lollygag blog.

Survivor's "Vital Signs" on vinyl? Yeah, she digs that one, too.

2009-12-17T09:02:00.007-06:00

How on Earth has it been seven weeks since Nora arrived and filled my dryer with hundreds of miniature pastel socks? (They're printed with Mary-Janes on the toes- she has about fifteen different colors, quite a feat. HAH.)

Other big changes: our upstairs is now outfitted with a cool mist humidifier (no one ever gave a damn about MY nose in the winter!), various play areas in brightly contrasting hues are present on each floor (okay, only half are Nora-specific), and P.J. now consistently drives in the righthand lane.

This was especially amusing given our drive to Cincy this past weekend- Nora's first roadtrip! Now. I love her Dad more than anything. (Except maybe Nora. And Scott Bakula. These are givens.) But, in the oh-so-recent past, stopping at rest areas was a VERY SERIOUS DECISION. ("Do you HAVE to pee?" "Yes." "Can you hold it for thirty more exits?" "No.") And I was allowed one- ONE- pee break in Indiana, perhaps two if gas was really cheap at the Flying J before the Ohio state line. I accepted this. We had to 'make good time.' I'm not sure why- we weren't being timed or anything, and most of the people we were arriving to see would undoubtedly be asleep anyhow- but it was clearly a strong point with P.J. so I let it go. He's proven uber-effective in other areas (coupons, hairball prevention, turning off lights even before you've fully left the room) so maybe he was on to something.

TURNS OUT, maybe he just didn't love me enough. For. Nora slept most of the way down to Ohio and we prided ourselves on being stellar parents. But she woke up. And we had half an hour left to go. P.J. pulled over in a rest area (we only ever stop at places with a decent Wendy's) and suggested I get in the back with her.

"She's lonely."

I must have looked stunned, because he then suggested that perhaps I should drive and he'd sit in back with her. The only way P.J.'s not in the driver seat is if he's tied up in the trunk. So I sat in the back. P.J. was still stressed, but I think that 'making good time' was the farthest thing from his mind. On the way home she hardly slept AT ALL, alternating between making the saddest faces out the window and screaming like her toes had been chopped off. WE STOPPED FOUR TIMES.

I will let that sink in.

Nora loves loud music and drifts off happily when we sing and dance with her- the latter wasn't an option, but we sure tried the first. We frantically searched our iTunes library for anything that seemed to make Principesa PurpleFace happy. She quieted down when Bryan Adams' 'Everything I Do' came on (yup) so we sang our hearts out- in exceptional two part harmony, no less- and she dozed off for twenty minutes. Sadly, this is not a Nora-specific occurrence.

The weekend itself was great. Two of Nora's cousins were being baptized and we dug hanging out with seven of Peej's sibs and six of the kiddos. Nora had a look of permanently wide-eyed bafflement. (And she didn't touch the ground for 48 hours. No one loves the bebe.) I did, however, qualify for a Worst Mom award when I almost offed my daughter in a Catholic church.

Yep.

During the baptism, Nora was sleeping soundly in her carseat. I placed her sideways on a pew and sat next to her, watching P.J. wrangle his adorable godson Boden two pews up from us. Ten minutes later, OUT OF NOWHERE, Nora's carseat fell to the side. I immediately shot a hand out and steadied it (and, truthfully, the seat in front of us would have caught her before she even made a 45 degree dip- it's a huge carseat.) She didn't even wake up. HOWEVER, it was a silent moment in the ceremony and the tilting seat made such a God-awful clatter that it made everyone turn, mouths agape, to stare at the bad mother. I joked that I was gonna keep her in her carseat until she was 12.

No one laughed.

(Confidential to my Mom- Yes, I know. I usually don't. No. Of course I do! She was fine. Yes. MOM. I HAD HER. I promise. I agree. Okay.)

Earlier this week Nora was in the running for a Worst Daughter award- well, to be fair, only for about five minutes. I had my six-week checkup and took her to the doctor's office- I don't trust nannies- and she slept really well for most of the visit. However, since they had me waiting in the exam room for almost thirty minutes, she eventually stirred. And then eventually wailed. And as I was clad in a "sheet," which is code for "large paper towel," I was powerless to do much except rock her stroller one-handed and murmur useless phrases. It didn't work. So. I got down from the table and attempted to soothe my kiddo whilst gripping a largish piece of paper around myself. Can you guess when the doctor arrived? Sure, this is a guy who, mere months ago, held my stomach and spleen in his hands. But still. You've gotta have standards. I currently do not, but I wish to.

And I think Nora has finally acquired a nickname with sticking power, given to her by one of my nanny fam kiddos. Three year old Jack was looking at Nora with adoration, gently playing with her feet, and said, "She's so pretty...she looks just like Gordon."

You know, Gordon? Tall, bald, black man from Sesame Street? Shiny head? Yes. As it was said with such admiration I couldn't help but feel proud. (Gordon's kinda awesome.) And besides, Jack pointed to his fluffy-haired baby bro a moment later and referred to him as "Big Bird."

At least she's not Slimey.

Nighttime isn't for sleeping! It's for rockin' the party.

2009-12-10T11:49:00.003-06:00

I fear I've become...bland. Don't get me wrong, I totally and fully dig my current life, but I worry that my "adventures" have become a little PG to those of my pals sans kiddos. I will strive to be racier.

Let's try it out.

This past weekend...we bought our Christmas tree. (Sigh. Oh well.) We quite possibly spent waaay too long debating the merits of Balsam vs. Frasier Fir. Couldn't tell you what they are NOW, but at the time it was as crucial as the paint choice for the kitchen walls. (Victorian pearl- turned out to be the wrong decision, but not so with the Frasier Fir. Fragrant as a wooded...woodland.) The guy tied it to our car and we drove it home. This beats out last year's trek by 2000%, as LAST year we got to walk our tree from Ashland to Oakley. Eight blocks. In the frozey, biting wind and snow. (Kinda like today!) I even got the heavier end of the tree- not sure how that worked out, but I certainly wasn't silent about it. For eight blocks.

This year's journey was nicer. Plus, Nora got to witness her Dad turning trees around and guesstimating "fullness" and "freshness." I'm sure he made up half of the things he noted, but it's my job as a wife to nod solemnly and appreciate. (Heck, *I* don't want to hafta lug the tree around and inspect low branches.) And by "witness," I mean that Nora slept the whole time. Oh well. Fresh, piney air counts for something, even if she's bundled, swaddled and layered within an inch of her life. She seriously looked like a miniature, turquoise Stay-Puft Man.

Later on we went downtown to the Christkindlmarket for some mulled wine in a boot. (See? Drinking! That's...PG-13.) The boot is green this year, for those of you who collect them in pairs and line them on your countertop like some sort of home for wayward elven footwear. Anyone? Annie- lookin' at you. (And...at myself.) P.J. got to enjoy firsthand the feelings of imminent danger when taking Nora out of doors. Walking in the Loop we realized (yet again) that ANYTHING could happen. Weather, building materials, errant elbows...and boy, did P.J.'s 'tude towards the outing show it. Bundled (once again) up to to her forehead and strapped to P.J.'s chest in an "active back" Baby Bjorn (like he's gonna go spelunking), P.J. kept his arms around Nora in a boxing-out position with his eyeballs perhaps TOO alert.

"Having a good time?" Annie and I asked Peej.

"Yes."

So I had a second boot o' wine. And it was glorious. I also bought Nora a miniature blown-glass giraffe the size of her pinky nail (thank God- she was hurting in that department) and later saved the day when a blown-glass fishie went careening through the air, sent there by some member of a huge touristy family. Tourists. Yeah, I found the fish, (contemplated keeping it- briefly- decided it wasn't the right colors) and returned it to the table. 'Tis the season.

The next night I went to a re-gifting party, hosted by one Miss Kat (and copious amounts of smallish foodstuffs- they were so terrific they deserve second billing) where we each brought five items we no longer needed or wanted and swapped them for the other gals' castoffs o' awesome. It. Was. Great. We bargained, cajoled and swiped items that, were they not in the pile (and were we not imbibing) we would have raised eyebrows at them and thanked the gifter with what Kat calls "the office laugh." HAHaha.

I swear I am not a wino.

And that brings us to this week. Nora and I have fallen into a routine of wearing our pajamas and smiling at each other a lot. One of us digs being worn in a sling, napping in twenty minute increments with one eye open...in case something good happens. (I keep telling her that I'd WAKE her in that scenario, but apparently she doesn't believe me.) If I want her to really, really have a nap, sometimes I have to lie down with her. Which, come to think of it, is probably what she wants anyhow. And, to be completely honest, when I'm snuggled on a couch, bed or floor with Nora, I have a moment of thinking- What the heck was I doing that was better than this? Answer- probably nothing. At least, not since I was Nora's age and was snuggled on the floor by someone. Most likely one of my parents. If I had to guess.

(Side note- during yesterday's nap, Nora let out her first real belly laugh. It was the best and funniest sound ever. Sadly, since she had been in such a deep sleep it FREAKED THE HECK OUTTA HER. This caused a terror-filled rage cry that freaked ME the heck out. This jolt on my part caused full-body hiccups on Nora's part. This led to a gastrointestinal explosion (for Nora) that made her diaper give up. It was an intense fifteen seconds.)

Last night Peej and I had our first real date night since having the kiddo. Sure, Nora was there, but more importantly- two dollar tacos were there. And margaritas! (Fine. I drink, okay?) Nora slept through the date while we discussed an article about Facebook friendships...which led to discussions on...our Facebook friends. We also talked about the tacos and margaritas! It was just like the old days.

And that leads to...today. Nora ended up in bed with us again early this a.m., so I awoke to a wide-eyed, toothlessly grinning face inches from my own. Nora was there, too. (Oh, I kid. P.J. has plenty of teeth.) There are few better things in life than waking up next to someone who is stoked beyond belief to see you. I thought I had this kind of relationship with my husband. I was clearly wrong. No one loves me more than my daughter. It's like cocker spaniel love x a trillion and two. With smiles.

That said, I desperately needed her to nap- a real nap- this morning so that I could finish up a bunch of projects before this weekend. We're off to Cincy tomorrow for family time and a couple of baptisms, so I needed to pack for both of us as well as get all things Christmas done. And perhaps take a shower. SO. The moment she started looking droopy-eyed I rushed downstairs and started her swing. Singing to her and swaying, I attempted to match the swing's rhythm in order to do some sort of Double Dutch jumpin' in handoff to a piece of equipment. Now, anyone who knew me between the years of '80-'92 knows that I am simply wretched at Double Dutch. So it took a few tries. But it took!

Once she was asleep I stood in the living room for, oh, five full minutes staring around blankly. Then I hopped into action, pulling out enough outfits for Nora for a good month and a half (maybe I should pack her a steamer trunk? How many onesies are required for two days?) and laid out possible choices for her to "try on" later. This should be fun. Have you ever tried to wrangle the arms of a squirmy, yelling, angry kitten? No? I highly recommend.

Then- I had to decide what to pack for myself. I included a case of Kleenex for all of the tears. Turns out, at six weeks postpartum, NOTHING fits. My preggo clothes looking vaguely muu muu-ish and my pre-preg clothes make me look a little bit like a hoochie. I don't THINK I was that kinda girl before I had a kid- but let's be honest. Hips don't lie. (As of right now, all I've packed are some socks and a nursing bra. I AM a hoochie!)

As Nora was still sleeping, I gave into the glorious luxury of a shower. Sadly, once I was IN the shower I realized that I had intended to dye my hair before heading out to a big gathering of Schoenys (yep- I dye my hair sometimes. Let's just keep that between you, me and Lady Clairol, shall we?) and, as everyone knows, you need DRY hair for this. Hopped out of the shower. Cleaned the kitchen. Did some laundry. Finished the Christmas cards. Waited for hair to dry. (Yes, I realize I could've used a hair dryer, but as someone who doesn't even get to "do" her hair for a nice occasion these days, I'm certainly not gonna waste a beautifying ritual right before I wash my head once again. It made sense at the time.) So. I mixed the hair dye, began to lather it into my hair- admittedly, not as precisely as I've done in the past- and Nora began to wail. I raced downstairs, chemicals singeing my eyes, and soothed her back to sleep WITHOUT touching her nor letting the fumes anywhere in the vicinity of her swing. I'm sure the confusion alone put her back to sleep. (Please don't take my baby away from me.) In fact, the first part of this post was typed with my hair quite gooped-up, wearing a towel and sweats, finishing a cold cup of coffee and lurching towards the stairs every time Nora snorts in her sleep. My MY how things have changed around here.

And to think, when P.J. and I were newly in love, I'd fall asleep wearing makeup so he'd believe I was always stunning in the mornings. It worked! It got me ALL THIS.

It might be the post-preg hormones, but I still feel pretty lucky.

Or it could be the cold coffee.

Or, just maybe, it might be the knowledge that in a few moments, a gal who thinks I'm better than McGyver will wake up and want to hang out.

Five weeks! I'm thinking 'ice cream cake.'

2009-12-03T08:19:00.004-06:00

Last week, we saw our heroine attempting to baste a turkey, clean a house, soothe a newborn and prepare for partygoers. Did she succeed? (You bet your sweet mushroom gravy she did.)

The key? Help. LOTS o' help. A task-oriented dude, for one. Really, really good friends bearing yum dishes. Showering also gives a nice li'l bit of pep. Also- a baby who decides to prolong her morning nap for three hours. Nora Schoeny for the win!

P.J. and I had a moment over a carved turkey whereupon we contemplated our first housewarmyesque party, the newborn plastered to me in a sling and the big ol' MAN OF THE HOUSE carving knife in P.J.'s hand. People seem to think we know what we're doing, we mused. We laughed. Oh, how we laughed.

