The kids next door have moved out.   No longer will those long-haired young men receive visits from the Convertible Cotillion, their groupies of long, blond hair, short skirts and small, yappy lap dogs.  I could never figure out what a bunch of marginally employed twenty-something boys had that appealed to the spoiled rich girls.  The boys were either really good in bed or gave the girls pot.  Or maybe some combination of the two. 

So,they're gone.  No longer will we have to listen to the Grateful Dead being played at full volume through the missing windows of a Jeep.  No longer will we smell the sweet scent of the ganja drifting over from their backyard.  No longer will we have to wonder whose car will be next door in the morning.

The duplex next door is a rental.  One half is now occupied by a family with a child a little older than the little angel. It's been something of a revolving door in the four years we've lived here.  Our favorite neighbor was the one who was there when we arrived, a firefighter who couldn't fight fires due to back trouble, and her hippie girlfriend.  The firefighter was damn good with power tools, and she stopped by to comment on the goings on in our backyard while we ripped out a huge flower bed and a chain link fence, laid down fourteen tons of river rock with a shovel and a wheelbarrow (one of my greatest athletic achievements to date) and built a sunroom where a leaking screen porch used to be.  It is my only regret that she didn't get to watch us build The Retaining Wall That Almost Claimed Our Marriage - she would've really enjoyed the ride-on earth mover that we rented during the rain for that experience.

I wonder who will be next?  I can guess.  I doubt the duplex rents for too much, but it's enough that it doesn't attract the absolute dregs of society.   I'm hoping for another little family with small child. Maybe we can get enough in the neighborhood to start a cricket team.

This morning the little angel and I were on the couch at 6:30 when I thought we might be under siege by Fox 4.

Little angel:  "Sky fishies?" (This is her term for helicopters. She thinks they look like fish.  I like it, it's kind of like calling the Lake Patrol the Sea Pigs.)

Me:  "Yes, there do seem to be a lot of helicopters.  Go back to sleepy."

But they didn't go away.  It sounded like they were right overhead, ready to parachute helmet-headed investigative reporters onto our rooftop.

After about a half-hour of this, we went upstairs and watched the news with my beloved.  It turns out there was an attempted bank robbery two blocks away at 6:20 this morning.  A security guard was shot, his car was carjacked, and he apparently dragged his bleeding self across the street to the gas station where we normally buy the paper and sometimes Baked Lay's.

The coverage was on two of the three local news channels.  I thought the helicopters might possibly be playing Sky Chicken as they circled around, trying to get good shots. It is a wee bit disconcerting to be watching a reporter and hearing the same sirens in your own neighborhood as you are hearing in the background on the television.

Of course, they don't have much to go on.  The teller apparently couldn't open the vault because he or she didn't have the right key.  I tried to comfort myself by telling myself we don't have a vault here at the house.  This didn't make me feel a lot better, because I saw two policemen coming out of the Crazy Ladder Woman's blue house earlier this week, and last week I confronted two policemen with a paddy wagon right across the street. 

I thought our neighborhood was getting better.  Two of the houses on my little block have been beautifully rehabbed in the past year.  I have no idea what all of the policemen are doing. Perhaps they are selling tickets to their ball. Somehow, though, I doubt it.

Me:  "Don't worry, sweetie.  They sky fishes are outside, and they are just looking for news."

Little Angel:  "News?"

Me:  "Yes, I'll explain that when you're six."

She wandered off, making fishie noises with her mouth.  And another day begins.

I turned 32 yesterday.  I was feeling sort of weird about that, no idea why, and happened to mention it to my beloved.  His advice:  "I think from here on out we have to just sort of forget how old we are."

Working on it.

I turned 32 yesterday.  I was feeling sort of weird about that, no idea why, and happened to mention it to my beloved.  His advice:  "I think from here on out we have to just sort of forget how old we are."

Working on it.

I read a while ago that Mighty Girl wished she had old-school pink bunny slippers.  I have them.  I had no idea I was so forward-thinking with my fashion, since I've been reading all week about how Mighty Girl (whom I do not know, though she sounds cool) is something of an Internet hair and fashion icon.

