This past weekend Beloved flew to Lansing, Michigan for the Iowa Hawkeye game. Surprise win! One of the best ever! I'm so glad he was there. This Hawkeye is proud of the scramblers.
I loaded the little angel into the car on Friday and drove to my parents' house, where Blondie and I watched the entire Jurassic Park trilogy and Wall-E (I was a Wall-E virgin) and spent the weekend making puppets and carving pumpkins and laughing until my sides hurt and cuddling and eating with our parents and my girl. It was awesome.
I got to see all of my local aunts and uncles and two of my cousins. And -- for those of you who follow me on Twitter -- we did make it five hours round-trip with no DVD player. YES WE DID.
My finger puppet is based loosely on Lauren Conrad. Note the Barbie tanning oil glued to her bikini bottoms. Ahem.
The little angel's puppet featured freckles.
The little angel's puppet also had a sequined bustle and had recently taken a spring break vacation to Panama City Beach.
Blondie's is going to be in a textbook, so I'm a little worried about copyright posting the photo.
So I'll show you her klassy puking pumpkin instead.
Evil lurks on the farm. It gets VERY DARK in Iowa.
Speaking of which, now that I'm out of swatting distance, I will admit that while I was dicking around helping Pa load his wood pellets for his corn boiler out of the Morton Building, I asked if I could take out the riding lawn mower tractor that I learned to drive on. It's larger than a surburban riding lawnmower, and really should be classified as "tractor." Well, I apparently slowed down too much before I popped the clutch into third, and before I knew it? I was doing a wheelie all the way across my parent's yard. Oops. That was exciting.
Blondie gave the little angel a princess cowgirl hat, which has totally changed her vision for her Halloween costume. So I just ordered some fake cowgirl boots on the Internets.
Yay, October! It's so important (I think) for couples to have time to play on their own. I'm glad Beloved had his day in the sun, and I had a great time with my family.
Carry on.
Scene: Walking back from the park. It was 75 amazing degrees in Kansas City today.
The little angel is reclined in the only stroller we still own, a purple-flowered umbrella jobby. (The park is a mile away.) She has her legs crossed and is waving the water bottle around like a wand as she warms to her subject.
Her: Mommy! I'm going to tell you a story now.
Me: Okay.
Her: This is the story of the three pigs.
Me: (respectful pause)
Her: The first pig was named <LITTLE ANGEL>.
Me: She sounds very nice.
Her: Shhh! This pig built a house out of FEATHERS. Can you believe it?
Me: That would be hard to do.
Her: And then a wolf came along and blew the house over. Can you believe it?
Me: That's too bad. Then what happened?
Her: Then the SECOND PIG, whose name was AUNT STEPHI, came and built a house out of DIAMONDS.
Me: (choking with laughter) That sounds right.
Her: But the wolf came and blew over the diamonds. And Aunt Stephi ran away.
Me: Excellent. Then what happened?
Her: Then the last pig came, and her name was RITA. And she was the SMARTEST PIG OF ALL.
Me: Of course she was!
Her: And she built her house out of BRICKS.
Me: And could the wolf blow it down?
Her: NO. So the other pigs came to live with her.
Me: Did she build them rooms of diamonds?
Her: Yes, of course she did. Seriously, Mommy.
Me: Excellent story, dear.
Her: And then there is this other story about THREE MICE.
And so it continued, all the way home.
Over dinner, she told the story to Beloved, who also appreciated its sparkling humor. Then she sang a song.
Her: This is not a real song.
Me: Why not?
Her: Because I just made it up.
Me: That's why you need to write it down. Because as soon as you write something original down, it becomes real.
Beloved nodded.
Me: It's called COPYRIGHT LAW.
Her: That is so cool!
Me: It doesn't mean it's good, but at least it's real.
Her: I can't believe I made up something real.
Isn't writing great?
Today was my team's weekly trek to Chipotle. I can't begin to describe where the conversation started, but it moved into our collective chagrin over professional landscapers ripping out still-blooming annuals to make way for the next season's goods.
I couldn't let it go, even when I saw my friends' eyes beginning to glaze as they did when I tried to discuss Andrew Sullivan's brilliant call in The Atlantic for Bush to take accountability for Gitmo Bay. (Direct quote: "Rita, I just felt my brain shut down.")
I started thinking about all the places the used annuals could go. Inner-city daycare centers! Rest homes! Hospitals! Some of those mums ARE STILL BLOOMING, DAMMIT!
What would we call such a thing?
The Foliage Relocation Organization.
You have some pansies you need to replace with Christmas cheer? Rip 'em out, dump 'em in a plastic pot, and call the FRO. They'll be there within 24 hours to rid you of your foliage and distribute good cheer throughout the metro area. If you pay extra, the FRO will e-mail you digital photos of octogenarians weeping with joy at the site of a sweet pea vine of their very own.
Think about it. It's an AWESOME IDEA.
I got the little angel a Barbie Head (I don't know what they are really called -- that's what I call them) at a garage sale this summer. She is OBSESSED. The stupid thing says things like "Let's change my style!" and "How about a barrette!" to the extent I think I'm going to have to secretly disable her. Why must everything talk? And she has no tray. like the old-school Barbie Heads. I mean, really.
