Lying To The Neighbors At La Bodega.

I've lived in this neighborhood for a little over four years now.

It's a heavily Hispanic neighborhood and granted, I took Spanish from 8th grade until senior year (with a bit of wandertacular time/lost course hours spent in the theatre corridors), but in the face of people who Actually Speak The Language Fulltime...well, I get what I refer to as Shy Spanish.

Meaning I can easily (and quietly) say hola, wish some a buenos noches, and give directions to el discotheque...but other than that? I smile like a moron and lead more than a few of my neighbors to think that I'm either thoroughly kept or thoroughly stupid.

BUT NOT THE OTHER DAY!

No, the other day I went to our neighborhood Cermak Produce (where both the labels and the clientele are of the Spanish persuasion) and struck up a conversation with a guy.

Who spoke only Spanish.

That's right, P.J.- better watch out. Six months pregnant or not, I still got it.

Okay, he was roughly 85 years old.

And wanted to ask where Susannah got her hair color.

So we chatted for a bit. And you know what? I held my own. I was extremely proud of myself for my decently intelligent conversation and only a few moments where we both realized that is not a real word in the Spanish or any other language.

My favorite part? When he asked gestured towards my blonde child and asked what inspired me to marry a gringo. Because- and I'm not sure what nationality and/or mental capacity level I called my own within that culture- but he totally thought I was vaguely Spanish.

Yes, he was geriatric. But I was flattered.

So I went with it, shrugged in a what're you gonna do manner, and murmured something slightly apologetic.

In Spanish.

***

And now it's time to play everyone's favorite game called In Favor Of What Was Keely Neglecting Her Children This Week:

Crazy week, right Mom?

Last Friday, I made dinner. And Country Crock helped. But not as much as me.

On Monday, I told a story about how I got peed on and my children weren't even in the same state as me.

Tuesday brought a rather personal review of all things Cottonelle. Plus a really cute picture of Zuzu.

My first piece for Chicago Parent went live yesterday, with some pretty helpful tips on how often to check in on your children.

Wednesday also showed me busting out my best Bob Vila and attempting to do something vaguely structural with my girls' closet.

And now it's Thursday. (Right?)

Happy almost weekend. Celebrate however you feel is most appropriately festive.

Meetcha at el discotheque.

In Case You Missed It...

Friends, I've decided to do a wrap-up post for this week? Why? Let's break it down:

-I've been lucky enough to have bunches o' things posted around the internets...
-I've been purty awful about the self-promotion of such...
-I've been super, super warm this week...
-Which doesn't excuse laziness...
-But yeah, I'm gonna play that card today.

(I'm also pretty terrible at lists.)

SO. I call this In Case You Missed It/In Case I Never Told You About It (catchy and passive!):

On Friday, my article about awesome Fall-tacular stuff to do in the Chicagoland area posted at The Little Style File...(and yes, I'm considering Friday as part of "this week."Add it to the list of complaints, people.)

That same day, my review of Orthaheel wundy boots went live. Good Lord, I love new boots.

Monday, Nora went back to school and I showed a video of the best Extra gum commercial/tear-jerker silent film of the year...and everyone I know bawled.

Is she running towards me in glee?
Or is she ecstatic to be outta school?
Either way, she's happy.

The next day, I extolled the virtues of Savers Thrift Stores, and promptly made myself wanna go back there immediately.

Yesterday, I featured the sadder side of Back To School (and no, it has nothing to do with gum this time. Or overly hormonal mothers. Ahem).

And Wednesday also brought this happy-making piece over at The SITS Girls. Spread the love, yo.

Which brings us to today. And since you're already here, I shan't link to it.

But stay tuned, pals! I'm about to make the humongo jump over to a fabulous Wordpress site with all sorts of sparkly features. Also in my future? A snack.

(Possibly two.)

Keely's Best Weekend Ever (AKA Who's Paying For All These Sitters?)

So here's what's happened since we last spoke...

An Awesome Weekend

('cause yeah, I'm totally channeling college and pretending that Thursday is "the weekend"):

I met up with a bunch o' bloggy pals on Thursday (although not nearly enough- it was sadly but a mere cross-section of the girls with whom I wanted to dine and shriek and hold hands)...

Even though we were seated at a table for 20, Kristin and I pretended to be on a super romantic date.
Which entails feeding each other truffle fries. Obviously.

And I hugged Jennie- but not nearly for long enough. (Gal made it here from France!)

Also at this fabulous dinner were Arnebya, Deb, and Kristen...and they're all too cool for school.
And taller than me.

And this lady and I couldn't stop high-fiving each other and laughing like loons.

