Setting: The New House. Three weeks ago. Babboo is running around the house while Isabel folds laundry and The King hangs the wet laundry on the rack.

Isabel: Babboo and I are going to Portland in a couple of weeks.

The King: Wait. What?

Isabel: I know I told you months ago that Carrisa from Tulsa was coming to Portland to visit Rhi. So I’m going down to Portland. And dude, I must take Babboo. They will want to meet Babboo. And we’re having lunch with THE TV GODDESS and I’m going to talk about nothing but TV AND BLOGGING. It will be the best lunch of my life.

The King: Was I invited?

Isabel: Not really. But, I guess, you can come. Only if you promise to do all the driving to and from Portland. Oh, and don’t forget to book us a hotel with a pool.

The King: (Skeptically) Sounds fun. I can’t wait.

And that is how we ended up spending the last weekend in Portland. We split our time between the following activities:

• hanging out with friends from the interweb.
• hanging out with The King’s friend from his FRESHMAN year of college.
• hanging out with one of The King’s missionary companions.
• hanging out at a Portland pumpkin patch.
• eating my weight in eggs benedict, ice cream, and kettle corn.
• eating my first (but hopefully not my last) caramel apple shake.

Kill me now.

(The “kill me now” is in reference to the eating part and not the friends part.)

Oh yeah, and we also had to deal with Rhi being locked out of her car. I don’t want to name names or place any blame on who was at fault with this whole situation.

Just know that if you ever have a house guest from Tulsa, don’t let him/her near your car locks.

Hey, I’m just saying.

The King’s suggestion for getting into the car was to “let the keyless fob rest for five minutes and then it will work.” Whatever. We did not have five minutes. So we headed out to lunch in my car (thus The King going against his promise to do all the driving). But get this, when we came back the fob worked like butter and Rhi and Carrisa were able to drive away in the shiny red car.

So it looks like it was a good thing The King came with Babboo and I to Portland.

(Guess who can’t find the memory card from her camera? Just guess. I hope I find it eventually so I can post pictures of said blogger lunch and pumpkin patch.)

**Sidenote to Carrisa: Remember how you made me promise to tell you exactly what The King said about you? Here you go (and I quote):

Isabel: What did you think about Carrisa?

The King: She’s shorter then I thought she would be.**

And there you have it; Carrisa is short. (Happy Birthday Beotch!)

Edited to add:

Rhi, DeAnn and me.  (Carrisa was taking the picture.)

I’ve had my fair share of issues with my colon. I’m only 33 and yet I’ve had more colonoscopies then someone twice my age. What I’ve learned from this is that if something odd is going on with the parts that are covered by your underwear, go and see a doctor!

Don’t be shy!

(Okay, you can be a little shy. I’ve heard it isn’t much fun to drop your drawers and spread your cheeks in front of a doctor who is applying lubricants to his [gloved] hand while your screaming newborn is held by a random nurse. Yeah, I’ve heard this isn’t much fun.)

In case you’re new here to holaisabel.com you might not know that I’ve had 15 polyps removed from my colon in the past three years. Apparently my body is really good at making polyps. And while I’ve been lucky that none of them have been cancerous, it doesn’t mean that at some point one of them might be full of cancer.

This isn’t something that I like to think about, but it’s a fact.

That’s why when I read about Lisa over at MiswesternMommy being told by her doctor that she has cancer my heart stopped and my eyes teared up.

Cancer doesn’t care how old you are. Cancer doesn’t care if you have a husband and children. Cancer doesn’t care if you’re happy and beautiful and healthy.

Cancer doesn’t care.

But we care, Lisa. We care. And together, we can show cancer who’s in charge.

(Finally getting to spend time with Lisa at BlogHer ‘07.)

So many of us have be affected (effected?) by cancer. Be proactive. Don’t forget to do your self-exams, get regular mammograms and colonoscopies.

And for the love of Pete, if you suspect something is wrong with your body, go and see a doctor.

It’s no secret that I struggle with my look. I think the majority of grown women do. Am I right? I would be crazy to pass up on Casey Moosh’s offer to pay for a lucky blogger to get a new hair-do. I’d be ever crazier to pass this up since the all-powerful Whoorl and her Hair Thursday magic are involved.

Today we will be looking at pictures of my hair-past. Why you ask? Because I said so. And because sometimes you must share things with the internet in order to win a free hair make-over. Especially if you have a horrid hair-past like I do.