Black Friday was another first for me, as we found ourselves torn between "We'd be crazy to go out in that madness' and 'Five dollar sales at Old Navy!' So, we drove around for a few hours and took turns hopping in and out of the car, the shopper armed with a cell-phone and detailed list, and the carbound party remaining with a snoozing Nora Jane. (Take HER into a crammed store? I may be slightly nuts but I'm not STUPID. The number of times I got shoved and sneezed upon? I sorta wished for one of those HazMat showers every time I returned.) But, oh- the deals!

We continued our Friday night tradition of watching The Soup- you know, pop culture without that pesky TV immersion or hours wasted? We dig having inside jokes about shows WE'VE NEVER WATCHED (nor ever would), and instead enjoy following the mock-commentary each week about characters and reality stars that we wouldn't recognize, were they to show up on our doorstep. (Talk about needing a HazMat shower.)

My disdain of reality television does not in any way shake my deep and abiding love for my "programs," mind you. I am currently mourning that I can no longer watch five episodes (or more!) of The Office each day. Maybe they can make it a daily occurrence? Weekly episodes don't really fill my need. But don't pity me. P.J. has queued up entire seasons of 30 Rock and Lost for me- although that last one might take a bit more persuasion. I have a 'Lord of the Flies' thing. It's akin to the scene in So I Married An Axe Murderer, where Mike Myers has an 'earwig thing.'

But way more traumatic.

Kat came over last night and introduced me to a fabulous British web series called "Green Wing." I highly recommend it. But only if your sense of humor is superior and you enjoy your zany comedy whip-smart. Only then. (Optional, however, is the added layer of bouncing a fusserpot baby every ten minutes and asking, "What did he say? Oh, that's hilarious!" It's the anti-Dolby experience.)

Before you fear for my rotting mind, let me assure you- I'm still reading (one-handed), staving off dementia with crossword puzzles and Scrabble matches, and even managing to return emails and update the blog (one-handed, once-weekly)...so I'm fine. Really. Television is not a problem.

(It's the solution!)

*******

Confidential to PJS: My daughter and I truly appreciated your late-night reading and apologize if our open mouths and thrown back heads indicated anything but rapt enjoyment. Perhaps your voice is too soothing? (When I awoke an hour later, I saw that you, too, had fallen victim to your own powers with a similar sleeping posture.) Please do not let this dissuade you from such ventures: Vonnegut makes us chuckle in a different (and entirely welcome) manner than E! programming.

The turkey innards need to come outtards.

2009-11-25T08:12:00.005-06:00

I decided to post a day early- why not? There's no reason I HAVE to post on Thursdays...I can still be wild, fancy-free (whatever that means), not tied down to convention...

Okay.

Or it's because we're hosting our very first Thanksgiving tomorrow and there is NO WAY ON EARTH I can get Nora ready, the house ready, the food ready (a turkey? I may end up serving deli slices) and enjoy a leisurely blogging session. So, I'm enjoying my leisure time now- typing one-handed, feeding Nora and signing a Christmas card (complete with personal message) between burps. Hers, not mine. I would feel pretty fabulous about all of this, were it not for the fact that I haven't showered in a while (the actual amount doesn't really matter) nor have I changed clothes since that moment between Nora and I when I told her, "I should really change out of this now." And didn't.

And now, two extremely inappropriate things to blog about, condensed to lessen the gross-out factor:

One. A word of advice- buy your nursing bra BEFORE you have the baby. Buy many, even if you don't know what size you'll end up being. The experience of having an incorrectly-sized bra still trumps the experience of trying on bras once you've begun to sustain a child. I have said too much.

And two. When using a breastpump for the first time, it is awfully helpful to have the suctioning function working correctly. Perhaps bring a towel. Do not allow others to witness it, either. It has the potential to turn away friends and destroy relationships. There are few things more horrifying than an incompetent pumper. Skype tutorials are fine, but keep in mind that you are one exposed body part away from internet pornography at all times.

(If this weren't such a family blog, I guarantee I could have soda coming out of your nose within minutes. Regardless of your beverage of choice.)

In other, viewer-friendly news, my daughter is losing her hair. This is something that is entirely out of my control but also something for which I feel 100% responsible. It bothers me a little too much. My daughter will always be gorgeous to me (and others- come on, she's stunning), but I do not wish to have Kojak as a kid. Maybe for an uncle. Remember in the early '90s when that colored hairspray was invented to "hide" bald patches on men and women? Thought it was an awesome idea then, even more relevant now. I'm going with that reddish-orange color.

Speaking of references only Kate will understand, my big sis came to play last week! It was fabulous for Nora Jane to meet her godmother and we had a lovely time napping and eating too much. It also gave me the opportunity to take embarrassingly long showers without fear of repercussion (or soap in the eyes) from Duchess Purpleface D'Yellipants (it's a family name.)

Kate and I went to the premiere of my workshopped play with 20% Theatre on Friday night, complete with a playwright talkback. Yes, I talked back. (I was so tired that in the midst of answering a question I blanked and admitted to the guy that I had no idea where I was going with all of this. Kate said it was handled seamlessly. They were all very kind.) The traumatic part of the evening was actually leaving Nora. She was fine, hanging out with her Dad and enjoying a previously pumped bottle (see earlier references), but I left the house feeling like I had left my hands behind or forgot to put on pants. (Kate helpfully informed me that since I was wearing a skirt, this was indeed the case.) After ten months of having her be RIGHTTHERETHISCLOSE it was extremely jarring. I cried. Then I had a great time. And was home two hours later on the dot. I even had half a beer to celebrate. (I used to wear lampshades, I swear to God I did.)

I think I've been using my time off from work to the fullest: I'm catching up on series that people have been raving about for quite awhile. Some have even ended. No matter. There has never been a better time in my life to watch things, in fifteen minute increments, throughout a 24-hour period. One of these shows is 'The Office.' I have been mainlining episodes of 'The Office.' I have gone through five full seasons in under a week. Yes. One side effect of watching a stylized show in such large quantities is that one begins to take on the patterns of speech and thought exemplified in a given series. For example, my inner monologue now sounds creepily like the explanatory asides on that show:

Keely to P.J.: These potatoes are fabulous. Just how I like them.

Keely (aside): I hate potatoes. Always have. I might throw them on the floor. Or develop an allergic reaction. Did I tell you I have an allergic reaction to iodine? Funny story...

Between that and the use of Skype as my main form of communication (keeping one's head directly in the sights of the webcam while holding a squirmy baby makes for stilted conversation at best- and don't even get me started on trying to feed her in the midst of one of these convos. See- earlier references about interweb exposure) has reduced my language skills to mush.

But who needs eloquence? I'm pretty blessed with a terrific husband, wonderful family and friends, a house that we adore, careers that stimulate us, a baby that fills my heart with joy...OHMYGOD NORA HAS FALLEN ASLEEP. Showershowershowertime oh boy clean socks!!!

(Happy Thanksgiving.)

Two minutes panic.

2009-11-19T12:53:00.002-06:00

Ohhhkay.

So. I've been in possession of this child for exactly three weeks now. (Happy three weeks, Nora!) And. I've since realized that I will spend the next eighty or so years with my heart in my throat.

As it turns out, this little person, this amazingly loud and soft and alert little beastie, this darling cherub in whom I've placed all of my love and hopes and dreams...it turns out that eventually WE MUST LEAVE THE HOUSE and people, crazy people, people who wish to touch her face and ask questions and drive cars nearby, WELL, it turns out that they are somehow allowed to do so!

How do people do it? How do people LEAVE their children with others, even for a day, even for an HOUR? Granted, I'm a nanny. This is how I make my cash money. And it has recently come to my attention that people are frickin' INSANE to leave me with their children! And I LOVE their children! But how does anyone know anything about anyone? What if- WHAT IF- their children are hurt or sad or tired? This never bothered me before. Because children are resilient, happy creatures. But what if mine isn't? I'm not saying I want to turn into Mother Bates here (I do NOT want more people staying here, thankyouverymuch), but if at ALL possible I'd like to avoid any heartache, stress or emotional issues in my daughter's future.

I do NOT think this is too much to ask.

(But at LEAST stop touching the baby's face. It is cold n' flu season, for Pete's sake.)

On the topic of emotional distress, I've decided to start showering suuuper early in the a.m., well before the gal decides it's time for Second Breakfast. Sometimes this works out. Sometimes it decidedly does not. The hope is that I'll be able to hop in for a quick shower, get dressed for the day, start a load of laundry and down a [small] cup of coffee before my infant daughter stirs gently in her bassinet to greet the day with a miniature beam.

However.

I cannot trick this little being. She knows what I want, sometimes before I even want it. She has spent nine-plus months learning what makes me tick. She is the ultimate inside job!

She is ruthless.

So. Sometimes we compromise and she enjoys a little spin in the aquarium bouncer by the bathroom cabinet while her mother says things like "Look at the rushing water- isn't that FASCINATING?," while accidentally scalding herself in the pursuit of the fastest shower on record.

Or.

Sometimes we "compromise" by having Nora decide that Alone Time is over and I "compromise" by feeding her on the hallway floor, my bathrobe on the wrong arms and soap in my eyes.

And before the chorus of experienced moms chastise me- "Sometimes you have to Let Her Cry," I tell you this. I have let her cry. A good portion of our day is tears. But my daughter has a turbo button, a mode of play if you will, that turns the slightly French 'waa...le waa' into a tribal keening of supersonic timbre, complete with a vibrating purple face and ending with a truly terrifying Silent Scream.

I respect this kind of power. Hence, Lady Spitup Von Chickenlegs and her trusty sidekick Sweatpants McDairyfarm.

(I wouldn't trade it for all of the clean tank tops in the world.)

***

Confidential to PJS: All this recycling totin', kitchen cleanin', DVD burnin', fridge stockin', nutmeg custard makin', late night Nora tendin' action...? Thanks.

I feel like I should want to remember how to desire non-baby things. Oh well.

2009-11-12T10:48:00.004-06:00

First off, happy two week birthday to my little gal, Miss Nora Jane! (Two weeks? You mean, after all of this crazy pregnancy business and madcap preparation...two weeks can go by like THAT? I turned to Peej at the 4am feeding and sorrowfully told him that she's getting too big. He pointed at her and said "She is SO teense," with a 'Don't start that already' look on his face. This from the guy who wants twelve more.)

Also, Happy Belly-Button-Falling-Off-Day! To Nora, specifically. Unless it applies to others I know. In that case...Happy BBFOD to us all! (And, from across the room, I can see that she's trying to crawl up Nat-Nat's shoulder. Between that, rolling over three times and insane neck control, I'm fairly certain I've given birth to a three-month old.)

And- addendum. My kiddo's birth weight was 6lbs, 15oz. The doctors had suggested (strongly) that he or she was going to be a whopper of a kid with a ginormous head. They miscalculated, due to her extremely balled-up breech position (and the physical inability to get to other parts of my innards- Nora, not the doctors. I'm sure they could have if they had really wanted to.) So, they guesstimated based on how big she'd be IF she could have expanded to all four quadrants of my midsection- and not the upper 1/4 that she inhabited for three months.

THAT SAID, 6lbs and 15oz is NOT tiny based on the space she occupied. Imagine if I tried to balance a weight like that on your pinky finger. After a while, it would start to HURT. And on THAT note, why do people round down? After announcing her birth stats, more people than I care to count exclaimed- "Six pounds? Small!" Yep, six pounds IS small. However. She was one ounce shy of seven pounds. Which is painfully average. (That's my daughter- painfully average!)

And we get to weigh her again today at the doctor's office! I may supplement a protein drink or two to get some sweet poundage.

The craziest part of this whole thing is- I was not nutso about being pregnant. At. All. But now that she's here? I have no desire to put her down, ever, or to do non-Nora-centric activities. I leave the room for a few moments and have that bizarre WHAT AM I FORGETTING feeling, followed immediately by OH MY GOD, WHERE'S THE BABY? (Side note- she is with grandparents and friends whenever this happens. I am not a negligent mother. Yet. That I am aware of.) And I realize that this is wholly biological. (I'm learning a lot about biology these days: the kiddo looks like the father so he won't be tempted to eat her, and the mother cannot put the kiddo down and thusly abandon it. You win this time, Science.) Even with these facts, I cannot even begin to muster the ability to care. For I DO want to hold her nonstop. When I feed her in the middle of the night and see her ridiculously wide-awake eyes, I smile. (P.J. does not have the same biological reactions for the 4am feedings. He pats her on the head, hands her to me and mumbles something like "Daddy loves you." Or "dabble my shoes." At least he's not tempted to eat her. Yet.)

And this bliss-fest is only compounded by the glorious help we've had for the past two weeks. My parents being here was nothin' but fun. My mother's extended visit was the nicest one-on-one time we've shared since before the twin sibs showed up in March of '87 and ruined everything. (Ohmigod, Rachel and Emily, I AM KIDDING. But...we used to have tea parties and pretend to shop with fancy catalogs and watch Anne of Green Gables. Back me up on this, Kate. But...I joke. You guys Completed our Family. That's what we were told, anyhow.)

Regardless, the mom visit was fabulous. And this week Peej's folks are up! Totally great. (I'm sorta unsure as to how I'll "shower" and "get dressed" and "get things done" when people aren't here to hold the bebe in the mornings.) It's funny though, no matter how awesome people's parents are, unless they're your own it feels like Company. Not in a bad way...just in a "can I make you something to eat" kinda way. And then they remind you that THEY'RE here to make YOU some food. And they do. And then you offer to clean and perhaps make some tea. And then they take your baby and send you to your room for a nap.

And my big sis Kate is coming on Wednesday! She's not Company. She makes Bacos sandwiches (or did once, in 1989) and knows all the one-liners from Disney Sunday movies.