On Friday, I went to our darling friends' KT and Nate's rehearsal dinner...and was on a date with this guy...

Cheer up, buddy.
Seriously, it's a good thing I am currently With Child,
because this kid was giving me ridiculous Baby Feelings.

Saturday brought a stunning wedding, a radiant bride and groom, and at least one unexpected photo op:

It's kinda like a prom photo. Sitting down. Looking in opposite directions.
And someone on the date is pregnant. Otherwise- uncanny.

And P.J. and his pals (all the way from high school through college) performed a song.
By the Backstreet Boys. Maybe "performed" isn't strong enough. Try "emoted."
Again, to the Backstreet Boys.

Since it isn't possible to wish you this kind of week (because they don't come along all that often), I'll just go ahead and hope that your week includes dancing and laughter and incredible food and divine friends.

And hopefully a Backstreet Boys song. 

Best Friends You Haven't Yet Met.

In seventh grade, I had a pen pal who lived in Colorado. Through our respective English classes, we wrote weekly letters to each others' schools: What's your town like? Do you play any sports? Isn't my English teacher the best? (In case the letters were being monitored.) After school let out for the summer, we decided to keep writing- after all, this was pre-email (well, all but the most basic and expensive email, that is) and, growing up in Massachusetts, how else was I gonna find out about such glamorous, far-flung locations like Colorado? Even though we didn't meet in person until high school, I had already decided that he was one of the most awesome people I would ever know.

And in Freshman year of high school, I was introduced to what longtime readers of this blog know as the very geeky, very awesome text-based roleplaying adventure/magic/kill 'em online game, the one with which I'd be obsessed for [what my college pals would tell me was] way too long. During my stint with this game, I met a guy- a kid, really- who lived in Illinois. He was just so nice and so cool and, even though my mother had a (not-so-quiet) suspicion that he was a 60 year-old axe murderer masquerading as a high school junior, I was pretty sure that this dude would always be one of my best friends. (It was reinforced, too, when he came to visit my college while I worked admissions. He wanted to see if enrolling would be a good fit for him, too. It wasn't. Waaay too many hippies.)

And tonight, I get to meet even more of these stranger/BFF amalgamations.

When I became a blogger, I met and re-connected with a lot of great people; frequent readers, friends with whom I'd lost touch, and other bloggers. There's something kind of special (and intriguing) about scrolling though the details of someone else's life- and it's even cooler when you yourself are a blogger as well. I now have a wonderful group of gal pal bloggers who know my kids' milestones. My anniversary plans (and subsequent derailments). And why I have a terrible, awful fear of rats. I count these folks among some of my closest friends- especially since I keep up with their comings and goings (and vice versa) more than my high school and college besties. (Note to high school and college besties: Start a blog. For seriously. It will all but eradicate that late night I Haven't Returned Her Call Yet She's Gonna Think I Haaate Her guilt.)

So yeah, I have a trend of forming lifelong friendships with people, distance notwithstanding. Face-to-face chats notwithstanding. (And super-early-advent-of-the-internet notwithstanding. If you think it's easy to maintain a friendship during the age of dollar a minute dial up, well then, friend- you don't know what's what.)

And these relationships hold up. Besides meeting some of these fabulous bloggers tonight, there are already plans in the works for future writing workshops n' retreats n' glorified slumber parties.

And that guy pal from Illinois? He's easily one of my best friends and, just shy of two years ago, became Susannah's godfather.

And as for my first pen pal, he's still quite the awesome guy. But you know who else is awesome? His beyond-terrific wife, whom I also count as a close pal and who also happens to be a wonderful blogger. (And whom I've also yet to meet. YET.) Just goes to show: people who are supposed to know each other always find a way to know each other.

Also? God bless the internet.

Officer, I'd Like To Report A Herbicide.

When P.J. and I moved in together, we received a housewarming plant. And even though I have a solid track record of alternating between over-loving plants (watering and pruning within an inch of their lives) and letting them die slow, neglected deaths, I seemed to be doing okay with Planty.

Even when I didn't allow for proper drainage, Planty persevered.

And that time[s] I forgot to water Planty for roughly three weeks, he still grew another inch. 

We had a good, bizarre run for seven years.

However, the other day I had the brilliant idea of moving our indoor plants to the outside patio. Lovely fresh air, a consistent watering schedule, and gentle exposure to the elements. Seven years of neglect + three days of awesome treatment = 

A dead Planty.

"I can still tend the rabbits, George? I didn't mean no harm, George."

...I'm so sorry, Planty.

I'll miss your tough-as-nails, Can Do Midwestern attitude, and foliage of indeterminate origins.

Rest in peace.