It all started when my mom, who it must be noted is a licensed hair cutter person, didn’t know what to do with my crazy toddler hair. Do you put it in little pig-tails? Do you put it in spongy curlers? Do you bother to comb it?

Heck no, you just cut the damn hair off and forget it ever existed. (Hey wait, are the couch cushions different from the couch? I’m going to have to talk to my Mom about that one.)

I mean who doesn’t love a little girl with hair shorter then most little boys? Compare my hair length to that of my older brothers. It’s neck and neck. Also, is that the exact same cut my mom is rocking?

I think it is.

See how I gave you a few cute pictures of me before I throw this bad boy in your face? Boo-ya, I present nose-picker sitting in front of a very creepy empty fireplace wearing a very odd jumpsuit. With maroon socks.

Looks like my mom was letting me grow my hair out a bit.

Good thinking mom. The extra length definitely takes away from the booger picking.

Clearly my father was a professional photographer. Check out this artsy photo of me. What you can’t see (because it’s B&W) is that my coat is rainbow colored. Very 70’s chic.

Here I’m sporting bangs. And a very pensive look. I call this portrait, “How Can I End World Hunger?”

Here’s where it all starts to get ugly. I don’t know about you, but I had a very intense awkward phase. It started the day I began the 6th grade and ended, well, it is just now starting to wind down. I would ask that you be kind and understanding. It would also help if you tried to remember back to your own awkward phase.

Continue at your own risk.

(You have been warned.)

(Seriously.)

My white sandals go great with the flannel shirt and shorts I’m sporting. My Mom made sure to never dress me in pink. As you can see that rule didn’t stand for my younger sister.

Who, by the looks of this picture, had some sort of itch.

(What’s the worst thing in this picture? My bangs or my sister’s itch?)
We all know that the 80’s look is currently very trendy. Too bad I didn’t hold on to this sweater that I got for Christmas in 1986. (What in the hell is my younger brother doing in this picture? Maybe he got my sister’s itch from using the toilet after she did.)

I had bangs for quite a few years prior to the whole Bigger Bang thing that was introduced to Utah (and the world) in the 80’s.

I rocked the straight cut bangs for years.

Not only was this awkward phase um, awkward, but I was also a little chubby. I assure you it was only baby fat and would leave by the time I was 25 35 (maybe?). The horizontal striped shirts I insisted on wearing and the pegged pants didn’t help to make me look thinner. Maybe standing in front of a dinosaur will help. And maybe by creating the highest bangs in the history of the world will make my face look thinner.

At least that’s what I was thinking.

Let’s look at a profile shot of from that same day.

Yep, the hair is high. And the pants are pegged.

Shudder.

The same trashy white sandals that I was wearing on the earlier camping trip picture made a second appearance! At least they look better with this skirt. A skirt that I was convinced(!) made me look thin. But only if I sucked in all day long. I wore that skirt all through middle school and junior high. It was good to me.

The bangs, yeah they weren’t as good to me. I just didn’t know it at the time.

Most of junior high was spent in a haze of hair spray. I divided my time between creating complex mathematical equations that would enable me to get my bangs to touch the sky and collecting necklaces to wear on top of each other.

Hey, it was a look.

I also discovered that if I braided my hair at night when it was wet it would look like a real live permanent wave by morning. I was by no means allowed to get one of those horrible perms, so I succumbed to a fake perm.

That’s right, I put my hair in small braids every single night of my life in an attempt to fake the look of a perm.

I also made my own lace for my collars and put shoulder pads in all my dresses. All of this kept me too busy to tweeze my brows. Dude, I was just too busy.

Somewhere between junior high and high school I lost The Bangs. But not before my dad convinced me to get all gussied up for our own at-home-backyard-photo-shoot.

(My dad scanned this picture and sent it to me. He titled it “model”. I’m not kidding.)

I spent my sophomore year doing what every other girl in my grade was doing; growing out my bangs. This took much longer for me since my hair was longer then should be legally allowed. Here I am sporting my First Day of School outfit. Yep, I’m ultra trendy and chose a plain white top. I’m sure all the boys noticed.

I preferred to pull my hair out of my face, but I knew this accentuated my forehead and my damn brows. So I cut a few pieces of hair to shield the head. Marci and I referred to them as “Kreblings” and they remained for years.