I am so excited.

Okay, off to steal my kid back from the grandparents, bathe an unwilling child and start the long process of heading out to the doctor's office.

Where she will undoubtedly freak out about the nudie weigh-in. (Did I mention that she ABHORS being naked?)

Must be one of those "skip a generation" genes.

Well, THAT was crazy!

2009-11-05T16:32:00.004-06:00

(And look- it's Thursday! Sure, Thursday night, but still the right blogging day!) Ain't nothin' gonna break-a my stride!)

So, um, I had a baby! And here's how it went down: After my morning last Thursday of cleaning everything- twice- and overpacking for a three night stay at the most luxurious of hospitals EVER (and P.J.'s "working from home," which, God bless him, he really did try to do), we headed downtown. On the way, we said things like, "wouldn't it be hilarious if we had a girl?" Which, admittedly, had an exceptionally equal chance of taking place. Whatever. We knew we were having A BOY.

Got to the hospital, where they put us in the waiting room with other patients' parents and grands- the type of people prone to exclaiming, "She's been in there forever, I hope everything's all right." This did not calm us. Turns out, there were two emergencies right around the time of my c-section, and there was, quite literally, no room at the inn. About an hour later we were whisked into a recovery room and triple-teamed by nurses, an intern and the best anesthesiologist in the history of modern medicine. I was poked, prodded, hooked up and injected while I dutifully filled out forms and answered questions about my mental health. (Was I contemplating suicide? No, but I sure as heck was thinking about playing possum.)As P.J. put on his scrubs and I placed my beanie duck Samuel by my pillow (he has yet to miss a major surgery), I told P.J. that I was reconsidering. Slightly. I mean, how well did we really even know each other? Too late. The team arrived to wheel me out and P.J. and I told each other to be brave, like a toaster. (You either understand that joke or you don't- I will not explain it to you.)

And of course, the moment where I may have needed P.J. most in my life...was the moment which he was unable to be present. Now, I've been stressing about the spinal or epidural for the entirety of the pregnancy. Seriously. More than actual labor, more than the first year of the child's life, I focused all my fears on this one fleeting moment for no discernible reason other than my dislike of needles. And/or pain. Whatever. And P.J. (and other husbands- I don't think they singled out my husband as a wussbag) was considered a liability in the operating room. Apparently the fathers can't handle the sight of the mammoth needle and do embarrassing things like faint or try to drag their wives from the room. Whereas the wives sit there, sigh, and allow a giant needle to be shoved into their spinal columns like good little soldiers.

And aside from the "bee sting" of the lidocaine, I FELT NOTHING! It was awesome. And then, moments later, I felt nothing. Everything from my ribs down went completely numb and heavy (they said some women panic because they can't feel themselves breathing- I haven't been able to feel myself breathe since August. Score!) and a gigantic surgical tent was placed between my head and the unmentionable action south of my non-breathing ribcage. By this point it had been about fifteen or twenty minutes and I'm pretty sure P.J. thought I had kicked it. But no! They brought him in to sit at the left side of my head and my strapped-down arms (we redefined "natural") and we waited for the fun to begin.

I actually made the entire surgical team laugh when I told them that I'd only agreed to go out for one drink with my husband...and I had no idea how the rest of this happened. Someone suggested it must've been a rather large drink to result in a baby five years later. Perhaps a mai tai in a fish bowl?

Less than TEN MINUTES LATER, they announced that they were close and I'd be feeling some "pressure" and a little "tugging." (I did, but remember- for nine months I'd been feeling a LOT more than a "some pressure.") With a faint 'pop,' I suddenly felt a ton more room in the vicinity of my lungs and heard "We've got some feet." That's right, they had to ease the baby out backwards, sloooooowly. P.J. almost leaned up over the curtain to see but was then told, "Wait until we take care of her vital organs." (Wait, what? Mine? This IS like the game 'Operation!' Do you see a charley horse?) Finally, FINALLY, they let P.J. look up over the curtain and tell me what we had.

Now remember, for months and months I'd been having dreams wherein a little boy featured prominently. People told me I was carrying a boy, based on old wives' tales. I felt like I was carrying a boy, whatever the heck that means. I would've gladly welcomed a girl, but it was a laughable thought- it just wasn't going to happen!

"It's...a GIRL!" P.J. looked down at me and exclaimed this with a laugh. I laughed too, not quite getting the joke. WHO was a girl? Then, suddenly, it hit me like a ton of bricks. She was a girl. The baby. I had a baby! Who was a girl! P.J. welled up. I welled up. We laughed some more. We said the word "girl" a few more times. I saw a vague, pink figure getting wrapped up on the scale across the room.

And then...she was in P.J.'s arms. I looked at her, still not quite connecting the fact that THIS was The Bitsy, the one who really, really needed those pickles and onions, the one who'd been kicking and punching my ribs nonstop. I kissed her ridiculously soft cheeks and kissed her wide mouth that was an exact miniature replica of P.J.'s, and looked into her serious, terribly surprised blue eyes. Her hair, tucked under a pink Northwestern Memorial Hospital cap (for she was a GIRL), was brown with dark gold roots and as soft as duck down.

During this time, the surgical team (the doctor and anesthesiologist were both so amazing I almost named her after them, regardless of gender)sewed me up and had us out of there in an hour. Amazingly, the baby never had to leave our sides (like they could even pry her away) and I got to carry her out of there in my arms on our way back to the recovery room.

"Does she have a name?" The nurse asked us as she filled out the bassinet tag.

"Nora Jane."

And there you have it. An hour in recovery where people poked, prodded, injected and UNhooked me from machinery, did the same to Nora, asked us similar questions as before (I answered for Nora, being her mother and all) and began to share the good news on Facebook and via emails. (Unfortunately, the draft email we had saved with everyone's addresses and the heading "It's a..." sent without text in the body, thoroughly confusing and pissing off about fifty people. Thusly, P.J. had to quickly re-send, re-text and make some calls to head off the close friends and relatives at the pass.) P.J. got to put Nora in her first tee-shirt with mitten sleeves (it's a very "Dad" job, you see) and I took a break from staring into her face for about five minutes. Made some calls. Had some more things poked and prodded. Then I took her back and haven't looked away since.

That night, in our super plush room at Prentice (a corner room with floor to ceiling windows and an incredible skyline view- as the doctors who checked on us said, "How'd you get THIS room?") we played the Beatles lullabye album...and stared at her some more. Total and utter bliss. Sure, the DuraMorph was incredible (and sadly short-lived) but the euphoric high from having her was even cooler. (The next night P.J. informed me that I'd had four hours of sleep in forty-eight hours. I DID NOT CARE.) Nor did I want anyone to take her to the nursery. Solid sleep is for the weak! I want my kid! Who is a GIRL!)

We left three days later (and with only one really rough night where the pain meds were but a sad, sad joke) feeling like the entire delivery was waaaay too easy. I could do this again! P.J. points at me every time I say this, but seriously. I had no idea SHE'D be the end result of nine months of utter discomfort, sickness and more than a little pain. (I mean, I had an idea, but I didn't even know her! Not the way I do now. Being her mother and all.)

My mother and father came first to royally spoil us (my Dad kinda finished the rest of the house projects and my Mom has yet to slow down her catering and cleaning) and our pals have been a nonstop source of awesome. P.J., sadly, had to go back to work, but we inundate him with pictures specifically designed to tug at his heartstrings and send emails about Nora's progress with training wheels and college applications.

And today's her one week birthday! It blows my mind. Sure, the drugs are pretty decent, but the passage of time has ZOOMED! (By the by, happy 31st birthday to my big sister and Nora's rad Auntie Kate! She gave me a birthday buddy with her first son and my first nephew- I gave her a birthday-week buddy with my first daughter and her first niece!)

Things are skipping along nicely here at home.

Nora and I sleep. A lot.

And we both eat. A LOT lot.

It is, quite simply, the sweetest gig I've ever scored.

Hey there, Scorpio baby!

2009-10-29T06:58:00.002-05:00

Well, this is it.

The end of Date Night Month.

(And, uh, the BEGINNING OF THE REST OF MY LIFE AS A PARENT AND NON-SLEEPER.)

October has treated me pretty well. This week alone we rounded out the dates with a viewing of "Where the Wild Things Are" (I cried, surprise, surprise), a yum dinner at Kiki's Bistro (no relation) for Peej's birthday (we had steak pomme frites- bringing us up to...four steaks this week. Nice life) a walk in the forest preserve (where a buck crossed our paths, momentously non-concerned- later, we saw his wife and baby resting by a tree- he's a family man, too!) and discovered Susie's Diner (24/7 greasy fabulousness and fifty-plus milkshakes on the menu! Date SUMMER, coming right up!)

I love P.J.'s birthday- I love most birthdays, really- because the idea of celebrating for an entire day is so, so appealing. I made him breakfast kinda early (he's a bit of a "rusher" in the mornings...) and watched him open his prezzies. We had opened a few the night before (spoiledrottenbaby) because the stack of presents was mammoth and he was "only thinking of me" getting to see him open all of them. That. Is. Love. And nothing says "love" like an 18 volt Black & Decker drill. (The cats got him socks and boxers- unoriginal, but hey- they have no thumbkins.) Spent the rest of the day emailing him 28 reasons why he's so great (Peej started that tradition on my 25th...my youngest sis said that it would be pretty difficult by middle age. My thought: if I can't think of ONE new thing I like about my husband each year, it's gonna be a loooong marriage) and then we had a little French bistro action. This was followed, of course, by a chocolate Sweet Mandy B's cake.

For P.J., of course.

This week was also spent running errands on a gigantic to-do list, checking things off like God Himself was going to point down at an item and proclaim: You didn't pay your library fines? No more books for you. EVER.

Finally was able to use a gift card to a swank maternity store- ended up buying a sweatshirt. Whatever. I love it. I did, however, have a moment of delirious laughter when I saw the "Nine months" option hanging in the dressing room. Ever seen one of these? It's like a toddler's water bubble for the pool, 'cept it goes in front- you know, to guesstimate how big a size you'll need at "nine months."

Except.

It was the size of a volleyball, cut in half. Now, a volleyball isn't exactly tiny...but it's certainly not even coming close to the span of my midsection. I'm pretty sure it's even smaller than the circumference of my kid's head. It may actually be boob-sized. Regardless. This is not helpful and it a) will only perpetuate this idea that WOMEN GAIN SEVEN POUNDS IN PREGNANCY and b) make you come back for a new hoodie. Except you'll be crying. For you'll feel obese.

Thanks, "Nine months" option!

Also did that all-too-critical eyebrows step prior to one's delivery. (Now, I don't necessarily have any illusions that I'll look like Heidi Klum in the hospital, but I'd rather not look like Gary Busey, either.) There's this place down the street that looked shady and cheap- but it had been recommended- so I gave it a try. You would have thought a military operation was going down. Turns out, they didn't "wax" so much as "thread" the living daylights out of any hair within the vicinity of my eyeballs. This was a two woman job. And I was clearly in the way as the third. Like a really uncomfortable game of Cats Cradle, they pulled, twanged and sawed at my eyebrows until I was pretty sure raw nerves were exposed. At one point I began to giggle (even though, truly, nothing was funny AT ALL) and also tried to wipe away an errant tear.

"You no help." (Story of my life, sister.)

And just when I thought my head would explode from a sensation akin to holding in a sneeze for an hour, underwater, while being stabbed...there was a big ol' mirror in front of my face.

"You like?"

DID I LIKE?! My head was now glorious! My brows conveyed a look of stylish, confident wit. And the price? FIVE DOLLARS. (I'm going back next month.)

And now, with no further ado...I'm off to the hospital to meet my kiddo! I am unbelievably excited to see the baby who has kept me on a strict diet of pickles, onions, tacos, Italian ice and lemonade for the past nine months, as well as see JUST HOW BIG the feet are that have dragging across my ribcage for the past two. Hopefully we'll be able to loosen the ball that is my child's body within the next month- after all, any kid that chooses to spend a trimester with his face against a lung and ankles over the forehead (with hands making "fish face" gills) is destined to be slightly cylindrical in shape. I'm already in love.

So today, October 29th, 2009, the day that the Billboard Pop Charts insist that Miley Cyrus' "Party in the U.S.A." is the best song EVER and "Paranormal Activity" is the biggest box office smash ("Where the Wild Things Are" is third!), I get to officially...

...wonder if the term "lollygag" is already a sweet, laughable, never-again-kinda phrase.

(Happy birthday, Bitsy!)

One. Week. Left. (What pressure?)

2009-10-22T09:23:00.003-05:00

To Whom It May Concern;

It has recently come to my attention that the master bathroom shower vent has fallen to the floor. Due to its previous placement (above the aforementioned shower), newer problems have shown themselves in the form of gaping ceiling holes (okay, only one, but I've seen enough X-Files episodes to know how this can end) and frequent bursts of really warm air that, with the addition of a warmer water temperature, can turn into really, really cold air.

I'm not entirely sure if this is even the correct department to be sending this missive, nor am I able to shake the feeling that my husband and I are expected to "fix" this issue on our own. We do not wish to. Please help. Why do you want to make the baby cry?

Best,
Dank and Discouraged in Duluth

***

And now, a random pregnancy question: did you know that the seahorse male carries the baby? How is THAT fair? (Not to seahorses, I mean to human females. Everyone knows that seahorses are jerks.) Evolutionarily speaking, that is not right. At least make it OPTIONAL for the human male to carry the kiddo. Maybe parents should alternate? (On another note, I wonder if the seahorse females are just a bunch of sweet-talking hussies? Maybe "seahorse female" should be new term of derision.)