(And if you wanna see what I'm doing when I'm not killing shrubberies, check out my guest post over at the awesome Greta Funk's GFunkified! She's the coolest, her Great Expectations series is fabulous, and my post is...concerning my failures as a wife and mother. Enjoy!)

Four Years Young!

Not a single thing has changed. (Enjoy it now,
you ridiculously well-rested fool.)

Lollygag Blog turned four years old yesterday. Which means that it's now bossy, energetic, and decently good with the English language. (Up to a point.)


What started out as a writing exercise to keep myself motivated for plays/diverted from checking my Facebook status every three minutes has turned into a cheerful time-suck of epic proportions.


Let's take a look back to what we were blogging about during that first year, shall we?


Here's one, dated October 1st, 2008- and it's a slice of life at the Schoeny household, sans kids, sans house, sans anything except unfettered late twentysomethingitude:

An excerpt- "The next thing Keely knows, the movie is indefinitely paused, P.J. has dismembered the coffee grinder, and he's asking her to look up the manual online. He calls out the product code from the other room. (Keely wonders where he's getting the product code from and hence doesn't pay attention to her typing. Her fingers are cold, too.) She gets it wrong. He repeats. The manual comes up and they discover that the grinder isn't intended for flavored coffee beans. (Attention KitchenAid: If you're telling me that I can't have freshly ground cinnamon hazelnut coffee each day then I don't wish to live in your America.)"

Okay, sure, life back then was pretty swell. But just the next year THIS was going on in the baby prep department:

"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."


By 2010, there was a new sheriff in town. She was very tiny, but very, very loud. And our leisurely evening routines had changed...


"However, as we got Nora ready for bed (jammies, sleepsack, sleep hat, sleep mittens- it is chilly in her bedroom- two books, five songs, sponging of her gums under the guise of toothbrushing, monitors on, humidifier elephant on, mini space heater on- it is COLD- and noise machine on (her room faces the Kedzie alley, woot woot!), I noticed that Peej was extremely tired. His rendition of Corduroy was, shall we say, sleepy. By the time Nora fell asleep in her crib (I think the bedtime routine wears her out, frankly), P.J. had also faceplanted on a giraffe blanket, a copy of Goodnight Moon, and one of the cats. Boy, I was peeved. So peeved that I downed a Newcastle and half a box of Girl Scout (no court in the land would convict me) and watched the show. By. Myself. Peeved. And faceplanted into a pile of towels, a monkey blanket, and a fleece with ears before the show ended." 


And by last year? Well, even with an uber-active Nora and another of my signature crazypants pregnancies, I was still managing to keep it all together in the form of once a month Wii workouts: 


"I decided to hop on the ol' Wii Balance board- with Nora in tow. (Side note- try working out with a toddler if you ever want to feel like you're living the good life.) Right off the bat, the Wii's all like- Oh, HI, Keely, been a little too busy for daily workouts? I responded that I've been too busy for daily showers AND she should feel lucky I'm squeezing in a workout between liverwurst sandwiches at all. They are not programmed to receive sarcasm (regardless of the inherent truth). But boy can they dish it out. "Seen P.J. lately?" "Yep, we high-five before bed." "I haven't seen him in a month...how's he looking these days?" Choosing the on-screen option for 'more toned,' I remarked that P.J. had been training for various races. I swear to God the thing smirked. "Well, I suppose anything's possible," she shrugged. THAT put me in the mood for a good workout. Insult my husband!"


And that brings us roughly up to date. Sure, a few other things have happened (we met Miss Zuzu, our house imploded, etc.), but by and large the same themes are present: 


P.J. continues to be a good guy. Nora keeps on bossin' on. Susannah beams at people. The house pretends to be a livable abode. The cats still contemplate running away from home. I nap whenever possible. And lovely people continue to read and comment and re-post and validate this completely unexpected obsession of mine, furthering delusions of blogging grandeur and inspiring me to post things forever and ever, Amen. 


(Thanks for reading.) 

Someone should really clean this kid up...

Workaday, workaday.

P.J. has returned and has brought with him a heart-shaped rock, so all is right with the world.

While it's exceptionally good to have him back (and Nora, who has still yet to see him due to irregular sleeping patterns, will most likely lose her petite li'l head), here are a few surprising things that I have learned over this long weekend:

1. The biggest fear I have about being the only grownup at home- more than burglars, murderers, exploding pipes, or running out of almond milk- is ghosts. The terror that, at around three in the morning, a ghost will stroll by my bed and flick me on the nose is precisely the reason that I sleep with a sheet covering my face. Happily, this did not occur. And, after the first few nights, I slept well. REALLY well. In the middle of the bed, using all the space and pillows and lounging on a cat or two.