Thankfully I was no longer rocking the fake perm from my junior high days. I was, however, still rocking the super duper long hair.

My mom had a strict rule that I must pull some of my hair forward for every picture. She said this was to showcase my gorgeous long hair. Looking back I’m glad I followed her rule. It makes it easier to mock the length of my hair. (Notice how I said “mock” and I’m wearing a mock turtleneck in this photo? I’m clever. I wonder if Whoorl and Casey will give me extra points for that?)

Every picture taken of me has some hair pulled forward for the sake of the picture.

Even random shots had my pulling my hair forward. And I wasn’t even proud of my long hair. Only my mother was.

I didn’t get asked to many boy-choice dances in high school. Surprise, I know. I did go to the (girls-choice) Preference dance with The Most Preferred Junior boy. I lurved him. He was in a wheelchair and the Florence Nightingale effect was in full force.

I put so much time and effort into planning this date, but he picked another girl to escort him during the program. I tried to act like it didn’t bother me. Of course it did.

In an attempt to make this boy notice me, I decided to cut a ton of my hair off and wear a new fancy white bow for the dance.

At the time of this grand hair cutting my hair measured in at a whopping:

I should have done this years before.

My mom probably only cut a foot off, but it was a big deal to me. Nobody else noticed. I think it’s because they were too busy looking at the crazy polka-dot bow that Marci is wearing in this photo. This was smack dab in the middle of our “we must wear huge bows” phase.

My date never spoke to me again after the dance. I guess he wasn’t impressed with the foot of hair I cut off for him. I bet if I would have saved it and presented it to him in a little box he would have liked me more.

After high school and during college I decided to experiment with my hair a little. And by “experiment” I mean I let my drunk ass roommate cut it. And then I bleached it.

I looked so different that even I wasn’t sure this was me in this picture. Since I’m holding my cousin and my sister is standing next to me, I’m pretty sure it is me.

But dude, short and blond is not a good look for Isabel.

And yet, I wore my hair like that for most of my early twenties. Give or take the few days I added some cute little barrettes to jazz up my look.

By the time I met my first husband I had let my hair grow out a little bit. And I quit bleaching it. Thank goodness. He probably wouldn’t have paid me any attention if I had looked all blonde and crazy.

Oh wait, would that have been such a bad thing?

I’m a star!

(A star that sneaks into the local high school to get school pictures taken for cheap. Seriously, I was 21 at this point. And not a student at the high school. I can’t remember why I did this.)

Yeah, my hair was a little poofy and I had fake nails. And eyebrows that go on for days. This is exactly how you catch a man.

A few years later and my hair was slowly growing past my shoulders. (Now my older brother was the one bleaching his hair.)

I am still making the same damn face that I always make in pictures, head slightly tilted, eyes not opened all the way. It’s classic Isabel. Even if I try to not make the pose, I do it. Every time.

(This picture was taken in the middle of my divorce. I was still pretty much a mess. Don’t worry, that didn’t last too long.)

By the time I met The King my hair was long and straight and easy to keep up. I typically had it highlighted and blew it straight every day. I liked it. And I guess The King did to.

And then like most brides, I cut it all off after we got married. (Why oh why do girls do this?) Short hair is not a good look on me. I found this out the hard way and them immediately began growing it back out.

And while my hair is ultra flat and my roots are about two inches long (and yes, my glasses are blue), The King’s hair was big enough for the both of us. (Whoorl and Casey, can The King enter this little contest too?)

After a few years of marriage, adult braces, growing my hair out and learning that my hair’s actually naturally curly, I’m getting more and more used to my current look:

But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t do whatever it takes to win Moosh’s make-over contest. Even if I winning means I have to subject myself to the embarrassments of posting 33 years of Isabel’s bad hair for all the interweb to mock.

So tell me, was your awkward phase as horrible and as long as mine was?

The King likes to tease me about my blog. He really doesn’t get blogging and sort of feels like it’s just this little thing I do on the side. Of course I (and the rest of you) know blogging is much more then that. Dude, I am consumed by my blog.

He teases me by asking me questions about HTML and then laughing at me when I give him the answer. And, you know, he calls me a nerd. (Which, I am. I know.)