Also, it has recently come to my attention that penguin males are the ones in charge of the baby's development as well. Sure, the female has to lay the egg, but then she gets to hit the high road until the Spring thaw! (But, as my oldest sis pointed out, SHE has to have the kid, the DAD only has to sit on the egg- not really hard at all- and then SHE immediately has to go back to work? NOT. OKAY.)

Pregnancy envy and structural issues of the house aside, Project Give the Baby Somewhere to Live in '09 is skipping along nicely. The nursery= done! (And, might I add, fabulous. Very carnival gender non-specific chic. I just invented a style! Take THAT, Pottery Barn Kids.)My bedroom has a DOOR. So does the hall closet! The stairs have a railing- painted!- and trim and baseboards have been, uh, trimmed and boarded. A security system is set to be installed on Monday (yes, we must protect ALL THIS), so this is your last weekend to rob us blind.

Date night month has also proven to be a runaway success. Last week alone we used gift cards for The Chopping Block, Mrs. Murphy's & Sons, and high tea at The Drake Hotel, as well as saw two plays and attempted to use movie passes to see "Where the Wild Things Are." (Failed, but it still counts.) Sure, it sounds a little frenetic, but as I keep reminding P.J., we are having so much fun.

The Chopping Block cooking class was actually a 24th birthday present that I gave to P.J.- four years ago. Strangely, they kept allowing us to renew it, paving the way for last week's Julia Child class where we learned to make beef bourguignon, lobster thermidor, some cheesy puff awesomeness (my French is stellar), and an apple tatin tarte. All were fabulous. One minor annoyance of the evening was a chef that was causing P.J. to break out in hives: he'd ask a question, she'd look at him like he had three heads, answer him without really listening to his question and later call him out on his GLARING ERROR. (These ingredients do not a happy P.J. make.) A kitchen assistant also did things like turn up the heat on our burners or advise us on an ingredient, only to have the head chef come by and shake her head at P.J. Sure, tattling is very middle school, but pride is pride.

Tea at the Drake was a fabulous Christmas gift from my youngest sis (her twin gave us a gift certificate to Smoque for some crazytown barbecue- that was spent almost instantaneously) that we finally, FINALLY were able to gussy up and enjoy. My pear caramel tea was delightful, as was P.J.'s smoky Lapsang Souchong; as P.J. offered me sugar (one lump or two?), we suddenly realized that we were indeed having a tea party. Which was totally cool with both of us!

A tower of breads and scones were offered first (turns out, clotted cream should be served with everything), followed by a selection of tea sandwiches (how have we never known the glory of cucumber prior to this?) and finished with miniature decadent desserts (um, mango whipped mousse in a pastry shell? Yes.) I informed P.J. that I have been spoiled for food presentation and he admitted that he feared it was the case. Miniature sandwiches or NOTHING! Give me crust and I will give you a plate thrown on the floor! And the beyond-fabulous staff (basically, now all other food service professionals come off looking like part-time Wendy's help)gave us a delicious, unrecognizable, but fully scarfed-down in under five seconds dessert. The message written in chocolate asked if it was a boy or a girl and congratulated us on our new baby. (This 'having a kid' thing is really starting to pay off in spades.)

We also saw "The Man Who Was Thursday" at New Leaf Theatre and "Lucinda's Bed" at Chicago Dramatists- Go. See. Both. One is a gripping, anarchistic (and hilarious) detective story, the other a haunting, witty (and hilarious) tale of a gal's monster under the bed that never truly leaves her.

Tell them Keely sent ya.

Or Wilford Brimley. Whichever you think would yield the biggest discount.

Two weeks. Gosh, that sounds definite.

2009-10-15T10:10:00.003-05:00

I've been watching a lot of television lately. I have little to no energy left to renovate or get the house baby-ready at the end of a workday (my new mindset: the baby can sleep on me. Here, throw me that towel.) Between episodes of Ghost Whisperer wherein I cry like my arm is being broken off at the shoulder (I don't know where this new obsession is coming from- I never used to watch 'ion: positively entertaining' tv) and various Laws & various Orders, I've been enjoying the heck out of batty commercials for folks who have been "trapped" into debt. Sure, debt is superbly easy to accrue (I've, ah, heard) but the best part is the statement in bold across the screen that reiterates what the "paid spokesperson, not an actual lawyer" proclaims: "Over 2k in debt? IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT." Really? Not even the InStyler hair straightener or the Slanket? (I can't resist the new skull n' bones pattern.) I mean, I definitely believe that infomercials hold a certain sway over all of us, but no one's holding an UltraSmooth to your head to fork over your AmEx. I feel better, however, knowing that I am not to blame. If there's anything I hate more than debt, it's personal responsibility. (And frizzy hair, cold appendages and stubble.)

On a similar note, what would really happen if I followed the advice of some of those ads that implore you to "Tell 'em ___ sent ya!" If I walked into a pharmacy and proclaimed that Wilford Brimley should've called ahead for me, do you think that would fly?

"Oh, how is he?"

"...Fine."

And while we're on the topic of blatant consumerism, what the heck is Target's problem? I went in seeking nursing bras (sorry) and asked a lady in the section clearly labeled 'Maternity." You would have thought I asked her to jump my car with the look she gave me.

"Uh, that's not my department. Maybe try LINGERIE?"

(My bad. Many things come to mind with the word 'lingerie.' Snap-top bras and supportive elastic bands are not two of them. Those definitely seem "maternal" to me.") Searched for about ten minutes in the lingerie section and almost ventured over to Patio Furniture to ask for help when I finally found them. They were clearly marked and displayed in the three inch by seven inch gap BEHIND a support beam and hidden by two perpendicular racks of knee socks. OF COURSE. I actually did have to ask for help in getting them out (I no longer span 3x7 inches in any part of my upper torso. Sorry.)

And why oh WHY do maternity pants have sewn-up pockets? The inside fabric is still there, why all the secrecy? I really don't think anything with the word "maternity" in it should be just for show. For I have nothing I wish to show any longer.

One last gripe. For today. I think. If one more person tells me how 'lucky' I am that I don't have to 'go through actual labor,' in terms of my impending c-section, I may rip out their tongue and shove it down their throat, gushing about their luck in not having to actually swallow any longer. That's me, Lucky Charms Flynn. When's the last time major abdominal surgery was considered a prize? There will be a person there whose sole job it will be to hold my major internal organs outside of my abdominal cavity for about an hour. I mean, I would never say the same to a gal who was about to undergo a natural childbirth, proclaiming her luck in avoiding needles and all forms of nasty painkillers! LUCK would be used to describe someone who was tapped gently on the shoulder and woken from a lovely sleep only to be cheerfully told that she seemed to have had a baby in her sleep. Would you like an ice cream sandwich?

I DO, however, feel lucky that I live in a time where the term DuraMorph is a real one. Think about how lovely those words are and how sweet they sound all mashed together like that. Morphine for the Duration. My new Emo band.

And finally, this last little bit of awesome was sent to me by my sister, who had had it forwarded to her from a pal. But it is I who will put it out there for public consumption and discussion: click here, please.

Check out the 'About Us' section. Go down to bio of ol' 'Chuck.' I'll wait.

Okay. There are three phrases that stand out to me. "All inclusive neutering" is one. "Special gift" is another. Also, that (unnecessary) bit about the more exciting relationship with Barbara.

Your assignment? Tell me what's going on in that scenario. Also, what to do about my now-bleeding ocular cavities.

Seriously. I will wait here until you do. And wish that Slankets came in psyche-size.

Theatre references are always funny.

2009-10-08T10:33:00.003-05:00

News! Insomuch as there's no real "news." The baby has not flipped. The baby has a finite amount of time left in which to flip. The "baby" has an enormous head. (Okay, okay, maybe it's not *enormous,* but it's certainly bigger than it ought to be at 36 weeks. I mean, we're not talking John Merrick here, but rather large for my ribcage.) In fact, the baby's head is measuring at 39 weeks. Or, as someone mistakenly heard- 39 inches. (That's less 'Elephant Man' and more 'Dudley Moore's entire frame.' Owie.)

But there's still time! And, as my doctor so optimistically averaged it- less than 1% chance that the kiddo will flip on his or her own! Great! (So...you're saying there's a CHANCE.)

That said, we have THREE WEEKS left to do everything I've ever wanted to do as a childless person. Or, at least everything to the upstairs of the house and/or a few scenes of plays that should be done before a child is clinging to me like...oh, who the heck am I kidding? I already have a toddler-sized baby swinging from my ribs and rendering me useless, cranky and more than a little sleepy. So come on over, folks! The house is apparently done!

Babycenter.com says that my child should be about the size of a Crenshaw melon, which is probably the least helpful imagery ever. A), because it's clearly incorrect. Whatever the heck a Crenshaw melon is, I've just been informed that my kiddo is most likely bigger than it and b) what the heck IS a Crenshaw melon? And stop with the food comparisons! I'm not going to eat my child and I already find myself famished every twenty minutes as it is. (I blame babycenter.com for my pregnancy weight gain. Yeah, that's it!) I understand size references like: bowling ball. Laptop. Breadbox. (On an unrelated note, P.J. was describing something to me the other day and I asked how big it was. He replied, "It's actually EXACTLY the size of a breadbox!" I wondered how long he'd been sitting on that descriptive turn of phrase. And no, the object wasn't specifically a breadbox. I think it was something to do with home repair.)

I've been taking Lil to preschool on Wednesdays at a superbly pricey and preppy early education center lately ...and regardless of my advanced physical pregnant-ness, I am STILL the social pariah because of my nanny status. That's right, because I take care of children, the mothers cannot converse with me ABOUT children. I'm sure it makes sense to them. However, I do get to take a lot of good notes- not on childcare, mind you, most of these women don't know their own kids' middle names- but on the rank of certain possessions in their lives. FOR EXAMPLE: One of the moms was mugged a few months back, in Lincoln Park, while pregnant AND while her toddler was in tow. The first questions asked of her?

"Oh my God, was your iPhone out?"

"Did he take your ring?"

And the responses?

"Yes, he TOOK MY iPHONE!" ("Oh, you poor thing. Did you call AT&T right away?")

and (my favorite): "No, the ring was at the jeweler's- THANK GOD!"

I assume the kid was fine, as was the unborn child...or it would've come up. Right? Right? But I also learned how unfair the housing market is to PEOPLE WITH MONEY. (That's right, P.J., remember when we were feeling stressed about finding our home? Imagine if we had really had money! We have no idea how the other half has to live.) Turns out, if you're poor, people THROW mortgages at you, but if you have "too much money" (actual quote) it's really, really hard.

Sigh.

One woman also had the complaint about finding a gorgeous home that she could NEVER live in...because the master bathroom was, well, "you know what I'm talking about." And the other women nodded sagely.

What? What can it be like? My "master bathroom" is a makeshift closet off of a onetime D.I.Y. shoebox kitchen (next to the baby's room- nice) that currently has a ceiling furnace vent that FELL onto the floor the other night with such a loud bang that we believed a wall had fallen over. And the "vanity mirror" possesses a folded paper towel scrap in one corner that, if removed, causes an entire sheet of plate glass to crash into the sink. PLEASE tell me what a dealbreaker of a bathroom you saw. Was it beige? I bet it was beige.

On an extraordinarily positive note, our local Jewel has recently restocked AirWicks apple cinnamon air freshener. IT'S ABOUT TIME. After about three months, "fresh linen" scent no longer smells "fresh" or even particularly like fabric. Plus, we had a coupon for a free warmer! I have no idea why I need this! It's called a "Hidden Pleasures" AirWick wamer, which sounds fabulously deceitful and decadent. It also boasts a "discreet frosted" plastic cover. Why are we hiding this? I feel no shame for my love of apple cinnamon AirWicks, nor does a cover, discreetly frosted or otherwise, make it look less like an air freshener. Maybe each one should come with a Chia Pet cover! We could market it as "Obvious Quirks!"

Some people just have a head for business, I guess.

Are they trying to intimidate me?

2009-10-01T12:37:00.003-05:00

Well, I needn’t have been worried. With the end of Great Expectations (the class, not the book- I finished that in ’96) I feared that my baby saga would no longer be funny- or, worse yet, no longer bring up relevant and timely pregnancy ads on my sidebar. (Have you noticed them? I get maybe an eighth of a cent every time you use one. Click click, people!)

As it turns out, being pregnant is still SO MUCH FUN that the wackiness practically perpetuates itself. For example, leaving the doctor’s office the other day (kiddo is still breech, there’s nothing joyful and wacky in that- it’s just mean) some random dude approached me on Michigan Ave and jazz-handed this amazing bit of advice into my general midsection area: “If it’s a boy, name him KEITH!” Which is a very nice name, all in all, but I now associate it with a heart attack.

And as I walked into Sephora for some much needed makeup reinforcements, I was greeted with the phrase, “Hi there, Big Mommy!” Uh, wha? I am not your Mommy, FRIEND, not even in the hip hop sense. (And I know much bigger people, with child or not. So there.)

As for the Bitsy not turning head-down yet, P.J. had a stunning realization last night before sleep (which, as I’m finding out, is when a goodly bit of all frightening parental revelations occur)- NEITHER OF US EVER LEARNED TO DIVE. Ever! Sure, we’ve taken countless lessons and know the basic mechanics, but we’ve never been able to get past that critical last second don’t-move-your-upper-torso, rendering us doomed to face-plant and/or belly flop. We have no one to blame but ourselves! Perhaps we are genetically geared to fear being fully head-down. I forgive you, Bitsy. And I apologize.

This past weekend we had the distinct pleasure of having no less than four family members stay at the new Chez Schoeny! (Even more doors and baseboards have been added, making a fairly convincing case that people can, indeed, reside here.) P.J.'s parents were hosting a faboo baby shower for us, and my mom and big sis both came to play! (In my mother's case, she came to do all of the baby's laundry and cook and store enough of my favorite foods for me to have three or more maternity leaves. Oooh...)