2. Apparently, my idea of the perfect evening is to queue up a marathon of Ghost Adventures, order in some cooked maki, watch TV for an hour and a half, and then go up to bed and read until I fall asleep. At 9:30pm. (And really, I've just given away a huge secret- for it IS the perfect evening!)

3. A superbly tidy house makes me blissfully happy. And frees me up to play with my kiddo, write bunches of pages when she's asleep, and not snap at anyone out of guilt AT ALL. (I have no idea how I did it, but I already miss the ability.)

4. When P.J. is traveling, the Sunday paper does not sort itself into a "Keely pile." Apparently that's all my husband's doing. It was a shock to come downstairs with Nora on Sunday morning and not have a plate of perfectly crisped bacon (I guess he does that, too) beside a stack consisting of Parade Magazine, the Funners, the Tribune Sunday mag, the CostPlus circular, Travel, and- if it's featuring someone not likely to anger me so early in the day- the Entertainment section. And what's with the insane amount of plastic wrap within the Trib? Are the Parade mag and the Toys R Us circular really unworthy to touch "Rides (actual name of section?)" By the time I separated each part, I was clawing at the plastic like a trapped raccoon.

Other important (yet less P.J. travel-centric) discoveries of this past week include the happy revelation that consuming an entire green crayon will NOT harm a toddler (although it will make her mouth look like a bizarre, neon green, waxy wood chipper- for days, in fact, no matter the amount of tooth-brushin' I force on her face) and the joyful knowledge that a "serving" of liverwurst is actually two ounces. Now, I have no idea how much I'm actually mawing at each sitting [standing], but I'm pretty sure it's less than two ounces. Which makes me non-gluttonous! (Excepting the fact that I'm eating it with a spoon!)

This past Saturday also brought the neato keeno honor of being the SITS Girl In The Spotlight for my L.L. Bean vlog. (Some of you may remember that endeavor way back in October? Looking at it now, my only thought is how quiet N.J. is...) And because of it, I got a cool featurette on their site, tons of terrific comments, and some new readers! Stokiness abounds.

My heart is full. The kind of full that can only be attained by appreciative commentary, a sticky kid in strawberry pajamas, a husband in the same time zone, and an unopened tube o' liverwurst in the fridge.

I wish you the same.

Why are you gagging?

I even wore my best hoodie.

Back to work.

So I didn't win Best Parenting Blog. But, as I also didn't win Best Scientific, European, or Technical Blog, I can choose to look at this a few different ways, all positive.

I don't know where I'm going with this, but I feel good about my decision.

Also, this frees me up from having to write about "parenting" stuff every day. I mean- REALLY.

Oh, I kid.

I would, however, like to thank the superbly nice folks who have been so gracious as to not spam-block me each and every time that I request votes...and also the three hundred additional folks who have been visiting the blog every single day. (Please stay! I promise to keep talking about parenting, if that's what you dig!)

I also feel good about the other three potentially life-changing events that could occur this coming week. I've said too much. But it could be boss.

I can, however, tell you about my newest obsession: Ghost Adventures. Sure, this is a television program that premiered in the Fall of 2008, but I've never claimed to be a timely person.

For example, I recently recommended Def Leppard's 'Hysteria' as a must-listen for albums.

Back to the show. It is awesomely creepy. And I just happened to catch three straight hours of it on Saturday night. (Judge not.) I mean, sure, the guys on that show can be downright vaudevillian in their responses to the spirits- noodle legs flying up from a chair, jazz hands splayed to ask the camera: Did you SEE that?- but boy oh boy, was I not ready to sleep alone.

Thankfully, I didn't have to. My husband was asleep on the sofa next to me the entire time. Which leads me to my next segment, entitled:

My Husband Cannot Stay Awake For The Telly.

It's true. Right around 7:45pm, a little after Nora calls it a night, he begins the popular refrain of "What Would You Like To Watch?" (Do not pity. Sometimes we play board games or Mario Kart.) I always roll my eyes and respond- whatever you'd enjoy falling asleep to. He then promises up and down to stay awake and even bolsters himself with a cup of coffee or black tea, followed up by eagerly setting up the newest, edgy movie. (Which, let's be honest, is not my cup o' chai.)

Twenty minutes later- Outsville, Illinois. Population: 1 dude snoring. (And one rather bored/tense gal uncomfortable with all of the currentitude on her television box.) I've started telling him- Look, if you know you're gonna fall asleep, let's just call out the charade and put on some BBC. You'll sleep better, I'll be happier, and anyone walking by will believe us to be cultured.