Which I so am not.  Anyway.  Here they are.  I can hear you all shaking with envy.  Admit it.

I read a while ago that Mighty Girl wished she had old-school pink bunny slippers.  I have them.  I had no idea I was so forward-thinking with my fashion, since I've been reading all week about how Mighty Girl (whom I do not know, though she sounds cool) is something of an Internet hair and fashion icon.

Which I so am not.  Anyway.  Here they are.  I can hear you all shaking with envy.  Admit it.

Last weekend, I excavated two of This Old House's closets. This Old House was built without closets around the 1920s, so at some point someone had the bright idea to wall off parts of the house and call them "closets."  For this reason, it's damn near impossible to install a clothes rod anywhere, because there are no appropriately placed studs.  The closets are big, but in most cases long and narrow with sloping roofs and built-in drawers that you must climb under clothes rods to reach.  Terribly inefficient. Oh, and there is a window in every closet.  We don't have windows treatments in there, so if you drive past my house, you can see anything from my beloved's tie collection to my yellow feather boa to a blanket tacked up to the little angel's winter coat, depending on which direction you are driving and how hard you look. Am I classy or what?

Anyway, I pulled out six garbage bags of crap, moved a ton of stuff into even more plastic tubs in our basement (even though we are currently convinced we are through procreating, we are keeping this junk - break glass in case of emergency, oh, and to loan to needy friends), and dragged a few choice items out to the curb.  Not for the garbage man, silly, for the neighborhood vultures.

Since I live in the city and in the last "okay" neighborhood before you get into hard-core South K.C., home of liquor stores with bars on the windows and good BBQ, I have a wide variety of bizarre individuals driving around my neighborhood on any given day.  They have cell phones. There is a Trash Vulture Network.  Sure enough, not ten minutes after I dragged: a box full of old pillows and cushions to furniture we no longer have in the house; a Reebok step (1992, anyone?); an old birdhouse (white); a laundry bag full of stained and bleached towels and an ugly set of sheets with matching bed skirt; a cool pewter-looking magazine rack; and a box of broken picture frames out to the curb, there was a pick-up truck pulling up. 

I watched through the sun porch windows.  After the pick-up, a late '80s model sedan with kickin' rims slid by the street.  It parked and out popped someone to grab the picture frames.  While that person was picking through the pile, another pick-up pulled up and stopped about twenty feet away. I slowly realized that this was Trash Vulture Etiquette, kind of like waiting twenty feet back while someone else uses the ATM.  Who knew?

Within twelve hours, it was picked clean.  Anyone need to illegally dump something at my house?

Scene:  Dorothy's parking lot. (Some people have garages - Dorothy and her beloved have a garage-sized chunk of crumbling concrete. It parks six vehicles. It sucks.) 

Dorothy gets in her Explorer, realizing she is late to meet friends for lunch. Dorothy is preoccupied with thinking that she doesn't actually know the name of the restaurant in which she is lunching, she is still upset about having to wear pants because she discovered the day before that none of her jeans fit, and she has generally high anxiety to begin with.  (Dorothy always refers to herself in third person when she is upset.)

Dorothy turns on the car, realizes her beloved has set the radio to SPORTS AM RADIO, AGAIN, and with annoyance turns it back to NPR.  She checks for her cell phone to call friends to see where the hell the restaurant is.  As she is dialing, she hits the gas to back up.

You see it coming, don't you?

RIGHT INTO THE CLEANING WOMAN'S CAR. The cleaning woman, who earlier that hour had broken a picture frame in the little angel's room. 

THANKFULLY, Dorothy had responded well to the breakage and told her not to worry about even replacing it.  THANK GOD Dorothy did not care much about the picture frame and did not make a big deal about it, because a picture frame is oh, so much less important than someone's main form of transportation.

Dorothy immediately calls her beloved, who of course does not answer the phone, because men do not answer their cell phones when caller ID tells them it's their wives calling.