One of the biggest things he does to make fun of me and my blog is to refer to any readers/commenter as “fans”. I’ll tell him about something that someone online told me and he’ll be all “who is that one?” and after I explain “she’s the one that lives in Kansas City and is remodeling a loft. And makes robots. DUH!” And he’ll be all, “oh right, she’s one of your fans.” And the he’ll roll his eyes at me.

Dude, he makes it sound so nerdy and lame. When really, I’m more of the fan around these parts.

Anyway.

If you were to ask The King what the mission statement of my blog would be he’d probably say something like “Isabel is so awesome and pretty and awesome! And her blog is so awesome”. That’s when I roll my eyes and remind me that I’m a nerd and not awesome at all. And then he’ll roll his eyes and talk about my fans again.

I think he’s just jealous.

If, by chance, I’ve written a particular post that I feel it’s imperative for him to read I’ll ask him if he’s read it and what he thought about it. He’ll usually come back with something snippy like “all I got out of it was how awesome your fans think you are.” I admit this can hurt a little as I feel I put a little more thought and preparation into the majority of my posts. It really isn’t all about “hey am I awesome, or what?!”

I’ll be the first to admit that it is nice to hear someone validate you and your thoughts. That need isn’t exclusive to blogging. Blogging just helps to facilitate that, I guess.

On a recent extended car ride with The King we started talking about my little blog and I shared with him my dreams and goals and hopes for my blog. I told him that I felt like I could make the (blog)world a nicer place, one post at a time. I told him I tried to be a good example to the interweb. Even if I maybe don’t come off that way, it really is my plan. I told him about how I would like to share my message of Goodness around the (blog)world.

Of course I usually end up blogging about my kid, my house, my job, my family, my friends. Um yeah, pretty much what I talk about is Me.

Squee!

This morning I read the following comment that the lovely Bethiclaus left on a recent post and got instantly excited:

Dear Isabel,

Thank you for being awesome and pretty. Also, can you please tell me more about the Seattle area as we are contemplating a move.

Signed,

Your bestest fan ever (or something), Beth

First off I got all giddy. Bethiclaus (and her adorable family) might be moving to Seattle! Yippee. I am all about cool bloggers taking over Seattle. I excitedly wrote her right back and asked for more details of this rumored move to my neck of the woods.

After hitting “send” on my message to Bethiclaus I read over her comment again. And then I died. Dude, it was basically the exact comment that The King is always teasing me about. Not only did she tell me I’m “awesome”, but she also said “pretty”. And then the cherry on top…she called herself a “fan”.

Crap, The King can not see this. He’ll never let me live this one down.

(And by “The King can not see this” I mean “I’m going to blog about this and totally call his attention to it.” I’m not that bright.)

Okay, so while I tell myself that I want this blog to be more about The Bigger Picture and Goodness in the (Blog)World and all the peace and love mumbo-jumbo, you’ve totally got to see a picture of my new jacket that I got from Ann Taylor Loft yesterday and then tell me how awesome I am.

You might wonder what about this picture makes me awesome.

The fact that I got this jacket on sale for $5.99 makes me awesome. And it was originally priced at $94.00!! Oh yeah, it was also 25% off, so really it was $5.18.

Nothing is more awesome then a new jacket for less then a fiver.

So tell me, what have you done lately that deserves the title of Awesome?  Don’t be shy.  If you can’t share it with the interweb, then who can you share it with?!

Have no fear, The King returned our cable box yesterday. Phew.

One thing down, six billion more to do.

The King also took the cat to the vet this morning for his grooming appointment. (While you may be thinking to yourself that The King seems to be the one doing all the actual tasks this week, be assured that I’m the one that gave the cat his sedative this morning. In pill form. So hey, I’m doing my part.) (I’ll also be taking myself to the salon for a hair cut. All by myself. I don’t need The King for that task.)

So while I’m super-duper busy this week (and also trying to find time to read “Twilight”, dude!), I wasn’t too busy to write a guest post for the lovely Heidikins. Please head over there to read all about how I’m either a gay man or a 12 year old girl. Both of which are awesome.

I also an asking your thoughts on doing personal tasks while on the clock over at SeattleMomBlogs. Seriously, I want to know what you all think about this subject. So head over and leave a comment. Don’t worry, your boss won’t read it.

——————————

And here, for the heck of it, is a very Seattle-esqu picture of how I spent last Friday evening.