Win/win. Unlike the Bloggies. Or the Oscars.

But the Footie Pajama-Clad Miniature Person Climbing On My Chest To Comb My Hair With A Doll Brush Awards?

Blue Ribbon.

It's best not to get too greedy.

Maybe we'll just take a boat.

Nora and I are taking a trip in a couple of weeks. But this post is not regarding air travel, nor does it concern my staggering amount of arrogance to think I can wrangle a toddler solo in an airborne contraption.

No, this is about customer service. Or rather, customer disservice.

I live about twenty minutes down the highway from O'Hare International Airport. This is important to note because yesterday, whilst dealing with a booking representative, it occurred to me that it might have been easier to walk up 90/94 and throttle the agent rather than speak with her any longer. This would've proved extremely difficult as: a) I am a pacifist, and b) SHE WAS IN INDIA.

And I had to call, you see, because there was no way to add Nora on to my ticket during the purchase without speaking to United. Which has their major hub in Chicago. Where I live. But not the booking agent. She does not live here.

And even though the website informed me that there was NO WAY a lap baby could be added without speaking to someone, my helpful representative warned that there "may be a surcharge" for speaking with her. (The previous recording also told me that call volumes were "higher than average" and asked me if I wouldn't just rather try out their website.)

The helpful overseas woman asked me to spell my name and list my mileage number- despite having been forced to punch in such information before I was even allowed to hear the proper recording. (Why do they make me do this? Are they giving me brain teasers to stave off boredom/dementia?) And even though I spoke it, dialed it and repeated it, she still got the last name wrong, mucking up any hopes of pulling up the correct itinerary. (Where are you flying from? Chicago. Where I live. That should be in the ol' file, too.)

She seemed really confused when I told her I wanted to bring my daughter with me. (You're bringing your baby?! Yep. I like her. We go places together.) I then began spelling out my kid's first and last names to expedite the process- N like Nancy, O as an orange, R as in rhinoceros... She then snapped at me to use "real phonetics," as the connection was "very bad." This was said accusingly. Well gee, KAREN, I can see United's office from my house. But you're right- it's most likely trouble on Chicago's end. (Also, we are not in the Army. Rhinoceros is a perfectly fine R word.)

I then attempted to spell out Nora's names with "real" phonetics. This is awfully hard! I had enough trouble coming up with "orange," it took me darn near a year to remember "Oscar." Finally, towards the end she asked- "Oh, Schoeny? Like your last name?" YES! JUST LIKE MY LAST NAME.

Towards the end of our relationship, she had a bit of a sneezing fit. She then apologized. "I have a very bad cold." There was a weighty silence. I did not acknowledge it.

I'm pretty sure someone owes me money. Surcharge, indeed.

*

And how about this gem? I was having trouble logging into an account which I needed to close. The email was correct, but I just couldn't finagle the password. Finally, I hit the 'email password' button, which I hate doing- I'm pretty sure doing so signs you up for mailing lists for the next eighty years- and I got this reply:

Retrieved lost password: bYdRfaPxcWzQduaQMda7Mba3dtvJgjzg


Ah, there it is! My ol' password! Good old...that thing. 


I don't know what kind of shenanigans those people are trying to pull since a) that is no automated password that I've ever seen, and b) there is no way I'd ever choose that monstrosity since I've been using BillyIsHott since roughly 1991.


*


And I promise promise promise that this is last time I'll blog about this (here, anyhow): Head on over the The 2011 Bloggies site and vote for your favorite inane Blah Blah Blog in multiple categories. One ballot per email address, per favore! Here are categories that I like: Most Humorous, Best Writing, Best Kept Secret, BEST BLOG EVER...and ones I don't have crazy odds of winning: Science, Religion, Asian. Put Lollygag Blog as the name, www.lollygagblog.com as the URL...and wait by the mailbox for your congratulatory corn dog. Need rec's for the other two blog slots in each category? Leave a comment here and I'd be more than happy to help you out. I read a lot.


Sometimes there aren't even pictures.

Christmas + Birthday= Featured Day.

Today I am the luckiest- and stokiest- to be featured at The SITS Girls! They're a fabulous community of over 7000 gals, all of whom have stellar blogs and thrive on supporting each other. And today it's me. And that is unreal awesome.

To the newest visitors: Hi! I'm Keely/Kiki/Mom (that last one is rather selective.) On any given day I'm a combo of writer, nanny, actress, mother, wife, sister, daughter, and overeager Feng Shui enthusiast. I am a superb napper. I cannot count without using my fingers. I know every bit of Hair Metal trivia ever...and can hold my own with a few other genres as well. I blog about all of these things with nary a through-line. Also, punctuation is rarely my friend.