Dorothy mea culpas to the cleaning woman, who is more than gracious.  It is a big mess.  The hood is dented.  The bumper cover is dented.  The driver's side light is dangling from a cord.  The entire front of the car was made of plastic, and plastic does not respond well to being hit.  It cries out melodramatically and crumples to the ground, sobbing. 

Dorothy calls her mechanic, conveniently located two blocks away.  He comes down and looks at it, says it's drivable, and (Dorothy thinks to herself) witnesses the fact that the only damage on the much-damaged car that Dorothy caused is the front stuff. This may come in handy when the bill comes.

Dorothy realizes she's going to have to pay for this outright during a lean period.  Dorothy knows that if her insurance company is asked to pay for it, they will take it out of her ass in myriad ways not worth the cost of repairs at a downtown repair shop.  The cleaning woman says she knows someone who will do good work, even though (insert racial epithet that Dorothy pretended not to hear).

About the time that the mechanic was helping Dorothy pick pieces of shattered plastic off the driveway, Beloved finally showed up.  He went over and assured the cleaning lady of the exact same things Dorothy had previously assured her.  She held up the broken picture frame.  "It's a bad day for breaking things," she said.

He looked at Dorothy,fixing her with an evil grin.  "Now why can't you be more like her and break PICTURE FRAMES?'

I have been writing a few articles an issue for KC Weddings for about six years now.  In that time, I've seen three great editors tackle the job in their own unique way.  I'm by far the happiest with the current editor, who kicks major ass and edited for Slate, as well as sharing my penchant for sarcasm and need to schedule things within an inch of their lives. 

Anyway, one editor ago (she ran off to California to get married, and I've never gotten a better wedding announcement in my life), I had the honor (ahem) of serving as the magazine's editorial assistant when I had the WILD MISPERCEPTION that I might be able to work part-time after the little angel's birth.  hee hee, ho ho ho  At least not part-time as an editorial assistant, that is for sure.

I've written about losing weight, favors, bridesmaids, cakes, dresses, flowers, rings, etc.  Sometimes more than once.  However, even though I will never grow wealthy from the money I make writing these articles, the interviews for them never fail to amuse me.

The wedding industry...it's insane.  You can slap some white ribbon on rubber dog shit and sell it for $25 if it says "bridal" or "wedding" somewhere on the packaging. I am so not kidding. When is the last time you voluntarily wore that horrible shrimp-colored sheath with puffy tulle sleeves you have in the back of your closet?  Yeah?  And it cost $300, didn't it?  The bride told you she was being nice because you could wear your own shoes? And she gave you rhinestones to go with?  Yeah?  I thought so.

Anyway, I'm working on a current article on the subject of rings. I don't want to be a spoiler for all of you potential brides who will run out and buy the magazine when it comes out this summer, but I will share that at the end of an interview, one contact told me her brother had recently purchased a ring for his fiancee.  She said he started out with a $5,000 budget, but that didn't work out for him.  The actual price of his fiance's two-carat rock?  Yes, folks, $30,000.  More than we spent on our wedding AND our 2005 Ford Explorer with the sports package.  I was slightly blown away by how a 35-year-old man could go from $5k to $30k without much additional stress. 

I saw a tagline on the side of my hotmail the other day about banishing your holiday debt.  Is this how one could blow a budget by $25k?  Am I ridiculously conservative in that spending that much money for anything, even a car, makes me kind of want to throw up my breakfast?  Maybe it's because I grew up in Iowa.  I just can't embrace it, the freewheeling spending.  Oh, hell, I'm not perfect - I covet and crave, I spend when I can, but then I spend three weeks in Lutheran Guilt/Buyer's Remorse Hell.  I even regretted buying the Explorer, even though we intend to drive that bad boy into the ground and then some and then give it to the little angel go terrace jumping when she's 18 (I just heard that you have to be 18 to get a driver's license in Missouri - this can't possibly be true).

Anyway, what do you think?  $30k?  Too much for a diamond? Or am I horribly bourgeois?