Snowfall in October

This is what it looked like in Cleveland today:

The juxtaposition of the gleaming snow against the brilliant autumn leaves is quite nice, if you ask me.

If you ask my mom, however, she'll curse the snowfall and give you an earful about how much it stinks living on the crappy side of the Great Lakes. And meanwhile, my dad will be mumbling in the background about how the days are just getting shoooorrrrter and shoooorrrrter. And pretty soon there will be no daylight to speak of and we will all want to burrow into a hole and hibernate for three months straight.

Nothing new today ...

I'm sure I'll have lots of Halloween-related postings to come in the next couple of days. But – for now – sit back, relax, and allow La to grace you with another remarkable performance.

My morning laugh

La crept into my bed at some wee hour this morning. When we woke up, we lied there and chatted for awhile. I cuddled her and tickled her and gave her a few eskimo kisses.

Then I said to her:

"La, you are so cute!"

To which she replied:

"Mom, you are so cute!"

... and I said,

"You're so sweet too! Just like a candy cane!"

Having misheard me, she gave me a puzzled look and inquired,

"Just like John McCain?"

Losing Streak

It all started around 8:00 two nights ago. I opened the medicine cabinet above the sink and out came a bright pink bottle of nail polish that promptly exploded all over the sink, spilling over onto the counter top, down the front of my shirt, and onto the floor.

After the clean-up, while battling an acetone-induced headache, I tried to put La to bed and she pulled the, "I don't want to sleep in my room ALL BY MYSELF!" And I was all like, "Dude. Think of our condo as one large room that has a couple of walls. See? We sleep in the same room. NOW GO TO SLEEP!" 

She didn't buy it. She did, however, get out of her bed, crying "I don't WAAANNNA sleep in my room" twelve more times throughout the night. 

Oh, the joy.

(Grandma Fern: I know what you're thinking. "Sounds like someone I know." Right? This is payback for the time I stayed with you for a week when I was five and pulled the same exact crap all week long. I apologize profusely for doing such a thing. I never knew it would cause so much damage and haunt me for the rest of my life. Or at least for the past 4 and 1/2 years.)

And THEN, I kept waking up all night because I was slow-cooking some vegetarian chili for a "Chili Cookoff" at work. I had an awful feeling that the crock pot would somehow burn my house down in the middle of the night. So, collectively – between the chili and the child – I did not sleep at all that night.

The next morning, I woke up early so I could drop La off at school and get back to my place, grab the chili, and meet Aunt M out front. (I thought taking chili on the bus would be a recipe for disaster, so I opted to hitch a ride to work with M) ... Surprisingly, I was running early. I stood outside on the sidewalk holding a Charles Shaw wine carton (the kind with the two cut-outs on each side that function as "handles"), which held my crock pot full of chili. As I stood there waiting for M, (I am still utterly baffled at how this could have happened), ONE OF THE HANDLES BROKE. Within a single millisecond, the left side of the box containing my precious concoction had SWUNG DOWN while – simultaneously – the OTHER HANDLE BROKE. The box landed on its side, smacking the sidewalk violently, and spilling 2/3 of the chili out onto the grass.

I stood there and stared at the mess, thinking for a moment that this cannot be happening. I must be having a nightmare.

After loudly letting out the worst curse word that my brain could materialize at 7:40 a.m., I then began recovering the small amount of chili remaining within the now-dented crock pot.

I ran upstairs and dumped a whole can of tomato sauce into the remains. Prior to the accident, the chili had contained the following: tomatoes, black beans, kidney beans, garbanzo beans, a fresh jalapeno, green bell pepper, sweet corn, 5 cloves of garlic, properly-proportioned spices, etc. When the canned sauce went in, the chili became tomato soup with a few chunks floating around. Then I poured half a bottle of chili powder and some salt and pepper into the dented pot and dashed back out of the house.

When I got into the car, I immediately started bawling and did not stop until I was almost at my office. M kept whispering sweet nothings to calm me down ... like, "It's okay! It will just be extra tomatoey ... Yum!" And by the time I got to the office, I realized that it really was not the end of life as I knew it.

Then, at 9:00 yesterday morning, after my dented pot was plugged in and simmering away at the office, I plastered on a smile and waltzed my tired butt down the hall to participate in a "decathlon" that our company is hosting. My team (creatively named Inigo Montoya by my teammate from our IT department) was there to root me on while I participated in the "trash can toss." There were eight trash cans spaced evenly apart, and I had to stand at the end of the row and throw a wad of trash into the first can, then the second, then the third, etc. All eight teams had a representative, and the whole office was there to watch their teammates participate. It was rather exciting and uplifting after the whole chili incident.