The shower was superbly fun, and I was feted with gifts that, years ago, would have warranted a polite smile and a carefully worded thank-you note; now they receive a full on bear hug and awkward amounts of grateful tears. For example: receiving blankets. Now, I have blankets. BUT NOT LIKE THESE! These are crafted from clouds and embroidered with whimsical animals that, you guessed it, make me cry. And a Pack n' Play, which, as everybody knows, is essentially a padded cage. With monkeys. BUT NOT MINE! Mine is a place to Put. The. Baby. Down. With monkeys. (And, according to my mother, I refused to be removed from my playpen- as they were called in the good ol' days of 1980- until I was roughly seven years of age. I think this will be a good addition to our home.)

But then everybody left and I cried (not in the good way- there's a slight difference in cadence of sobs) and then I took a nap. And then I ate more food than was potentially wise. (Whatever, it was in my freezer and my mother labeled it. Are you saying my MOTHER'S food isn't wise? It is very wise. And Armenian! Which, as you'll all remember, is calorie-free.)

So, back to work. I spent the morning with my 18-month old gal Scout (who, for the record, is not feeling well. And may the record show that neither are Julia or Lily. COME ON, GALS! Chance is fine, but just informed me that the soccer practice I took him to was, "kinda a dropoff class, Kiki, so, uh...")

Scout has a doll house from the '70s that I adore playing with. One of the big ol' Fisher-Price plastic deals with housewife dolls in orange floral jumpers and babies with Kewpie-doll curls. As we played, however, I found myself admiring the yellow plastic staircase and the extra-wide pink master bathroom sink near the curvy "plush" (read: plastic) bed. After a moment, I realized that the feeling in my gut was (not intestinal distress- though common), but...envy. I was JEALOUS of a three-story Victorian PLASTIC house with a wraparound porch and terrace windows in the attic! I had malice in my heart for anyone lucky enough to live in a furnished Fisher-Price house. How messed up is that? (I know, I know, we've done a ton to our li'l piece of the Fisher-Price American Dream already, and soon we'll be in excellent shape. You know, once we add the rest of the doors and baseboards, finish painting the trim and some fixtures, completely revamp the bathrooms, purge the furnace vents and find out what is making THAT TERRIBLE SMELL.)

And I get to have a baby soon!

I also recently remembered that, when I'm not pregnant, I enjoy writing. In fact, I enjoy it SO much that I signed on for playwriting projects MONTHS ago...that I just had the distinct pleasure of recalling their deadlines. Which happened to be this week. Last night was a blur of reformatting Final Draft scripts, attempting to print them out into legible portfolios, and driving around to various office supply stores to find a mammoth enough manila envelope that would safely encase the gargantuan piles of paper (of which my printed name may or may not be the only intelligible portion.) Please continue to hire me, Chicago theatre community!

And that was the only aberration from Date Night Month (the happiest newly-created and soon to be a distant memory Month of the year!) We started off with a home-cooked meal and a baked apple crisp (I baked! And nothing terrible happened!) followed by an evening of our favorite On Demand shows- or, as I call them, my Programs. (I am so very much my Nana Alice at times.) The next night we saw "The Informant" (you know, starring my good pal Scott Bakula? He knows me) at the Davis Theatre and had a dinner of popcorn and Coldstone Creamery, followed by a bedtime of 9:30pm- WOO! Tonight we're making it to an actual Cubs game, after having successfully eaten the cost of the other five times we tried to go this season. Sure, it'll be down to the '40s in temp tonight, and yeah, it may or may not rain...but we are going to have a DATE NIGHT with the CUBS and perhaps a HOTDOG.

Oh, and the picture posted above? Yeah, that's the actual sign on the hand dryer at my doctor's office (where they make me pee in cups roughly five times a visit- which is, sadly, totally do-able.) FEEL THE POWER, it says. Oh, and I do. One swipe of my slightly damp hands anywhere within ten feet of the nozzle and it's suddenly a leaf-blower. You know when skydivers get that rubber face from all the wind shoving their cheeks back like Wallace and Gromit? It's like that. The skin on my hands actually wiggles. And I do NOT have wiggly skin.

Yet.

Gimme a few more weeks. I'm sure I'll have an equally delightful name for that Month as well.

Just like a feral cat!

2009-09-24T10:47:00.003-05:00

Firstly, let me terrify everyone who may be having a child within the next nine months...

Have you read about the woman who got pregnant WHILST pregnant?
http://gmy.news.yahoo.com/
For serious, this is a bit much. One woman, pregnant- twice- within three weeks. PUT HER HUSBAND IN ANOTHER ROOM, PLEASE! No matter how "rare" the doctors say this may be, *one* case within earshot of my pregnancy is entirely one too many. Pretty much the only perk of the first trimester is that this should NOT happen. (Granted, if you were anything like me, you spent the first three months sobbing into your Italian ice and throwing shoes at anyone who happened to walk into the living room, especially if he was the one who did this awful thing to you. This was before I was deeply in love with my bundle o' joy, let the record show.) But seriously, this is how the mother of my cats was impregnated, and Bean and Ender (though dearly beloved) are kinda nuts! I wonder if one of the babies this lady is bearing will be a tabby. I guess only if the father is a carrier.

Also, terribly, my first thought upon seeing this clip was how huge the woman looked. Which is awful. Because I've pretty much based a blog around the fact that people are so mean (i.e. careless in speech) to pregnant woman and how obese my doctor feels that I am. (However, this woman was wiiiiiide. Maybe she's carrying an ocelot.)

And now, sadly, it's my duty to announce the end of Great Expectations. Yep, we graduated. I have no idea what to write about anymore, frankly, since this class inspired a War and Peace-type of prolificacy in me and I have a few weeks of gestation yet to go. Last night was POSTPARTUM ISSUES NIGHT (the night least like Taco Night of them all, I think.)

Apparently, we have to take the baby home eventually. And some women have ISSUES. Like exhaustion, pain, worries and depression. (Aw, junk, that's how I feel NOW!) Plus, we'll have the added joy of the imminent Chicago winter. (Who DID this to me?!) And did you know that TERRIBLE THINGS can happen to the baby at ANY time? Basically, the safest thing you can do for your child is to place him or her (on their back, obvie,) in a barren crib, after ONLY feeding from one's breast (preferably the mother's), with three industrial-strength fans overhead (for circulating air), completely naked.

And these are the mothers who care too much! Sounds like a healthy dose of neglect would be comfier.

After a circumcision slideshow (which I DEFINITELY do not need to be able to perform, COME ON), and watching all of the terrible things they're required to do BY LAW to my child (Steroid eyedrops! Vitamin K needles the length and width of Guam!), a "goody bag" of postpartum necessities was passed around the room, one to a person, to ready ourselves for the next discussion. However, as I was busy texting my mother (Hi Mom!), down the street at the Apple store while we Lamazed, I was understandably confused when I was handed a gigantic sanitary pad.

"Thanks," I said to the nurse.

P.J. gave me a look and I shrugged at him, as if to say, "You wanted a certificate or a medal?" I even put it in my bag. Later, when the nurse mentioned each item and the student held it up for discussion, I understood and sheepishly got it out of my bag to show the class. Sure makes a lot more sense why some guy was holding a bottle of stool softener.

And then she took all the items back. Darn.

But that's it. We are now child-havin' experts. Which is good, because according to the way people have been treating me, it could happen at ANY MINUTE. Which would NOT be good, as P.J. is out of town tonight and tomorrow for a super-secret mission on the East coast. (Plus, he desperately wants a Scorpio baby, ever since we received a super cute onesie proclaiming "Scorpio." A Virgo would not cut the mustard. Or spread it, for that matter. Who gets hard mustard?)

Plus, word on the street is that I'm getting showered with baby this weekend, so it would be nice to actually participate in THAT (as opposed to active labor)...and finally, I can't have the baby before the end of OCTOBER DATE MONTH. Yep, we're slowing home renovations (we are so nowhere close to done, but whatever) so that in the month of October we can a) make dinner, b) watch movies, c) go outside and d) sleep entire weekends away. (I think that 24-year old and 29-year old Keely would each be appalled at the other's idea of a swell date.)

We're done with travels (for now), finished enjoying the heck out of friends' and families' weddings for the year, no more baby showers in far-flung locales such as Cincinnati (although Dorrie's recent one at the Country Club was posh and superbly catered- I think I had twelve pieces of hors d' vours that may or may not have been potatoes- and I don't even like potatoes) and I'm wiiiiinding down the days of nannying. Before nannying again. With a baby. (As I was explaining to various people who say "Oh how easy for you! Taking the baby to work!", yep, it'll sure be lovely, but kinda hard. I mean, I'm not a forklift operator, but it'll still be two full-time jobs AT THE SAME TIME.)

But after eight weeks of "resting" with the baby, I'm sure I'll be ready for anything. Even finishing the two plays that were due August 1st. Or rediscovering where I left my bottom ribs. (Maybe under the last two banana-nut muffins.) Do not judge. At least I am carrying one, non-catlike baby from a one, non-alley cat father.

And at least I still have my delicately turned, non-swole ankles.

It's the little things.

Kinda like Buy One Get One Free...

2009-09-17T11:41:00.002-05:00

...of a really bizarre infomercial product...

...for which you ended up paying a ton of shipping anyhow!

Week 33. TWO classes this week, folks. That's right. Double your awesome info. Starting with Tuesday...a.k.a. INFANT AND CHILD CPR AND FIRST AID NIGHT. Now, I've been a nanny for seven years and know (roughly) how to keep a kid alive. But a refresher course is a refresher course, especially considering a lot of this "practical" knowledge will fly straight out of my ears the first 4am I get to deal with a hacking cough during cold n' flu season. Plus, I'm pretty sure P.J. hasn't studied this stuff since the early Clinton years.

SO. We started out tilting the head and breathing into the nostrils and mouth (just like a puppy!) of our black plastic infant...who possessed a twisted air pipe. HE WAS LIKE THAT WHEN WE GOT HIM. After some minor tweaking by the instructor, I proved I could breathe (and look and listen) with the best of 'em. And then we got to follow along with the video! Oh, the video. The narrator of each scenario looked like a cross between Olivia Newton John and Jane Seymour...if either of them had ever been grinning coke addicts. Boy, was she eager to tell you the terrible things that could happen AT ANY TIME! For example, your baby, apropos of nothing, could JUST STOP BREATHING. Or your dad, at a family picnic, could fall down in the backyard. Imagine that you were playing Nintendo with a buddy, chowing on some pizza. YOU COULD CHOKE. (The worst part is that they never went back to the "acted-out" scenarios after the instructional parts - we were left to assume that all of these folks died from ineptitude.)

And, oh, the instructional parts. Multiple people, dressed in the same grey breakaway track pants and baggy red tee shirts (you need to be ready to bend and squat at any time, apparently. The business of saving lives won't wait until you change out of your three piece suit, no sir.) These folks all stood, one at a time, in front of a sheet draped over a wall (the technical quality of these portions were phenomenal) and acted out imaginary scenarios...to no one in particular. One Asian gal had absolutely no intonation or vocal affect ("Hey...you. Are you choking? Someone. Call. 9.1.1.) On the other hand, a Black lady with 'tude for miles and half of her track pants open at one side (I am not even kidding) told an imaginary passerby to call 911 with such force that I almost reached for my cell. Now THAT is who you want saving your life.

Also helpful- you should only try to remove a food blockage from someone's mouth if it's right at the tip of their tongue (in the video, an M&M was picked up with two fingers from the mannequin's lips). Now, where I'm from, that's not called "choking" so much as "eating an M&M," but I'm no medical professional.

The best part of the video? When the narrator came back onscreen, proudly proclaiming that now we had "all the tools" to save lives...just like Gary.

Um, what? Who the hell is Gary? Did we miss his vignette? Was he the dad in the backyard?

There was no time to worry about such trivialities, because before I knew it, it was WEDNESDAY. That's right, Great Expectations, week three.

C-SECTION NIGHT!! (Yep, I thought we briefly covered that last week as well, but apparently not enough to be able to perform the surgery ourselves. I can think of no other practical reason to make me watch that nightmare-inducing procedure twice.) As P.J. later told me, they were clearly going for the 'this isn't so bad, right?' hard sell, but no matter how sunshiney and rosy they tried to make it seem, there was still a woman strapped onto a bed, arms out in the t-position, being rotated like a pig on a spit (for circulation, obviously), unable to move anything below her chin and telling the camera how nauseous she was. (Out of my way, kids, I'm first in line for THIS ride!) Also, the bit about mother/child bonding was sweet...insomuch as the nurse had to hold the newborn to his mother's cheek as she was incapable of doing anything other than wiggling her chin at him for an hour and a half.

Helpful tips: If you're feeling "anxious," (Good God, why on earth would that be?) ask your doctor to "explain each step of the procedure for you." Uh, if I'm having a panic attack about being strapped down and clothespinned open, perhaps telling me which layer you're dicing through won't have the calming effect you're expecting.

And the You Really Didn't Save Us From Witnessing the Graphic Awfulness Award goes to...the animated video showing how they clothespin you open and dice you up. In slightly more medical terms. That said, que sera, sera, right? If I get to experience a day like that, I can take solace in the fact that from shaving one's belly (Uh...?) to actual emergence of a child takes FIVE MINUTES. Perhaps we should slow down a little? That's freaky fast. Impressive, but maybe a bit too Get 'Er Done.

And, of course, I'd have P.J. there by my wiggling chin to, you know, poke me in the arm to let me feel his presence (an actual tip.)

