Surrender, Dorothy

The Glory of an Empty Cardboard Box

My girls' weekend ROCKED. On every possible level. It was so great.

But it's private. Yes, it's true -- I do occasionally have boundaries. SURPRISE!

So, instead, I give you the house we made out of the cardboard box Steph's glider came in.

 

Note the fence by Beloved and the shape by moi.

 

We got some markers and puffy paints for the occasion. It reminded me of the cat house Blondie and I made with Pa when we were kids.

 

Beloved made special handles for the window out of duct tape.

The little angel immediately began decorating.

 

I contributed an apple tree.

 

And a sun.

 

Cardboard box houses ROCK.

 

As do half-price roses from the grocery store that have miraculously opened while you were gone for the weekend.

Girls Weekend

I'm off to Lawrence in a few hours to celebrate Steph's pregnancy with two of our three college roommates. The last time we got together sans kids and husbands was in Florida, probably three or four years ago. I can't even remember.

I haven't let myself think about it too much because this week has been so crazy busy, but now that I've completed the tasks that absolutely had to be done today, it's time to hop in the shower and pack and buy a box expensive bottle of fine wine so I can spend a day and two nights remembering what it is like to hang out.

Remember hanging out? It's been a while.

 

 

 

(I know these are blurry. I think they went with our state of mind.)

I Am Totally Channeling Kate Gosselin

Happy Halloween, y'all.

 

Beloved and I imagine Kate's future with Levi Johnston.

 

Leaves. FUCK.

 

 

Giddyup!

Happy Halloween! Hope you stayed safe.

Party for Girls (and Pa)

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.

At Least I Told Her About Copyright Law

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?

The Foliage Relocation Organization

 

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.

My New Favorite Word Ever

Thank you, Dictionary.com.

 

Welcome to Class, Children.

The little angel regrets to inform you that YOU ARE LATE TO CLASS.

It's after lunch, you fool! Now take your seat.

Don't bother with those girls on the left. They are totally Heathers.

The race to summarize the plot points of Lady Chatterley's Lover.

The judges called it a draw. School is like, so boring.

Just Can't Get Enough of Those Carnies.

This weekend the Arens family made the trek to the Lee's Summit Oktoberfest. We love fests. Also, carnies. Love 'em. Small hands.

Beloved and the little angel ascend the monster slide.

It was OMGSOFAST that I almost didn't get the shot.

"Mommy, how do you know they are square dancers?"

"Nobody dresses like that but square dancers and Katy Perry."

We decided to ride the ferris wheel.

As we got higher, I realized we were entrusting our lives to this guy.

And these bolts. It made me nervous until I realized if I died, it would be with my family.

Our parting shot, you know, just in case.

Farewell, Dumbo.

They seemed like ants.

We knew at the height of the ferris wheel we would never entrust carnies with our lives in the Ring of Fire.

The clouds were really cool on Saturday.

I totally want this hat for Christmas, even though it felt uncomfortably Denise Richards-ish.

The Home Depot had a fabulous booth. You could make stuff.

The Grandpas would be so proud.

We made a race car ramp.

In honor of She Who Apparently Does Not Wear Underwear.

When we got home, we decided to have all the little angel's Hot Wheels compete on the new ramp.

Ladies, start your engines.

No pressure, dudes.

In an attack of irony, the Kansas City Royals race car is actually really good.

It wasn't until they'd done several runs that I realized my daughter was using my Children International kid's picture as part of the ramp.

Hmmm. She's clearly going to hell.

Hell Is a Wall of Baby Feeding Options

My best friend, Steph (whom I have known since I was three), is pregnant with her first child. Steph would be the same individual who has an entire room for a closet.

Steph needed to register for her baby shower and plan the nursery on Saturday. The little angel and I were happy to assist. We arrived to find Stephanie buried in swatches and staring intently at a rocker-like chair. We debated the pros and cons of her chosen theme while the little angel set off across USA Baby looking for every stuffed animal she could possibly find and bringing them over for our approval.

Chair selected, we moved on to the stroller section. I prepared to discuss the pros and cons of a travel system versus a stand-alone. Her sister had recommended some stroller named Bob of which I've never heard and couldn't find in the store. Stephanie immediately stopped me.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't speak Baby. What the hell is a travel system?"

Making absolutely no progress, we moved on to high chairs, then finally slings and other things made of cotton. Stephanie was disturbed to hear that:

• Not all receiving blankets are cute.
• Yes, you need 85 of them.
• They will become cuter when they are not wet with vomit or urine or poop.

Then we decided we desperately needed lunch before preparing for the Physical Challenge, which is Babies R Us.

Steph told me over lunch that she and her husband have actually walked into Babies R Us a few times, then ran from the store screaming after seeing the walls of bottles in all sizes, shapes and flow speeds. I remembered Beloved mastering flow speeds before I did and saying patiently, "No, Rita, she needs a 2 nipple," as I stared stupidly before the baby who shrieked when the formula DID NOT COME OUT FAST ENOUGH.

Since she's going to breastfeed (like everyone) but doesn't know for how long (like everybody), doesn't know if she'll have to pump (like everybody) or what kind of pump it will be (like most), I suggested she buy some bottles just in case she wanted to invite her husband to experience the joy of night feedings. We walked over to the floor-to-ceiling wall of bottles, bottle cleaners, bottle sterilizers, pacis, bottle organization systems, bottle drying racks, et al. I could see Stephanie seizing up the closer we got to the wall, which, with the exception of the nipple balm section, is also the most terrifying for me in any baby store.

"I just scanned your butt," she said, while I stared intently at flow-speed instructions on various brands of bottles.

"You're not helping."

"There. I scanned your butt again. Why do I care about flow speed?"

And then I shared one of the secrets of baby products: They're about the baby only indirectly. As in: If the baby is not screaming, the parent is more sane. Give the baby what does not cause her to scream. If she wants the formula faster, give her the bigger nipple. SO SHE DOES NOT SCREAM. If she wants to be closer to you, put her in your bed or buy a toddler bed earlier SO SHE DOES NOT SCREAM. If she likes the Nuk versus another brand of paci, give her what she wants SO SHE DOES NOT SCREAM.

As I was wrapping up my PowerPoint presentation on babies not screaming, the little angel reappeared with the 356th stuffed animal of the day. "Isn't it CUUUUTTEE?" she said.

Stephanie smiled. "Yes, sweetie, it's adorable."

Then she looked at me. "I just scanned your butt again."