– until –

... I became THE ONLY ONE who did not get the trash ball into THE SECOND can. I under-threw. It landed between the first and second can. (Which was a whopping two feet away from my feet.)

And then I was all, "Excuse me while I go curl up and die in the corner."

But, instead of curling up and dying, I simply smiled at everyone (I'm such a gracious loser) and waltzed back to my desk to cry a little more.

Oh well. There's always the M&M race next week.

-------------------------------------------

On a lighter note, my little brother is a ROCK STAR! (again)

He received an award for academic excellence, which was only given to ten athletes in his entire school. The dude got a 3.8 GPA during baseball season. Rock on, Smarty Pants. Rock on.

We went. We ran. We got the t-shirt.

This past weekend, La and I piled in our car with Aunt M and our two friends Renee and Poonam and headed to Cleveland. There were many reasons to head back to Ohio (La's dad was in town, La's grandparents live there, we had lots of friends to visit, Drew Carey was born there, etc.) ... but the main reason we migrated home was to participate in an event that only a nuptially-crazed woman could fully appreciate: The Running of the Brides.

We had a reason to be excited ... Meagan and Mark are getting married next July. Which means we only have nine months to find a dress for Meagan. And BOY OH BOY these dresses are priced OBSCENELY cheap. I mean like 75 to 95 percent off retail price.

However, it's a little more complicated than your run-of-the-mill sale event. You have to wait a DARN LONG TIME to get into the store – In fact, Meagan, Kelsey (Meagan's sister) and our friend Ellyn got there the night before and camped out on a blow-up mattress. This plan served us well, because Meagan was the 5th bride in a line that inevitably wrapped around the parking lot. – And then ... when the doors finally open, there is no meandering over to the rack and casually sifting through the gowns to find the color and size of your liking. You have to actually RUN. And then you have to GRAB as many dresses as possible, regardless of the size, color, style, etc. You don't even look at the dresses, really. The ugly or ill-fitting gowns then become collateral for trading with other brides.

It helps when you have a group of 11 girls to help you grab the gowns. It also helps when you have our friend Ellyn (aka: Wedding Planner Extraordinaire) on your side. Here she is giving us The Plan of Action and dishing out duties just minutes before we dashed inside the store (P.S. I think I may have gotten the short end of the stick as far as jobs go):

... And here's a taste of the madness taking place about one minute before the doors were opened (You can't tell, but I was GRIPPED WITH FEAR at this very moment. I don't know why, but I was utterly consumed by anxiety right before the doors opened. Maybe Ellyn could sense my fear all along and thus assigned me to hanger duty):

And, of course, The Mad Dash:

It was a heap of fun, Meagan actually found an amazing dress, and we ended up on just about every news channel in Cleveland.

We laughed. We cried. And I now firmly believe that my best friend should quit her little Psychologist gig and take up Wedding Gown Modeling. She looked spectacular in every one of them.

Mark, you're one lucky son-of-a-gun.

I have one question for our presidential candidates ...

... Okay, I guess I have two questions for these fine gentlemen:

1. Who in the sam hill is Joe the Plumber? I suspect the little bugger will be easily located on google images come tomorrow. But for now? Let's just say I'M ON THE EDGE OF MY SEAT.

– and –

2. Can either of you peeps decorate a cake as well as my little La?

Didn't think so.

New 'Do for Two

I got my hair chopped off yesterday by an amazing stylist named Gabriella at Colin of London. She took about 10 inches off the back. Yikes! This is my first haircut since La's grandma Dale evened out the botched haircut I gave myself about 6 months ago. Thanks Dale! ... and I know. I never should have given myself a trim. Even my frugal father wouldn't cut his own hair ... although he did have his hair cut one time for $2 at a rehab facility that was training former addicts the trade of hair cutting. Let's just say his hairdo turned out pretty interesting. (read: crooked mohawk-fade with extra-long bangs. But only on one side ... I'm very sad I didn't take a picture).

I'm happy with the cut, except that now, for some reason, I feel a tad more mom-ish. Is that weird?

Oh, and Gabriella even braided La's hair:

I watched her carefully while she braided, so hopefully I'll be able to duplicate it. 

Yes, I think we will be going back to her.

A night on the town (which ended promptly at 8:14 p.m.)

Tonight, La and I decided to take the 151 downtown to the Magnificent Mile with the sole intention of hitting up the Disney Store. We haven't shopped Michigan Avenue in a while, and we couldn't think of anything better to do on a Friday night ... Plus, with the economy in the crapper, I figured we could go spend some of my hard-earned American money on a made-in-China plastic trinket.