With the A/V club portion over, we got to tour the facility (and pick up the slack. Okay, not really. We were actually probably in the way.) Turns out, these rooms are the reward for sitting through horrendous videos. It's like a day spa! Sure, a really crappy day spa wherein you leave a LOT less limber than when you entered, but still. Pretty. Floor to ceiling windows with views of downtown (do they have views of me? Ewww), wood paneling on the walls, a flat screen TV and Bose sound dock in each delivery room, plus none of that Oh My God I'm In An Operating Room lighting. I'd prefer to be backlit at all times, of course, but these options seem like a close second.

On our way out we passed a slightly shell-shocked woman in a wheelchair heading to Recovery, her dazed husband walking behind the nurse, clutching a duffel bag like his very life depended on it. Upon seeing all of us pregnant ladies, the nurse bent over and said softly, "Just think, yesterday that was YOU!"

I have no idea what sort of traumatic event THAT poor fool just went through, but God bless, right?

As I write this, my currently breech-positioned child seems to be kicking somewhere between my ribs and right side...certainly on the correct road towards a heads-down, can-do attitude, but most definitely in an area that CANNOT STRETCH ANY FURTHER. I am one lace-trimmed apron away from the knock 'em out ether, chloroform, whathaveyou method of labor from the 40s and 50s.

As long as I don't have to watch the video.

It's like a bee sting. From a truck-sized bee.

2009-09-10T12:54:00.004-05:00

Week 32! Already four and a half pounds (the baby- I weight a biiiiiit more), blood pressure great for both mom n' kid, extremely active baby with a superb heart rate and...OH YES, the kid is standing straight up, a.k.a. breech, a.k.a., I'm gonna need that part of my lung and ribcage back. We had evidence of this acrobatic acumen with our latest ultrasound- our child, on its belly, ankles up to the forehead, hands pushing on its face. Impressive, uncomfortable and kickier than a donkey. Nice trifecta. The baby is currently in a position called 'frank breech' ("Frankly, your kid is breech.") This is no big deal medically, excepting the fact that if the Bitsy doesn't turn on its own (15% chance) my team of doctors will try to TURN THE BABY at 37 weeks (40% chance and um, ow) and if nothing happens, c-section at 39 weeks. The week of P.J.'s birthday and perhaps on the day of his lucky 27. I smell conspiracy. (And bacon. Who's cooking bacon at 1pm? Halfsies!)

I've gotten some pretty helpful advice for "turning the child" and some even includes doing it "naturally." An example of "natural?" Leaning an IRONING BOARD against a couch and propping myself upside down on it- something I couldn't have done even had I NOT been entering my 8th month of pregnancy, mind you- and letting the child decide that s/he doesn't care for that position any longer. What could be more natural? How about frozen peas on the head? (The baby's, not mine.) Perhaps clothespins attached to the outside of my pinky toes? Acupuncture, acupressure, prenatal massage, jiu jitsu (not really) and my personal favorite: getting in a pool (okie doke! Where is this magical pool?) and doing a HANDSTAND. Never mind the fact that I also cannot do a handstand, pregnant or not, in water or otherwise, and my balance is already atrocious. Do I want to flip this child or terrify it into submission? Why not just go on a roller coaster? Enter a chili pepper-eating contest? Make a funny paper hat and place it in a scrapbook? Bizarre suggestions all, but more importantly- holistic. (And thanks, Kat, for sending me a website solely for the reason you commented- "They used the word "foetal.") Now, I know that a c-section wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, but...I've read Macbeth. I know how this kinda thing turns out. (Gettin' a little literary up in here, no?)

But more importantly- last night was week 2 of Great Expectations. Epidural Night! (I asked people if it was anything like Taco Night- which I LOVE- and all I got for my trouble was a resounding "Ah, no.") And that's fine. Because it wasn't.

It was BETTER!

We began with a ten second clip from the movie 'Nine months" with Hugh Grant and Julianne Moore, in which Grant takes Moore to the hospital to have her baby. ("My water broke!" "Well, we'll get you another one!") Hijinks ensued, Robin Williams, M.D., produced an epidural needle the size of a small pachyderm and Julianne Moore's wheelchair got pushed down the hall and into an open elevator.

"That's how NOT to go into labor," our instructing R.N. told us.

I am not even joking.

We then saw a video with proper birthing positions (upright, seated, side-lying) to alleviate different kinds of labor pains. And the headbands! Ooh boy, last week's headbands had NOTHING on the bespangled creations this week, the kind that said "Out of my way, hair (and husbands), I GOT THIS ONE." And then there was a third video- obviously staged, as the best scene came when a 'laboring mom' huffed and screamed and sweated for a good while, looked up demurely and said "I think I'd like an epidural," and then when the attending physician came by, asked "Will it hurt?" Well, no more than the water buffalo you were apparently trying to dislodge! And then P.J.'s favorite part; after the placement of the epidural, the doctor and patient smiled at each other, the doctor signed off on a chart, left the room, LOOKED UP AT THE CAMERA and, still smiling, assured us "She'll be fine." Please continue to walk us through this hard-hitting slice of reality television! Is this Sesame Street? Can we now see a llama getting its teeth cleaned?

And lest you think that the husbands were not represented as well this week- oh no- we had a guy whose mustache would put Magnum, P.I.'s to shame who continuously pushed his wife's bangs out of her face (for she did not have a headband) and muttered like Rain Man "You're doing good. You're doing real good." (She asked for the epidural reeeally early on.)

Best yet, we got to practice what we saw! Balancing on yoga balls, bent over chairs, on all fours and purring like cats (okay, so she didn't SAY to purr like cats) and getting to breathe deeply while looking in each others' eyes. Turns out, if I hafta breathe deeply and look into P.J.'s eyes during labor, it may not work out. He is really, really funny. Even if (and might I add- especially) when he is TRYING to be SERIOUS. And when he had to massage out my "back labor," he really went for the gold. He destroyed that contraction. Also a hip joint. But he was SERIOUS.

They also snuck in a video about c-sections, which was NOT COOL TO DO. If I have to get a c-section (no) I'm fairly certain all I have to do is show up. The less I know about that needle and the clamps FOR MY SKIN the better. In fact, let's pretend we didn't see what happens on the other side of the curtain, lalalalalalala. (This goes double for episiotomies, bodily fluids and functions during labor, and gowns that fail to cover one's body adequately- none of this EVER happened.) Found out video taping during labor isn't allowed- aw, shucks!- but we're allowed to take as many pictures of our child AFTER the fact as we'd like. Thanks! You're sure we don't have to sign a waiver?

I think that getting pregnant is the best thing that has EVER happened to my writing career. Lamaze class is coming in at a close second. I plan to live-blog my labor and delivery. Or maybe I'll let P.J., if he's not too busy.

I'll bring a backup headband, just in case.

P.J., get my coat.

2009-09-03T13:24:00.004-05:00

I think we've stayed at this party too long.

a.k.a., That natural childbirth video made me yuke.

Last night was our first "Great Expectations" class at Northwestern (do they mean for the class? For my Expectations are only Meh) and what a time was had by all! Eight to ten couples eyeing the other eight to ten couples with these actual inner monologues: Guys- Does he make more money than me? Is he younger than me?/ Gals- She best be delivering after me. She is ridiculously tiny. I don't think she's really pregnant.

We started off by arranging ourselves by due date, this after I'd already propped my knees up on a yoga ball and paged through my info packet (actual info for the Transition stage of Labor: "Tell her how great she's doing! Tell her that the baby will soon be here!" And P.J.'s reply: "You're fiiiiiiiiine." After which I mentally swapped my Support Person.) We found ourselves in the middle of the group, with due dates ranging from the end of December (See? Hardly pregnant) to OCTOBER FIFTH. Yep. That girl is giving birth in a MONTH. We have four classes in this session. P.J. and I are wondering if she's gonna make it to the end. (Of the session, that is. I doubt that missing the last class will cause something terrible to happen in the actual birthing of the child. Maybe they give out magic potions?)

Then we got to go around the room and announce our birth plans. The girls who chose to go natural smiled smugly at those of us who like drugs (yum) and the rest of the girls looked at the 'au naturale' gals like they were missing a screw or seven. It was a tender moment.

Then, oh THEN, we got to see a video with FOUR ACTUAL LABORING MOMS who- get this- delivered babies without drugs (even when they mentioned that they wanted them. That bit was towards the end. Apparently women in this stage are HILARIOUS!) Speaking of not making it 'til the end, there was a featured woman that P.J. and I seriously wanted to poke in the eye. For real. I realize that no one was having a grand time, but this gal was moaning from the second the lights were being hung in the video. It didn't stop her from eating chips n' salsa, oh no! (Now, I'm no "doctor," but maybe eating spicy food as your water is breaking is NOT gonna feel good in a couple of hours. Different strokes, I guess.) And THEN, she got to the hospital! And donned a HEADBAND. You know the kind of headband I'm talking about. The Down To Business Headband. Not a hair was to touch her forehead- she was in Active Labor. (And her husband was kind of a dope- staring wide-eyed and kinda drunkenly throughout the entire ordeal.) And may God forgive me for saying this, but hers was an ORDEAL. Plus, she had this whiny "pain face" really early on- terribly mean of me, yes, but you can TOTALLY tell that it's also her face for when her husband's running late. It was hard to build any sense of caring for her character and the arc of her story line.

And MY GOODNESS, did some of these women realize they were going to be filmed? I will say no more. (Except that it was a sight to behold. I'm sure you really don't care at that point, but REALLY, shouldn't it have crossed one or two minds beforehand? Film is forever!) We both felt badly for the featured Asian lady who barely spoke any English and had a vacant look on her face the entire time- while she labored ALONE- who probably didn't understand that a camera crew was to be present...and that an epidural wasn't.

Next week- epidural videos! Woot!

My favorite part of class came when we had to visualize labor and use our Bag of Tools (I keep mine in a toolbox, thankyouverymuch) to send ourselves to our favorite strip of beach. Our Support Person (P.J. was still holding this title) had to squeeze an appendage of ours tighter and tighter for fifteen seconds, loosening their grip for the next fifteen. Our jobs were to BREATHE THROUGH THE PAIN. Most husbands chose an arm. Mine grabbed my inner thigh. I am very ticklish on my inner thigh. He also started the count with a KUNG FU GRIP and tightened from there. I'm sure my reaction had the teacher putting Child Services on speed dial for the Schoeny household.

Then I started laughing. And couldn't stop. So P.J. grabbed my thigh between two fingers and proceeded to walk me through the gentlest contraction ever, through which I almost hyperventilated. The combination of Deep Cleansing Breathes, an ant-like contraction on one's thigh and a mortified husband does that to me, apparently.

I hope the teacher's getting paid well.

But I really can't complain- P.J.'s a pretty fun guy, he's promised me SUSHI if I do a GOOD JOB, and I have a lovely home with a couch newly on the floor of the actual living room in the house where the baby will live (see last eight posts). I'm certainly better off than the video gal whose husband blathered about how hard labor was for HIM. During the actual labor! Sit back down, son!

Although, in their interviews, I couldn't help but notice that THEY had a finished stairwell leading to their first floor.

I'm just saying.

Thirty weeks! That sounds close.

2009-08-27T11:32:00.002-05:00

It kinda feels like I'm in the "official" part of my pregnancy- like, now that it's ten weeks or less 'til Baby Central, this means that I actually have to HAVE THE KID. And other such fun.

I'm thoroughly NOT enjoying the every two weeks appointments. The constant poking, prodding and weigh-ins make me feel less Earth Mother and more Rocky Post-Retirement. Or like a science experiment gone horribly awry. ("Why are you still gaining weight?" "Well, until the kid starts shrinking, it may become a necessary evil.")

I'm rather done with caring about weight gain at this point. (*Rather*, mind you. I will always be enough of an actress to wonder how close or off the mark I am to the weight listed on my theatre resume. 125lbs. Shut up.) Besides, if my doctors really wanted me to obsess about my weight, they're about nine years late to the party. We don't do that here anymore. And if they really wanted me to count calories (yep, there they are!) then tomorrow I'll just get off at the floor hosting the Weight Watchers meeting and skip the blood draw altogether. If I'm humongously overweight when the kid hits middle school (and still blaming the pregnancy), then yes, get my bum to step aerobics. Until then, pass the pumpernickel.

We start our childbirth classes next Tuesday, a blend of Lamaze and Bradley techniques: half 'Oh, this is gonna hurt, so breathe rhythmically like they do in the movies' and half 'Oh, pain is totally cool. Visualize a cloud. Don't you like CLOUDS?' I hope they offer snacks with the informative videos. I hope I can record P.J.'s face whilst watching the informative videos.

Yesterday I finished up a one-act play about biological clocks- seems to be a bit on the brain- except that my female protagonist can't find hers and desperately wishes to. Ha! It's funny, 'cause it's a myth! Like people who gain seven pounds during pregnancy! Because what woman DOESN'T hear her clock chirping in the middle of the night like a Tourette's-afflicted cockatiel with ADD on a sugar high? Wearing little finger cymbals and an umbrella hat? (The umbrella hat doesn't make noise, it's strictly a sight-gag.)

Oh, for real?

You don't find that this is GENERALLY the case? Oh.

That's weird.

So, tonight may be the night that a "guy" comes over and "saws our couch in half." And we're paying him cash money to do this! At this point I'd give him one of the cats if he could unwedge the sectional from the stairwell. I find that I'm losing my ability to notice large, out-of-place objects in my daily life. Totally walked into a filing cabinet two days ago- it COULD have belonged in the family room...who am I to argue with the laws of spatial relations? (On a positive note, we still have a homeless box spring blocking the storage area, rendering it officially Not My Problem. There's clutter back there? Prove it.)