Yep, that’s Jenni, Janet and me. And dude, it took us hours to find a Starbucks to pose outside of. (And by hours I mean I shouted “oh yeah, there’s one right there!” mere seconds after Janet had the idea to find a Starbucks for our picture.)

Babboo is on a very strict schedule. Feed him lunch at 11:00 and then come 11:25, all you have to do is point and say “go to sleep” and he will. No problem at all.

Same thing at night. Feed him dinner at 6:00, put him in the tub at 7:15 and at 8:15 you just stick the kid in his crib and tell him to “sleep!” And he will.

I admit this is pretty awesome.

I also admit this has nothing to do with me and loads to do with his teachers at school. They run a tight ship when they have Babboo during the day and I’m just their deck hand in the evenings and weekends.

It’s a great partnership.

But dude, I feel sorry for his teachers today. There is no way my kid is going to take a nap when they want him to. And there is definitely no way Babboo’s going to settle for drinking plain old water and white milk at lunch and not the “apple drink” he’s been enjoying all weekend with me (”apple drink” is code for “chocolate milk with chocolate syrup”, or just “soda pop”).

And um, let’s not even talk about the sleep schedule that he did, or did not, adhere to while under my watch.

Friday night he and I met my aunt and my cousin (who was on her mission for our church out here in Washington) at a park. Babboo ate way too late in the evening and was not happy. Especially when his Subway sandwich kept “breaking”.

In an attempt to quiet him, I threw my camera his way and told him to just push buttons.

(I got about a million pictures that all look like this one. That is until he peed on my lap and I banished him to standing next to me and not sitting on my lap.)

(That’ll show him.)

It was super awesome to see my cousin. You can tell I was happy to see her since I did my famous “head tilt” that seems to have taken over every single darn picture ever taken of me.

And we wore matching outfits.

But that wasn’t planned. And was actually a little embarrassing. And not just for her.
Anyway, Friday night pretty much ruined Babboo for the rest of the weekend. He spent most of Saturday morning with a friend while May and I got our craft on (don’t worry, I’ll be posting pictures of our projects). And then he spent the rest of the day at the outlet mall, carrying around a bottle of (soy) chocolate milk, while we got our shopping on.

And then, for the first time ever, Babboo was sent to be babysat by an actual teenage babysitter, who we paid actual money to watch him. Seriously people, this is the first time he’s been babysat by a person that we had to pay, who wasn’t related to us. (To be fair, we do pay his daycare to watch him. But you know what I’m saying.)

When I picked Babboo up on Saturday night, well past his bedtime, he was a mess. Far messier then I’ve ever seen him. Even messier then on Finger Painting Day at his school.

The poor kid had seen better days.

Note that he’s soaking wet from sweat. His hair was literally dripping. And dude, check out his awesome, chocolate and pizza stained, Def Leppard shirt and evil eyes. Also note his awesome gut hanging out of his shirt.

Babboo was up about 3 hours later then he’d ever been. And I’m not sure he was liking it. He was walking around the house in a chocolate milk stupor.

Mr. May finally drove us all home, Babboo slept in this car seat next to May’s two kids, and me, well I sat in the very back of the car facing the wrong direction. You know the seat, the one that’s really not legal and totally uncomfortable? Yep, that was me, wedged up against the strollers, making out with my kneecaps.

Besides my time spent in the back of May’s car, it was the perfect weekend.

So tell me, what are your thoughts on those little back seats in cars? Are they really legal? They just seem so wrong. (And also, so fun!)

Sidenote to Babboo’s teachers: Good luck today. And also, I’m sorry.

——————-

I got a phone call on Friday afternoon from Kathleen’s husband.  Apparently she, a woman years younger then I am, had gone into cardiac arrest on Tuesday morning.  Tuesday morning, May 13th, the day we both celebrate our birthday.  Kathleen has no history of heart problems.  She’s young.  She’s a vegetarian.  She healthy.  She just had her first baby.

Kathleen’s on the mend.  Still in the hospital.  Still trying to figure out what the hell happened to her heart.

I had just spent the Saturday before, three days prior, with Kathleen and baby Elanor…having lunch and shopping in the city.

She was fine.

She was more then fine. She was happy and cheerful and, like always, so fun to be around.

(L-R: Kathleen, baby Elanor, Babboo, me, Eve, and Kathryn)

Please head over and wish Kathleen well.  While she a little busy right now, you know, mending in the hospital, she sure could use the well-wishes and prayers.