As always, when we got inside the store, I told La she could pick out ONE thing. And it couldn't be expensive. And it couldn't have 50 pieces-parts that would be scattered around our home within minutes of opening the box. And it couldn't be, or even resemble, a princess in any way, shape or form (cruel, I know). And I would prefer if it didn't make any noise. And I would also prefer if it were a pair of pajamas. The kid needs pajamas.

... After saying "No Way" to: Princess Jasmine shoes, a Pocahontas doll, an Ariel costume, a snow globe that was priced at $140 (In this economy? Are they mad?), a chest full of teeny-tiny dolls with hundreds of teeny-tiny outfits, a Hannah Montana poster (was in our price range, but wouldn't go with her room décor), and a Hannah Montana guitar ... we finally settled on a Hannah Montana microphone that was on sale.

After grabbing dinner, we stopped at the American Girl Place. La wanted every single doll in the whole store (and so did I, to be honest). I don't know what it is about those dolls. My theory is that people only like them because they cost $90 each. I told La that there is NO WAY that I am buying her a doll from that store. Especially since I just spent ten whole dollars on her at the Disney Store for Pete's sake! 

La did, however, get something out of the American Girl experience. She got to sing on the American Girl Stage, with a store full of shoppers as her audience, using her brand-new microphone:

And that, my friends, is priceless.

A precious moment to savor forever

It all started with a bath. 

We used La's new princess shampoo tonight (her teacher bought her Disney shampoo because she knew of La's obsession with princesses). The stuff smells, err ...  funny. The odiferous suds sparked a conversation that went something like:

Mom, what does this shampoo smell like?

Well, the bottle says "Royal Strawberry," so ...

Like Strawberry SHORTCAKE????!!!

No, like the strawberries that grow in the gardens of the palaces that the Disney Princesses live in.

Oh. Okay. Mom? Can we rent Strawberry Shortcake?

Yes. We can rent Strawberry Shortcake (meaning, Yes, we'll rent it the NEXT TIME we're at the movie store. This becomes very important in a few moments)

So, I took her out of the tub, wrapped her in her froggy towel, and we happily proceeded to her bedroom together. I began to rummage around for some pajamas and La began to protest: "Not jammies mama! We're going to the movie store!"

Um.

No, we're actually not going to the movie store. We're getting our jammies on and watching the presidential debate and then going to bed.

La was not pleased with this information and immediately threw a HUGE TANTRUM and accused me of telling a big fat lie.

To which I responded, "DO YOU WANNA GO STAND WITH YOUR NOSE IN THE CORNER WEARING YOUR FROGGY TOWEL? DO YA??!!!"

This thought made me smile a little bit inside.

... And it caused La throw an EVEN BIGGER tantrum, which came to an abrupt halt when she let out the loudest fart I've ever heard.

And then I did what any good parent would do. I pointed at her and busted up laughing ... She joined in and then we just cracked up for the next few minutes.

Good times.

Thank goodness for that sneaky toot because La forgot all about the movie store. Hooray!

Well, it's time to get ready for the debate ... But first! Here are some pictures from this weekend:

The garden between the zoo and the Lincoln Park Conservatory.

Maybe the world's coolest McDonalds? (Yes, we're tourists in our own town)

Her name is Miley. She makes us smiley.

Tonight we're doggy-sitting this furry little nugget (cue my father breathing out a sigh of relief that I didn't adopt another dog):

She's our downstairs neighbors' new pup, and she might just be the definition of "cute."

La and I decided to take her to the park. The below photo was taken around 6:35 pm. Notice how dark it is at this early hour!

It's nice having her around for the evening. It will also be nice to give her back to her owners, since I just caught her gnawing on the wooden part of my rocking chair.

The boots can stay. All else must go.

I took this photo on September 26th, just a few short days ago. And MY, OH MY ... I would not dream of taking La out of the house "these days" dressed like that. 

Alas, it has suddenly become a tad bit nippy up here in these parts. 

Yep. You betcha.

With the onslaught of this chilly weather, I'm beginning to experience flashbacks of The Godforsaken Mind-Numbing Freeze (aka: last winter). And gol-darnit, Joe, it ain't a pretty sight. (Can you tell I just watched the Vice Presidential Debate?) (Which I will not publicly express my opinion of – for fear of reducing my readership by one-half.)

However, having experienced one delightful and sunny Chicago summer, I can now hold that wonderful memory as a glistening nugget of hope during the frigid days to come. I'll just keep reminding myself that warm weather is just around the corner don't-cha know?! 

That's right. Next June. EIGHT months from now.