These two are P.J. and Nora Jane (with some random girl at the otter tank.) They are, together and individually, the coolest things that have ever happened to me. He's an actor, sound designer, software guy and hero. She's the smallest mobile person ever and a personal source of hilarity and glee. They feature largely in this blog, as does the city of Chicago. And our Money Pit of a house. Also- Bean and Ender, the catz.

To get you started- three of my best [funniest/weirdly popular] posts:

The Tearjerker

How P.J. Annihilated An Unwanted Houseguest

...and Keely Yells At The Magazines

Thank you so much to SITS and all of the visiting gals! I'd love it if you followed the blog on Facebook... or Twitter...or, you know, here.

Here works, too.

It's like Guilt Gyoza- but worse!

I'm extremely lazy. Or exhausted. Late at night, I can't tell which it is. And it's been causing some guilt. I like to call this guilt- Floss Guilt.

I know I should floss. I spent 6k on my teeth in the past handful of years alone (not to mention Braces 1.0 that was sponsored by my folks between '90-'92. It didn't "take." Some may blame a latent latex allergy; I happen to know that I have evil teeth.)

But by the end of the evening, I find that I can barely muster the energy to check items off of my usual bedtime routine: teeth, retainer (did you know that I wear a retainer? Now everyone does.), three step face 'system' (I have a thing for infomercials), cocoa butter for "problem areas" (which- ahem- is strictly preventative), *TMI ALERT* using the pump (or as Annie and Kat call it, "playing a polka-" it's very rhythmic), taking vitamins, Thermos of Dutch cocoa, seaweed wrap, chilled cucumber slices, mini mani/pedi, brow maintenance, a section of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "Sonnets From The Portuguese..."

The idea of adding 'floss,' regardless of how crucial it may be- exhausts me.

I informed P.J. that I was too tired to floss.

"Okay."

Too tired to floss? my inner adult scolded. Are you also too tired for future dental anguish? (Sometimes I don't even need anyone else with whom to argue.)

So I flossed. Angrily. Lots o' huffing and sighing. And timed it. Thirty seconds! Cheesen'crackers, it takes longer to organize Mount St. Pillows on our bed each morning! (And I never skip that.) So I added flossing into the routine.

Except for last night. 'Cause I was too tired.

And speaking of timing activities we don't feel like doing- Real Simple has a new segment called Speed Cleaning. Now, I love Real Simple more than I could possibly extol. Truly. It's a minor [major] obsession. But I think they might have overSimplified things this month. (See that right there?)

This month's Speed Clean was..."Your Porch. A total transformation in 10 minutes or less." Okay, I don't have a porch, per se (certainly not the Tara-esque one featured in the mag), but I'm feeling game. Even gamey. Let's clean:

-Minutes 1 and 2 tell me to remove everything from the porch. Done.
-Minute 3 says to wipe down all of the objects with a damp cloth. Okay, maybe I can do it that quickly.
-Minute 4- "Using an extendable duster, sweep cobwebs from high corners, overhangs and shutters." A minute? Really? It's gonna take me twice that long to locate an extendable duster, let alone use it. More if I hafta walk over to Walgreens.
-Minutes 5 and 6- Wipe down all metal and wood surfaces. Also- clean the windows. Really? Really?
-Minute 7- Sweep the porch and steps. Okay, maybe I can do that one in a minute. But I may have used up some time from whining about the windows.
-Minute 8- "Dip a long-handled scrub brush in the bucket and clean the floor." I am but one woman, Real Simple. (Have you ever cleaned any floor in a minute? Junk, it's taken me half that to complain about this step.)
-Minutes 9 and 10- Once everything is dry, I'm supposed to put everything back, then get myself something to drink on my awesomely clean porch.

Perhaps a chilled IV bag to replenish the fluids lost in the death march called Speed Clean Your Porch.

(I much prefer the game called Hose Off Your Cracked Cement Patio.)

And now, some kudos; the blog's recently been gifted with some sweet awards. Thanks to Kristin@Ellie-Town and  JoeyRes at Big Teeth And Clouds! I'd like to pay it forward as well (minus the horrid script and overblown budget), and acknowledge some fellow bloggers without whom I could not get through the day.

