I was dying of thirst the whole way home, but a) I don't believe in paying for water if I can help it. And b) I look forward to a glass of ice cold, crystal clear mountain spring tap water whenever I make the trip up to Nor-Cal.



In short, Foresthill is the kind of town you can't wait to leave, but love to come home to. As long as it's not bloody snowing.

UPDATE: Naturally as soon as I finished this post, the power went out all night which was just difficult and annoying. It is awfully pretty outside and today I'm going to the Mandarin (as in oranges not Chinese) Festival. I just hope Stan will forgive me for having the windows open and subjecting him to this frightful weather.

Ayvind Finn Hutchings!

My first nephew (though 4.5th time as an aunt) was born last night around 9 or 10pm. It was a looong, difficult natural labor, and both my brother Nick and amazing sister-in-law Tia were just exhausted. But it's all for the best since now we finally have a beautiful baby boy. He's small, but mighty at 5 lbs, 14 ounces, and 19 inches long. He has black hair, almost like a mullet (awesome!), which is even better since most Hutchings babies are born bald. I myself remained that way until about the age of 3.

Yes his name is Ayvind Finn, which most people won't be able to say, so it's Ay (as in pay) and vind (as in wind). It's originally Scandinavian, but they changed the spelling to make it easier to pronounce (hee hee). I think it's gorgeous though and totally suits both parents and baby. Finn comes from Tia's best friend Donna who they couldn't name the baby after, as it is a boy, and they didn't want it to get beat up too badly. Though with my unusual brother as his father, this might be inevitable. So Donna chose Finn which I think is adorable. His nickname is the "Mini Pooper" since Nick and I call each other Poo and Pooe respectively. I know it's dorky, but it would take a long time to explain why. So Ayvind is officially the Mini Pooper.

I wish I could be there, but sadly, I am stuck in LA, waiting anxiously for pictures of my first nephew! I have another niece or nephew arriving in I think July, so this is all just too exciting!