But for now, murder, mayhem and diamond theft. For at least three more scenes. And then perhaps elevated ankles, strategically-placed pillows and a snore or two.

For at least twenty more minutes.

Wanna come see my MacLaren?

2009-08-19T10:04:00.004-05:00

This past weekend Peej and I headed to Pittsfield to be showered with baby...think 'It's Raining Men,' but with pastels. Delicious food, adorable [teensy] presents and a couple dozen of the East Coasters I like best. Also- more than five instances of "I cannot believe how HUGE you are," to which I reply: a) Believe it. I am carrying another PERSON, and b) that is something extraordinarily obvious to say and (more likely than not) the expectant mother is walking around at the time thinking to herself "I hope I don't look HUGE in this." Which she does. Because she is almost seven months pregnant.

Public service announcement aside, it was a lovely trip and party thrown by my sibs and mother, WAAAAY too short (all Massachusetts jaunts feel about five hours long these days) and complicated with rain delays at the airport. To paraphrase P.J., we've got centuries of advancements that can get hampered...by water droplets falling from the sky. Nice. My sciatic nerve thanks you, O'Hare.

In other news, our doorbell still doesn't "ring" the way it's "supposed to." (It's in a pile on the kitchen counter called P.J., CAN YOU FIX THIS TONIGHT? (Marriage is fun.) This lack of doorbell was made quite clear the other day when the FedEx gal came to our door with a package needing signing. (Two things: WOW! A FedEX package? This NEVER happens. And secondly, I was upstairs in the master bedroom, where apparently one can hear door pounding through the FLOOR'S VIBRATION. Awesome and kinda not-so-awesome.) Regardless, sensitive soul that I am, I heeded the door pounding and found a bored looking FedEX employee waiting to thrust one of those electronic signing devices in my hands (that never looks like my signature anyhow and cuts off the first half of my name- so has this 'technology' really advanced modern mail? Let's put our energies into waterproof airports.)

"Violet Bodillo?" She asked [boredly], thus crushing my dreams of signing for a FedEx(!) package.

"Nope."

Raising an eyebrow she [boredly] repeated, "No?"

I assured her that, while I may have many names, Violet Bodillo (which, I'm sorry- is NOT even a real name) is not one of them.

Bored gave way to irate.

"4330 N. Troy?"

"4338."

She looked around angrily for the house numbers, which, believe it or not, had been attached to our brick wall weeks before. (Side note- Peej. Apparently our numbers are missing.)

"Sorry," I lamely apologized. "It's a foreclosure."

She did not accept, and instead marched down past my mailbox (which had the correct numbers AND non-Violet Bodillo-names on it- plus, I'm sorry, we're still between 4336 and 4340 which are labeled largely. 4330? I feel no sympathy) without so much as a howdy-do.

I think a howdy-do would've made that day so much better.

Later I picked (stole) some plum tomatoes and carrots from my previous garden. My rationale was that I had planted them, it wasn't MY fault that the wonky weather had made it a late season, and besides, they wouldn't have survived the transplant. I was doing everyone a favor, see?

The only trouble was that I happened to glance into the back window where my office used to be- and it was full of dolls and toys for the new little girl who lived there. (Or, let's be honest, another 29-year old who cannot let go of possessions.) This sight filled me with so much sadness that I had to go to the Taco & Burrito King on Addison and Western to drown my sorrows in a small horchata and some nachos. (To be fair, I was also waiting to pick up my mother-in-law at the Enterprise so it wasn't just a binge. It was a 'killing time' kinda...binge.)

However, the nachos- which had one purpose in life then and there, to make everything OKAY- were stale. And soggy. Yes, stale AND soggy.

I am not ashamed to admit that I cried. Yep, I sat there in the parking lot of the Enterprise, amidst people who had trouble parking compact cars in diagonal spaces and employees taking inappropriately loud cellphone breaks and cried. I don't know if it was the stress of the move, the renovations of the new house, the travel and visitors, the inability to finish up two plays before August 1st or simply the failure of my favorite comfort food.

I'm gonna go with the last option. And you hafta agree with me, folks, because remember- she's pregnant. And always right.

And maybe a smallish bit big. But not from nachos.

At least not that day.

So, we really have to live here now, huh?

2009-08-13T13:22:00.004-05:00

Big news this week- (Okay, I do realize it's all very self-importantly "big" news to us...but I'm kinda longing for a week where I whine about being bored and say inane things like "I just painted my toenails. Again. Went with pink." And hopefully we'll get a week of that before the kid joins us)- we have a BED and FOUR WINDOWS. We actually have about thirty windows, but FOUR of them are NEW and UNBROKEN.

Where to start? The bed. We went to Ikea last Sunday- a fabulous venture with a pregnant woman, I think P.J. can assure you. We got about six plates of food from the cafeteria and paid under fourteen bucks for all of it. BEST DATE EVER. God bless Sweden! And meatballs! We entered with the notion of getting JUST A BED, we only NEED A BED, we're not even gonna LOOK in other departments...and left with a bed, some curtains, those scuff pads for under furniture (they were on sale), a lampshade and parts for a desk (that later ended up getting put back as the desk was on too high of a shelf for Ikea employees to reach. What? Isn't that your JOB? Isn't that what Ikea is all about? Warehouse prices and warehouse storage? And it's too high? Couldn't we have planned this one a little better? How did it get UP there?) SO. We left Schaumburg, IL, (God bless our car as well), and headed back into the city- P.J. dropped me off at the house with the implicit directions to NOT do anything strenuous. He had to go downtown and pick up his mother, who would be visiting us until Wednesday. (Side note- she came for a number of reasons, among them to see the 'Snapshots' Festival at Strawdog...my Chicago premiere as a playwright! That is, for a show that I wasn't involved in the production of, the direction of or required by law to participate in the ensemble. And it was so cool! My piece was hilarity incarnate- I can say that with all modesty as the two girls cast were comedic powerhouses. And Peej was superb in two of the plays- and played the ukelele...exceptionally well!)

Back to the bed. I stared at the departing car. I stared at the couch still wedged in our hallway. And, walking upstairs, I stared at the two huge Ikea boxes of BED-ness that would soon replace the mattress on the floor. It was hot as hell, I was hungry enough to eat two pickle jars, I desperately needed a shower...but what I wanted most in the world was a nap. On a big kid bed. It was clear what had to be done. Grabbing a screwdriver, I sat on the floor and opened the box that I assumed would have the directions. Wrong box. Opening the OTHER box, I found "directions" that weren't in English. Heck, they weren't even in Swedish. They were pictures. Of screws. And big x marks over what screw NOT to use and how NOT to go about making this bed in seventeen easy(ish) steps.

The first picture featured one man wielding a screwdriver. For some reason he had a big ol' x over his body. The next image featured the same man (I imagine) next to another, identical man. This picture was circled and the men were smiling. They like quality furniture, too. Now, I took from this that I wasn't to embark on this project alone, that instead I should find someone who looked like me to hold certain frames at 90 degree angles while original me fastened the pieces together. Now, I don't know how men operate in SWEDEN, but I know a few things for sure; the toolkit and screwgun are mine, I'm an exceptional grouter of tile, and one pregnant American more than equals two bald Swedish men.

But it was frickin' hard. Turns out, some of that "90 degree angle holding" would have made things a little smoother. No matter. What should have been a five hour project (some lame-o on the website suggested that. I bet they were French) took me a mere 1.5 hours. That's right. And this is a honkin' bed. Not some particle board frame with slidey drawers, no sir. Solid...wood something or other...with a heavy, slatted headboard and a frame that could kill a cat. (I almost did. Twice.) And did I mention that it took five separate tools to assemble this bed? (The Ikea instructions didn't!) That stupid metal l-shaped thing they give you, a phillips-head, a flat-head, a screwgun for tightening the deep-set screws and an adjustable wrench for bolts. Thankfully I own all of these, but as the instructions made no mention of the items before their helpful images appeared on pages twelve and above, it required many trips up and down the stairs. P.J. and his mother arrived back home right before I lined up the supports- I informed P.J. that maybe we should see other people. Starting immediately. But the bed was mine. He asked if I needed any help but wisely retracted the comment mere seconds before a ratchet hit his head. (Because, yes! Those all-too-critical last ten minutes of a project are when the help is needed!)

But good God, is it glorious. And it works! It's all beddy and cozy and was pushed right up against the...broken window. No matter. Because yesterday our window guys FINALLY came! (There was some worry that they wouldn't come, or would try to reschedule because we had failed to speak with some entity known as "Monica...") But three weeks later, here they were! And they brought window-like and functional windows (two hours late, but NO MATTER. Because they were physically in our sidewalk area!) Three hours later (and two freaked out cats later- look, cats, this is the new order of importance: bed, windows, cats' feelings) we had two windows in our dining room and two windows in the BEDROOM that had, days before, been an ATTIC, with a MATTRESS and PINK STYROFOAM staple-gunned into the plaster! (House of dreeeaaaams...)I immediately hung these rad sage-green silk and rattan curtains, pushed bedside tables into place, made the bed, plugged in some reading lamps and...GOOD GOD, I could LIVE here!

P.J. came home, took one look at the bedroom and [wisely] told me, "I don't deserve you." This is, at times, truth.

But everyone deserves a glorious bedroom.

Check.

It's kinda like camping.

2009-08-05T15:47:00.004-05:00

Shameless self-promotion: the 'Snapshots' festival that 20% Theatre Chicago produces every year is this weekend! One of my better one-acts is featured, as are two pieces that P.J. gets to rock. Come play! Thursday through Saturday at 8pm, Sunday at 7pm. Strawdog Theatre, 3829 N. Broadway, Chicago. Email at twentypercentchicago@yahoo.com for reservations (and a good time.)

Business done? Yes? (Not even remotely.)

Yes, we have a new house. Yes, I'm wildly pregnant. But no, I don't feel like blogging about the movers who spoke only Spanish, the boxspring stuck in the door, the sectional couch stuck in the hallway, the more nights we've been away than present in the new place or my ever-expanding belly button shelf. At least not right now.

I AM intrigued, however, by opinions. Strong ones. Ones that people have had since childhood and cannot be swayed by other opinions, science, medical facts or divine intervention. For example (and this is just an example): The truthful OPINION that Nessie, the Loch Ness Monster, is a dinosaur. I used to think that she was a Brontosaurus, but since that's no longer a valid dinosaur (another OPINION, like the demotion of Pluto), I'll jive with Apatosaurus, Paleosaurus or whatever the going long-necked variety is now called. No one in the universe could convince me otherwise...and I won't even entertain statements to the contrary. Unless you're suggesting a different dinosaur that Nessie could possibly be. Then that's just fun conversation.

Do you have an opinion so strongly rooted that the absence of mere "facts" doesn't even register? I bet you do. I asked my sister Kate for her strongest held opinion...and waited. And waited. Finally, I heard the intake of breath that meant an OPINION was about to be offered. (Hah. That's a joke. No one ever "offers" opinions. Opinions are thrust! And demanded to be taken! And if not, something else is taken: offense.) Anyway, the payoff opinion was this:

"I think tamales are overrated."

That's it? That's your 'take it or leave it' view of the universe? There's only one noun in that statement! When I showed displeasure in her opinion (unfair, I realize), she amended it to use stronger words. It was still about tamales, however. I'll give her some more time.

And now back to the delightful slice of life I call "going to work and collecting a paycheck." (I'm enjoying a brief respite from doing something along the lines of gluing colorful things to other colorful things and also sanitizing rooms smeared with poo. This respite comes in the form of a savior I like to call "Sesame Street.")

Wednesday already?

I barely know where I live anymore.

(But it's easily identifiable by the large furnishings stuck in small spaces. Come visit sometime! Seating will be hilarious.)

Soon I'll need time to process the end of 'Harper's Island.'

2009-07-20T11:49:00.002-05:00

We'll keep this one brief, as I've got a few pressing things on my plate. And my "plate," I mean "bladder." (How's THAT for mixing metaphors?) But I am indeed alive and well...well-ish...(Welsh?) and figured I could afford the time to jot down a few funny things of late...

Pregnancy (something I like to acknowledge between the all the goings-on with the house, apartment, car and, you know, work):

The baby has hiccups! Or I have rhythmic gas bubbles! Either way, it's really cute, but still not something I'd like to have happen for more than nine months at a time. Imagine being an elephant (this is a fun exercise anyhow) and being pregnant for eighteen months! I mean, I feel like I've been in a "delicate condition" for about three years now, but still. It could be longer. Like pachyderm long.

The cleaning lady of one of the fams for which I nanny told me DEFINITELY that I'm having a girl. "Really?" I asked. "Absolutely," she confidently told me. "A girl makes you tired and steals all your beauty." THANKS! I informed her that I've got a bit going on now and haven't really slept all that well lately, but she remained unconvinced. Perhaps my "beauty" is so far gone that even sleep couldn't restore it? Thanks, daughter.

However, a lady in the park came up to me and opened the conversation like this; "A boy. You are having boy, yes?" When I told her that we didn't know, she nodded and told me BOY, for I am out to HERE large. THANKS! She also told me how pretty I'm looking, so there. (Thanks, son!)

And some kidisms from work (that thing I try to do at least once a week):

Julia, 6 1/2, after rolling her eyes at how bossy her baby sister is becoming; "She just has to have her own way ALL THE TIME." I laughed and said, "Now who does that remind me of?" She thought for a minute and nodded sagely. "My friend Carl. He's from camp."

Chance, 4 1/2, completely out of the blue; "Kiki, I love you and don't want you to die." After thinking this through VERY carefully, I thanked him and asked why he didn't want me to die. He looked at me like I had three heads and replied, "Because I LOVE you."