-My youngest sister Emma's blog: Huckleberry Flynn. I recommend not having a beverage anywhere near the vicinity of your mouth and/or nose when you read her lyrical dissections.
-The bitingly witty Caitlin Montanye Parrish and Everything Loose Will Land. I'm lucky enough to be in a secret society with her.
-The multi-talented Regina at And Baby Makes Four. She shops organically. She cooks. She has two boys. She has still yet to come make ANY of the dishes featured on her blog.
-Rick at Retired Pastor Ruminates (and also Rick's Recipes!) I will forever known him as Reverend Floyd, seeing as he baptized me and all. One blog is full of literary wit, the other teeming with truly yummy recipes.
-My pal Leah at Tin Roof, Rusted. Nora's in love with Leah's son Calder, and I'm in love with the fact that she and I are both from Western Mass.
-The hilarious Nifer and Jeremy at He Said and She Said. Contrasting views on arbitrary themes? False. I daresay they are crucial themes.
-Neato keeno Gwynne at God Spam. Trivia: We were almost roommates back at Camp Hamp. Due to a lack of follow-through, this did not occur. I think she lucked out. I am a horrid roommate.

And before this turns into a lengthier blogroll than the one featured on the side of this page, may I recommend that you seek awesome reads there, as well? Can't go wrong. They are all Keely-Approved. I'd thumbprint them if I could.

If I weren't tangled in floss.

We are still drowning in scones. What a way to go.

Nora is currently not speaking to me.


This is incredibly hard for her to get across, seeing as she is all of four months old. 


Her success in doing so makes it even more harsh. So, why the cold onesie?
I let a [relatively] complete stranger hold her down and jab three needles in her thighs, after subjecting her to the humiliation of sucking on a bitter dropper full of something supposedly medicinal. Then I blew in the direction of her face to ensure she swallowed the vile stuff.


AND THEN I dressed her in a side-buttoning shirt proclaiming that she was "Just Ducky!"


I'd ignore me, too.


We just came from her four-month checkup- and, without bragging, I'd like to inform everyone that Nora is the smartest, most alert, strongest and cutest baby...in the 10th percentile. (Which is Just Ducky as well. Smallish duckling-y.)


The vaccines, while a terrible experience for her, are absolutely horrific for me. I am not the bravest of adults. Being wheeled into surgery to have Nora, my own husband had to remind me to be a Brave Little Toaster. (Anyone?) I cry at Campbell's soup commercials and the Sleepytime Bear has brought on the Ugly Cry more than once. The night light in the hall is NOT for our infant daughter, but in fact to stave off my intense fear of the dark. And those mealworms that appear in old boxes of pasta have given me the shakes.


That said, I'd take all of Nora's shots for her. Heck, I'd take them in the eye if it meant she didn't have to get jabbed (and subsequently give me the Look of utter betrayal and abandonment.)


Wait. I'm tearing up. And not from imaginary needles in my ocular cavities, either.


Okay. We'll be okay.


Please talk to me, Nora. When you wake up, that is.


In other You Should Totally Have a Baby, It Won't Change A Thing news- all of my hair is falling out. I've been assured that this is normal- but remember when I freaked out when N's tresses fell out, leaving her with what I like to call The Ed Asner? Yeah, this is worse. Apparently my vanity trumps the vanity I have for my daughter. (Whatever. She's stunning. She doesn't NEED my projected vanity.)


This could be dealt with in the usual way (hats) and forgotten, if not for the unfortunate side effect called: toe tourniquets. Did I mention this in an earlier post? About a month ago, lint from Nora's sock got wrapped around her toe, cutting off circulation and forcing me to hack at a miniature piece of string (and some skin, too) with an impossibly small pair of "safety" nail clippers. It was traumatic. For both of us this time.


Now, imagine that my hair is falling out in crazy bunches of strands (it is) and my newly dexterous kid is helping that along. And let's pretend that these hairs are wrapping themselves around fingers and toes with wild abandon, requiring that each outfit change have the tension of a bomb being diffused, lest I yank off a digit in my hurry to swap pastel Mary Jane socks. She even pooed out a tiny hairball recently, furthering my suspicion that she is, indeed, part kitten-cat.


SO.


In non-bodily function-related news: the house has seemed to settle back into place since the past weekend's baptism (or, as 2-year old Lily refers to it- "When Baby Nora was appetized.") I just removed four bags of recycling from the house. (Yay- planet Earth! Boo...consumerism.) We also moved Nora into her nursery for night sleeping. Last night she slept a whopping 8.5 hours on her own- this would have been more awesome if I hadn't felt the crazy need to check on her three times. She was fine. I am tired.


Also, I bought my blog. Why? Who knows? These are the types of sleep-deprived decisions that I make EVERY DAY. I guess I had a fear that it would either a) be randomly deleted- this has been done to me before- or b) someone might try to buy my blog's name. Don't ask me who. Maybe one of you guys? Which one of you wants my blog? I could delegate. I think I'm at a point where I could happily ghost-write. (Remember Ghostwriter? The show, not the movie with Ewen McGregor. That was a terrific series.)