The stylist runs a tight ship. Taking her roots from a great-grandmother who had a master's degree in home economics, she sets a stunning table at her dinner parties for Bella the Cat and Statue the Dressmaker's Bust.
The stylist demands complete and total attention while she focuses on learning, etiquette and fashion.
The stylist can be uninspired when it comes to mix-and-match, but she's only four.
Fortunately, the stylist has two extremely hip assistants.
Typically, the stylist will begin by taking BEFORE pictures.
Sometimes she interviews the client regarding lifestyle, maintenance preferences and aptitude for risk.
The stylist is not afraid to bring the outside in.
This client is 30 years old and not afraid of color.
Samantha Ronson goes outside for a smoke break.
Some clients embrace styling more than others.
When styling secrets must be hidden from the paparazzi, styling is conducted in the fort.
But the result is SO worth it. Totally trendsetting, dahling. We now get an additional four channels, plus Cinemax, at Ma's house.
TA DA!
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Updated to add my review of Parent & Child magazine on Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews and a link to my BlogHer post this week on traveling away from your child.
Today I'm working from home, doing my thang, now that my computer is blissfully fixed (oh thank you Brian with desktop support, thank you, thank you, thank you). I was so intent on making up lost time that I immersed myself deeply in spreadsheets all morning, bringing you the editorial, help-related goodness that is my product or will be my product come next year. I was SO busy that I did not even notice the lack of a certain, smelly, needs-a-bath-and-butt-shave, long-haired cat named Bella, who usually attacks me the minute she realizes I'm staying home and snores next to me on the couch for hours. (Fringe benefit - she is so cute, my baby, yes she IS!)
Lunchtime rolled around. I went for a jog in the sweltering hot sun (yes, I am one of those people that you see jogging on a really humid day and want to pull over and yell ARE YOU TRYING TO GIVE YOURSELF A HEART ATTACK?), then I came back and made a quick run to Blockbuster to return videos. All this activity must have shaken me out of my stupor.
When I got back home, I finally realized Bella was just...not around. I shook her treat bag. I called her name. I checked her favorite spot in the basement.
Then, I remembered.
Last night the little angel opened the door to the guest room for five minutes. I wasn't watching the door the entire time, but most of the time. That does not matter. Bella can turn herself invisible when she's interested in locking herself in a room for hours. She is a Super Friend.
That was, oh, 8 p.m.
Last night.
So I started shouting her name and bolting for the stairs. As I hit them, I heard her calling back to me, "Mommy! SAVE ME FROM THE WHEAT ROOM!" I opened the door, and Bella came shooting out like a rocket, delerious with joy. And yes, there was a large, round urine stain in the very center of the bedspread. Cat urine soaks through, oh, yes it does! Thank you, sweet Jesus, for not letting it hit the mattress.
Years ago, with Sybil, I used to freak out when she peed on a bed. Today, I resignedly stripped off the sheets and comforter, thought briefly about just throwing the comforter away (wasteful, not environmental, not cheap, but much, much easier) and threw the sheets on SANITARY in the washing machine, knowing full well that even if I kill the smell, the actual cat urine particle cells will still be there, lurking, just like nuclear waste. The Styrofoam of the urine world. And even if you or I can't smell them, Bella can. And she might think since she peed there before, what the hell? Doesn't add to her numbers.
So, my friends, if you notice that your beloved cat is just not around, heed your instincts! Investigate immediately. With Lysol.
And hope you don't have a vengeful cat.
It's after the July 4th holiday.
It's bright and sunny outside.
BlogHer is but ten days away.
My sailboat is now rigged.
I don't have time to do anything fun during the work week.
I'm having a bit of trouble with focus.
Last night at dinner I was antsy and irritable, thinking about race relations in the United States and the layer of slime that insists on living on my kitchen floor no matter how many times we clean it and the long summer of presidential mud-slinging that's sure to come and this incredibly mind-boggling task I'm doing at work that totally blows and any matter of other things that make me antsy and irritable.
Me: "I'm grumpy."
Beloved: "Why?"
Me: "I don't know why. I just am. Wah."
Little Angel: "Mommy, you're whining. You know we don't whine."
Damn. She's right. Let me just reach down and pull that burr out of my ass.
Today is Average Jane's birthday (if my Outlook calculations are correct). Average Jane and I met 10 years ago, when we both worked for a now-defunct Internet start-up. She's a rock band frontwoman and a hell of a good cook. When I see her, I'm never quite sure what color her hair will be. And she's one of the most authentic people I know.
All hail Average Jane! Head on over there and tell her happy birthday!
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Posting on the tornado-related Boy Scout deaths today at BlogHer.
After procuring the lines for Puffer, Beloved and I had to figure out how to rig a 34-year-old boat from scratch. We didn't even know how to properly tie ANY sailing knots. Thank God for Basic Keelboat and The Handbook of Sailing, from which we somehow learned how to tie a figure eight and a bowline knot and how to rig a 12-foot sailboat when all the lines were lying on the ground in loose circles.
It only took three hours.
Despite the fact I was wearing 50 sunscreen, I managed to earn myself a painful sunburn. And a bunch of bug bites.
But the result...
I have not felt a greater sense of victory in a long time.