And Lily, 2, grabbing my chest and saying, "Are these babies like in your belly?" I told her that was my chest and she has one, too. Laughing hysterically, she patted my back and said her new favorite phrase; "Kiki, you are so cute."

So the next time I post I will (God willing) have a new car, a packed-up apartment, an intact marriage and a house with floors, doors, windows and beds!

Some people just know how to live large, I guess.

Anyone have a Tums?

2009-07-09T11:13:00.003-05:00

So, in roughly the amount of time it took to BUILD a new (and smallish) house, we managed to PURCHASE one! For crazy amounts of Monopoly money that I was briefly allowed to touch before it was snapped up in the hands of Lawyers. (Would someone like to buy me a sandwich? I feel that to make this purchase work, we may have to forego "food" for a while.)

It's totally worth it! No apartment number EVER AGAIN!

We sat on the floor of our new place (in one of the three living rooms, mind you) and marveled at the fact that this mammoth money pit was now ours. Ours! As we looked around at the extraordinarily barren rooms (sans appliances, fixtures, some doors) we wondered if perhaps we should have alloted a bit more money to actual "furniture." Eh, that stuff sorts itself out.

I had a grand moment at the closing table (after my aching hand forgot how to write the n in Schoeny- a few less than legitimate documents are out there penned by one Keely Schoey- wherein I had to sign a Social Security statement that proclaimed me to be a "home maker." (Long story.) I gleefully looked at P.J., who promptly turned back and mouthed "No."

"I'm gonna tell people I am, anyhow."

"That sounds fun. Go nuts."

"I'm not going to work anymore."

"Yes you are."

"I won't sign."

"You already did, Mrs. Schoey."

I might just be the home maker who wins the Out of the Actual Home the Most award. But I make it, baby. (And shall until at least 8.1.39. That's right. My mortgage goes to 2039, which isn't even a real number.)

In other Just How Much Do These Fools Have, Anyhow news, we just got back from a week with Peej's family in Myrtle Beach. Which sounds very old-peopley and Southern, which it also is. It does boast, however, 85 degree salty waves that do not care how pregnant you are or what SPF of baby sunblock you are wearing. And that is why we had a torrid, weeklong affair, that stretch of the Atlantic and I- regardless of that time I may or may not have been stung by a baby jelly-like creature. The sea let me float and I let my kid stop pressing directly into my kidneys. (Relationships have been based on less.)

It was a lovely week with two parents, eight siblings and in-laws, six nieces and nephews and two second-trimester gals. Plus, LOTS of tacos. Pivotal vacation food, especially if you are the second-trimester gals.

And, aside from the our friends' wedding that we were part of the weekend prior and the car that we are about to purchase (today!) and the show of mine that is getting produced in a festival in which P.J. was cast...not too much else is abuzz.

And the uppercut to the bladder that little Bitsy Pickles is now handing out means that it's either time for a nap or a snack. Hopefully I can have a little of both, as all of the non-internal children in this house are napping and my scenes are done for this week! Also, doesn't little Bitsy Pickles sound like a vaudeville name? (I have left the fear that this child will be part taco. That was very first trimester. This kid is all dill pickles and onions. But "Onions" seemed inauspicious for a baby. Did you know that "Chicago" is a Native American word for wild onion grass? Coincidence? Probably.)

Until later, I wish you love, pickle slices, and red onions dipped in horseradish. I'll save the kisses 'til next trimester.

Why yes, those ARE little daisies on my toenail.

2009-06-24T11:24:00.002-05:00

We are almost at 5000 hits, people. Let's do this. (And yes, I realize that people who get Google Reader updates and the like don't necessarily count in the overall tally, but...I'm a very tangible person. Tactile, even. Some might say tangential.)

Last Tuesday was the 20 week appointment wherein we got to see Bitsy Baby Schoeny. And P.J.'s chin, my nose, and the feet belonging to someone awfully antsy. It was wild to see the kiddo's jaw opening and closing and to see the legs fully extend and cross at the ankles, a la Huck Finn. And, though this part should be terribly obvious to anyone who has ever even CONTEMPLATED creating life...it occurred to me while watching my kid onscreen that I actually GREW A RIBCAGE. And a heart with four chambers. And toenails!

The kiddo is measuring a week ahead of schedule, which means...absolutely nothing. I guess. I, however, am terribly proud of the Bitsy's growth and neverending backflips. (The other night at 1am I put my Bose headphones on my belly to calm the little flipper with Enya on shuffle. Yes I did. And it worked.)

Last night our fabulous friends Ari and Elana (plus their 4-month old son Asher and pup Orli)stayed over en route to Denver for a lovely evening in the 100 degree weather. And miraculously, my ever-awesome husband agreed to install the a/c for the season...a month and a half earlier than last year. (I do not delude myself into thinking this is for any reason other than the trip we're taking next week- thusly, leaving the cats in this heat.) Superbly good to see our pals, even with the three attempts that our [usually on top of things] landlord took to show our apartment to potential renters. We ALLLLL got up and took a walk so that people could see the house- three times- and the third time the family actually showed. (Yes, I realize that I could be one of those people that stay in the apartment when people see it...but I've been scarred by homeowners. See previous posts. Maybe around last Fall?) Went to Turquoise and quite possibly ate more lamacun and hummus than was wise. Slept like a baby (with a baby) in my AIR-CONDITIONED BEDROOM. (Are you reading this, P.J.? Your heroic actions do not go unnoticed by the townspeople.)

And tonight is Instant Theatre at Chicago Dramatists! 8pm, free, featuring a one-act of mine that I'm rather proud of. (Kate gave me the one-liner to start it off. She ALWAYS gives me the one-liner to start plays. There. I said it. My dirty little secret is...every epic piece of theatre I've ever created has come, in some form or another, from something my sister Kate has flippantly said.)

Everyone wants their nickel.

Off to Myrtle Beach for a week with Schoenys (Schoenies) starting Saturday a.m...after a rehearsal din Thursday in Naperville for two of our pals and their wedding on Friday afternoon. (Plus various scenes that need to be finished up, contractors to finalize, mortgages- well, just one- that need be IN MY HAND to prove their validity, a new closing date of July 7th, a rad 2005 Volkswagen Passat to purchase and anything else mammoth that we can manage to fit into the month of June, let alone this year.)

I hate boredom. (But LOVE the pile of Nora Roberts and Charlaine Harris novels that will be accompanying me on a South Carolinan inner tube alongside a fruit-filled fruity drink.)

Holding the vodka is as far as I go for "roughing it."

Vous voir la semaine prochaine!

Does anyone else smell that?

2009-06-15T11:51:00.004-05:00

First off, a big ol' thank you to the city of Chicago for hosting eighty-seven festivals and events this weekend. (I witnessed four this weekend: RibsFest in Lincoln Square, the Old Town Arts Fair and St. Mike's Festival in Old Town/Lincoln Park, plus we kinda waltzed past Midsommarfest in Andersonville while waiting for a non-existant Damen bus.) That, plus a nice jaunt over to Foster Ave. beach (perhaps sitting a TAD too close to raunchy teens and/or breastfeeding mothers of three-year olds- quite the combo, no?) left me pleasantly freckled, stuffed to the gills with fair food (and that I mean superior corn dogs and the ilk, nothing "fair" about it) and more than a little drowsy.

And a big NO THANK YOU to HBO's True Blood. Which I now love. But have no business loving. (Pushing Daisies just left me- it's TOO SOON.) However, watch it I did (that was very Yoda) last night with Peej- it's so rare to find a show we like to watch together, and rarer still to find a vampire show that I like. Okay, that last part isn't true at all. I love vampire shows and movies. Have I ever told you about my second favorite vampire trilogy, behind the Blade extravaganza? It's Underworld 1, Underworld 2 and Van Helsing. Sure, the last one has different characters, names and plot points, but they rank the same in my mind. Exceptional.

Where does one go from a topic like that?

Random musings.

a) Esquire just had a great article on what it takes a be a real man- it was hilarious, apt, and cliche-free. That said, P.J. and I both decided it would be awfully hard to do from a female's point of view- the ones we've seen have either been in the Sex & the City camp (Being a woman means you can get away with murder- in Manolos!)or the Feminazi school of thought (Men are evil. And dumb.) And while both of these are, [ahem] at times, true, I think they usually do a disservice to the lovely grey (pink?) middle ground. Perhaps I'll work on this.

b) My iTunes has a rad feature wherein it loads the CD cover image when a song plays. Usually it's spot-on, but these days it phones it in when a genre or song has it stumped. For instance, Alice Cooper's "Poison?" [Awesome song.] Why, it's labeled as part of the compilation "Unity" CD for the 2004 Olympics. With the cover art from a cartoon movie called "Doogal." Neither is correct, nor is either choice remotely close to Vincent Furnier's 1989 horror-show spectacular. (And it IS spectacular.)

c) Finally, this morning I kept smelling burnt toast, which as everyone knows is the first sign of a stroke. Or being poisoned. Or maybe that's the smell of almonds. But I was fairly certain something terrible was going down- that is, until I realized that the scent was wafting in and out as I commuted. Sometimes I didn't even smell it at all. And once I got to work it was gone entirely, leaving me to believe...that today is a horrid day for toasting toast in Chicago.

This is all for today. Except for the fact that two-year old Lily and I depleted Home Depot's paint sample supply ("More squares!!!") and that I've finished another section of the play and am doggedly onto the next...and that tomorrow is the 20-week appointment to see Bitsy Baby Schoeny and determine, once and for all, just how many Schoenys (Schoenies?) are kicking me in the ribs. And nether regions. Plus, as I typed this, two more contractors called me back and set up appointments to "fix" the "house," hinging of course on the ludicrous notion that the JP Chase Morgan will ever let us "buy" this "property."

And that is absolutely ALL that is going on.

For the next ten minutes.

Starin' down the business end of 29.

2009-06-05T14:47:00.007-05:00

Or as my sis Kate tells me- The Beginning of My 30th Year. (Not helpful. Accurate, but still unneccessary.) And my youngest sister Emma insists that '30' is still technically one's late '20s. "I mean, it's 30, but whatever." Okie doke!

But that is for another year. This is the era where '28' passes off the baton to '29'- more like '28' shoves the baton into '29's' reluctant palms like it's covered in a swine flu/strep amalgamation (currently running rampart in Chi's private schools, trust me.)

Not to be all VH1 (I love you, VH1- or I did when you played music, pop-up videos and only the occasional "reality show") but this has been the Best Year Ever. Disregard what I may have personally told you about last year, THIS one has been the Best.

Some highlights:

After that whole marriage/Virgin Islands trek/throwing out anything "pre-registry" awesomeness, I got heath insurance. And saw a primary care physician for the first time since my parents had to bribe me with Ben & Jerry's. (Sadly, it wasn't as long ago as that may insinuate.) Health insurance is amazing! So is dental. I have become one of those people that stubs a toe, overflosses and decides that a prescription Vitamin C sounds fun. Better go to the doctor! (Sure, P.J.'s monthly rate has gone up, but they take that outta his check! For me, it's free money. Free cash doctor money.)

My family has managed to graduate four out of the four Flynn girls in some sort of East Coast college! (Well, Em's graduation is on Sunday, but I have the highest of hopes.) I was also lucky enough to see my family, roughly 865 miles away, an average of roughly 57 times. Give or take.

Which brings me to...trips. Boston, Pittsfield, Cape Cod, Cincinnati, Miami (for like a day and a half, but it was delightful), Los Angeles and various points Midwestern. I have discovered that I am an exceptional passenger. I passenge superbly; radio deejay, instant Google fact-checker, restroom alarm, quiet-snorey-napper, silent crossword puzzler and, when the mood calls for it, Ugly Cry-laugher at your jokes. (P.J. drives. That is why our marriage is so rock solid. That is the only reason.)

People are catching on to the fact that I've been writing since 1988! (Sure, I was eight years old, but truly. Some people start- or peak- early. Would you like to read my early Star Wars/Quantum Leap scripts?) This year alone I've been lucky enough to be featured in Instant Theatre at Chicago Dramatists about ten times, had a play picked up for workshopping by Local 75, finished about ten one-acts and [almost] three full-lengths, had two plays chosen for production by 20% Theatre (one at this summer's Snapshots at Strawdog Theatre and the other at the Pilsen Arts Festival this fall!) and had my first novella win a major competition in Los Angeles. It's just a matter of time before the rest of the money will [start to] roll in.

I met Scott Bakula. He hugged me.

I have fine-tuned my group of bestest friends into stellar people who happen to have marketable skills that I can enjoy for free (massage therapy, Pilates, shoulders meant for crying) and that have somehow not yet tired of my incessant demands for movies in Grant Park, tacos & spicy tuna rolls and ginger vodkas. Sigh.

P.J. and I had a 4br, 1ba housing deal fall through...only to score one with 5br and 3ba. For 25k cheaper and a mile closer to the glorious neighborhood in which we now reside.

We got pregnant! And while this was not a mandatory "28" goal, it was most definitely on the "Can we try for pre-30?" checklist. P.J. gets major points for staying ahead of my Life Worksheet. (It seems unfair to simultaneously blame him for my unnerving weight gain, but sometimes I still do.)

We celebrated a year of marriage over Memorial Day weekend. That whole thing about the first year of marriage being the hardest? All lies. The first year consists solely of weekend brunch, Mario Kart & Mortal Kombat on the Wii and picking strawberries in the backyard. (Now, the first year of LIVING together was essentially a plate-throwing fest and copious amounts of tears. Phew! Glad THAT'S done!)

And while I'm fairly certain that 29 will have its share of "high points," (meeting my kid, actually living in the house that we're buying, making a year-end list for '29,') I'm still going to state for the record that '28' is the best that could possibly happen in a year.

Until the Def Leppard concert this summer. Then this year will totally be disregarded.