The new addy, as you may have noticed, is www.lollygagblog.com. No more Blogspot! However, as Blogger has lovingly agreed to forward readers to the new address, it really cuts your hands-on work down to a negligible amount. In fact, there is literally no change for you at all. I really shouldn't have even mentioned it. You have enough on your plate. Forget I said anything.

(The address for which to send appropriate headwear, Xanax, down comforters and Lady Rogaine has not changed. I leave the frequency of such care packages up to your discretion.)


And now, naptime with my favorite Valentine-hatted, Otto-clutching, Tylenol-dosed main gal.


Happy Thursday.

Clearly, I need a hobby.

Yes, I realize it's Monday. No, I'm not confused (about the day.) I've decided to go forth and blog TWICE A WEEK.

AT LEAST FOR THIS WEEK!

We'll see if I can go, say, for two weeks. I dream big.

It turns out, I have waaay more questions than can be asked in a once-weekly posting. Such as:

Why, oh why is the most common email or chat smiley the wink? Why do we do this? WHEN was the last time you actually WINKED at someone? Think about it.

I'll wait.

You haven't. Do you know why? It's because the wink is slightly smarmy and more than a little creepy. Think I'm wrong? The next time you say something slightly jokey or sarcastic to a friend...wink at them.

"Hey Peej- you like that pb&j I made you for lunch?"
"Yeah, it was a good sandwich, thanks."
"Glad you liked it- you're eating it all week!!" *WINK*
"You okay, Keely?"
"Sure am! Nothing a little pb&j couldn't fix!!" *WINK*

Totally weird.

Also- and this is NOT an inflammatory 'how could you ask that about vegans' comment, I truly do not know: Do vegans breastfeed?

I'll let you think about that one for a sec, too.

I am not ashamed to admit that I do not know the answer to this one. I have an entered a No Embarrassment phase of my life (see: Michael Bolton post). Can you help me out? Are vegans anti ANY sort of mammal product or byproduct? I mean, I can't imagine they're against animals out in nature feeding their young. That would be ridiculous. And nearly impossible to enforce!

Thirdly, why do pre-teen girls (yeah, that's what it was called when I was 12- we didn't have this tween nonsense) waste all this time and energy on beauty rituals they will have no time when they actually need it? When I was in middle school, my friends and I spent DAYS putting mayo in our hair (excellent conditioner), putting masks and scrubs on nearly baby-smooth skin and indulging in twice-weekly pedicures. It was good practice, we told ourselves. We were going to be gorgeous WOMEN someday!

I should have spent that time learning Chinese or trying to pass pre-Algebra (for the third time). When's the last time you gave yourself any sort of at-home treatment that took more than five minutes? I currently possess chipped nails, sad-looking skin and split ends you could weave a basket with. Every now and then I rub the excess apricot oil from Nora's bath on my arms (sometimes with the baby as an applicator- hey, waste not, want not) and occasionally enjoy a facial steam as a serendipitous result of Nora's late night sickness-fighting shower steaming. But that is it.

I blame YM magazine for telling me that I needed all this. I blame YM for many things, actually. My mother eventually took away my subscription, which I DO NOT BLAME HER FOR AT ALL, once we realized it was a little racy for a twelve-year old; especially a twelve-year old who played with porcelain dolls for WAY longer than was age appropriate. What business did I have learning how to drive 'him' wild? (I still don't know how to drive anyone 'wild'. But, as a married gal with a mortgage and a newborn, perhaps that ship has sailed?)

And final question: who the heck ARE all you people? According to Blogger, you hail from Canada, India, Spain, Italy, New Zealand, Australia, Belgium and locales I am afraid I'll typo and thusly embarrass myself. I can guess at some of the cities: I went to college with half of Los Angeles and NYC, apparently (is it cool to say I'm "big" in L.A. and NYC? Yes? I will anyway) and am related to and/or spent my childhood with the majority of the Boston and Berkshire County following. But who do I know in Waterloo?! (Hi!)

Or maybe you're one of the folks who found me by Google-searching about the kid who played Duck Lips on Full House? (That was YEARS ago, people, I posted about that on a DIFFERENT BLOG!) But it'll probably pop back up on here now. Also, to those of you who found me by searching various disgusting "medical" techniques- have I helped?

I think you should let me know how you got here. It's important for me to understand my demographic. That way I can keep the stories of diaper fails, Michael Bolton and improperly-placed furniture at a minimum. Or at a maximum! If that's what you dig! So, uh, keep in touch.

Except for the guy who got here by researching "roadkill" and "puppets."

I think we should just agree to disagree.