Labor Day Is For Napping.

Happy Labor Day, friends!

Hope you get to spend it doing exactly what you wanna do.

(But maybe in your own bed, yeah?)

August Date: Photo Scavenger Hunt (And Marshmallows).

Oh my word, BONUS BLOG, y'all. This post is brought to you by the letter P for Procrastination (last day of August, friends!), and by the number 11...meaning I've now resided in Chicago for that many years. So this month's date was superbly special, as it highlighted things I reallyreallyreally love about this city. Let's begin:

On Monday night of this past week, we had a mini date. (We didn't think the full date would happen this month and decided to hedge our bets by, you know, hanging out and documenting it.) After putting the girls to bed, Peej retreated to the backyard for a REALLY long time. I finally wandered out and saw a sweet setup of our fire pit, some chairs, and the fixings for s'mores. But no pit-full of fire. 'Cause one of us was having trouble getting the sucker to stay lit. After another one of us started an amazing fire (hint: IT WAS TOTALLY ME), we had a fabulous campfire date in the comfort of our own noisy and urban 'hood. 

However, P.J. had something else in store for that Wednesday night: after we got in the car, he handed me a photo scavenger hunt list. On it were all sorts of Chicago landmarks- you know, the kind we always send tourists and visiting pals to see, but rarely go play with on our own? 

And he said we were being timed. And had to win. (I'm still not entirely sure if he was joking or if I won. I hope I at least placed.)

The first stop was at the famous totem pole on Recreation Drive. It was very dark. We kinda felt like 

lurkers. And we may have startled the cyclist who ultimately offered to take our picture. (Nothing unusual about this scenario, folks! Just a married couple hanging out on a pitch black park trail! Move along!)

       

How do you beat that kinda photo opp? How about taking a pic at the oh-so recognizable Buckingham Fountain? A couple of notes: a) We never purported to be awesome at taking nighttime photos, and b) my look of alarm came when someone busted out the national anthem on a boombox. (I was unsure as to how I should've proceeded. Salute? Sing? Ignore? I went with the Hairy Eyeball. Very patriotic.)

Next up was saying hi to Artie, the lion(s) at the Art Institute's front steps. He's an old pal. But seriously. Don't touch him. Just...don't. 

Kinda feel like we failed at taking the proper tourist photograph at The Bean- I mean, it's nothing else if not a gargantuan selfie opp. But it's much nicer to do during the day. Or at dusk. Or, again, with better picture-takers. Also? Hella fingerprints up in that joint. (Peej definitely added his own, but for seriously.)

We headed to one of my all-time favorite spots to get a wicked expensive drink: The Signature Lounge on the 96th floor of the Hancock Tower. And being a Wednesday night and all, there was no line for the elevator and no line for actual window seating. That may have had something to do, however, with the fact that Chicago was experiencing a fog straight outta a Dickens novel. See those white panels next to our heads? That was the reflection of the sheets of fog. The only view we saw that night was a very brave spider outside the window (as well as a couple heavily making out- one of whom may or may not have been a Russian prostitute- and some loud frat boys cheering each other on regarding something sporting). 

My raspberry fizz was delightful, however, and P.J.'s Manhattan was (reportedly) tasty. The flourless chocolate cake also passed inspection (of my face). 

Our last item on the scavenger hunt list was the old Water Tower. (Not the mall which houses American Girl Place, mind you. Just across the street. The place that used to hold the water and now holds a theatre.) And all I can say is- the electric bills must be astronomical up in that joint. Bright as a thousand suns.

Kinda like my love for this guy who keeps dating me all about town. 

Tiny Shoebox Dollhouses. 'Cause Obviously.

The other day, the girls were playing with these miniature shoeboxes that their back-to-school TOMS came in (deeply discounted TOMS, I might add- because I love 'em, but 50 bucks for kiddo shoes? Yipes), and my budding environmentalist asked if we could turn them into something. 

We chose dollhouses, because good LORD there aren't enough places in which the girls' cadre of dolls can live/work/reside. 

However, I cannot resist dollhouses. And these shoeboxes are seriously teensy tinesy and adorable and just begging to be transformed into smallish residences. 

So here's what we did:

We chopped the lids from the eco-friendly and mucca sturdy shoeboxes. If this were a regular
shoebox, you could just,you know, remove the lid. Just sayin'.

Next, we traced the "walls" and "floors" with fabulous construction and wrapping paper. For wallpaper and area rugs,
obviously. If you want it to look really good, have your toddler help you trace with a bulky crayon. It'll really
streamline how the ol' walls meet the floors. But do not let her help you cut them out. Especially if she's Zuzu.

Do, however, have her help you prep the walls and floors of the houses with a glue stick.
None better.

This is what it'll look like once you get the house wallpapered and glue the original lid on as a roof.
(Again, if you used a regular shoebox, you could just flip the lid on a diagonal, chop it in half, and have
an automatic roof with eaves already built in.) The TOMS lid- with its special tabby tabs- made it
extra special. But regardless, I know. This dollhouse is stupidly attractive.
I am a professional.

For extra schmanciness, we created gingerbread eaves outta popsicle sticks and foam paper.
And the only reason this photo is watermarked is because it would look odd to have this
be the only picture without one. But seriously, steal away. I care not. Mazel tov.

Voila: an awesomely small dollhouse, just right for two of your Russian nesting dolls.
(Russian nesting dolls sadly not included.)

And there you go. High quality dollhouses (I dig Nora's circular "portraits" on the walls of hers, right next to a square still life of a bowl of pears) which will last for generations.

Or until the shoebox bulldozers come trampling in the name of eminent domain.

Sometimes You've Just Gotta Hula.

And then there are days like the one where your formerly Shy Violet of a preschooler willingly raises her hand at the free concert in the park, right at the moment when the Hawaiian band asks for hula dancing volunteers... 

...And she runs up in front of the stage, grabbing the hands of two complete stranger "big kids," asks if she can hula with them, and proceeds to do just that.

And you see it: this transformation from a cautious toddler, always looking back over her shoulder at you as if to ask "This still okay, Mom?" into an almost-big kid, the kind who already knows that- should she ask- you'd be giving her a big ol' thumbs up to hula or merengue or sidestep her way into new friendships and dance moves.

Because she's rapidly figuring out that life is so much better when you decide not to be afraid- or to be nervous and do it anyhow- because jumping up in front of a crowd and dancing with new friends beats the heck out of the alternative.

And it makes you so, so proud.