What A Guy.

Home sweet miniature home.

And Now...

A Love Letter To My Husband To Thank Him For His Endless Works O' Awesome (A.K.A A Very Public Plea To NOT Leave His Increasingly Insane Wife)-

Dear P.J.:

You are terrific. Really. No, wait, lift your head back up out of your coffee mug/desk/computer screen- this'll be worth it.

You are so incredibly tolerant and so incredibly choosy with your words. Specifically the cuss ones when you think Nora/our unborn child will hear them and be forever negatively affected. I especially admire this when things don't go according to plan/the door frame cracks/THE SCREWS ARE SOMEHOW ALL WRONG.

Here is what you accomplished this weekend for me/us/my neuroses/the children/the upcoming cold months known as The Rest Of The Year In Chicago:

-Doors on closets and remaining bedrooms that did not possess them. This endeavor required multiple backyard sawhorse projects which you pulled off in a timely manner...despite the fact that your daughter has a near-crippling fear of the sound of a saw in use. And can only be consoled in such moments of terror by you, her Dad. This slowed you down only slightly.

-The moving and painting of three laughably heavy pieces of the furniture in the baby's room. This was because I got a bee (hormone) in my bonnet (face/tears) about the slapdash nature of this new kid's possessions. Forget the fact that mismatched and chipped furniture was good enough for Nora- I was not having it this time around. And now they look great. Hope that hernia heals soon.

-That break you took to read at Mass, do a Costco run, and put both Nora and I down for simultaneous naps. (I'd be embarrassed to admit that I still need someone to put me down for a nap...except for the fact that it was the best nap ever. And nothing beats being tucked in to the words of "I'll take care of everything." Not a thing in the world beats it.)

-Removing the ceiling fan blades, helping me soak them in the bathtub, you scraping decades of grease from the undersides (I'm pretty sure our kitchen used to moonlight as an Arby's), and then reattaching them to the fans at midnight- despite the knowledge that most fans are assembled safely on the ground and not teetering in midair.

-Making sure that you and I sat on the couch- together- to watch The Soup and a goodly bit of House Hunters International before falling asleep. DATE NIGHTS ARE IMPORTANT, DARNIT. (I had been ready to tuck in with a bottle of seltzer and the newest Professor Layton game on the DS, but no sir. Not when romance is alive and well.)

-Drilling that hole to run those cables, saving us crazy ADT rewiring fees and allowing the closet door to close, no longer impeded by the bundle of wires acting as a doorstop. (It's almost like a real house, now! Also, who's been authorizing us to just have bundles of wires acting as doorstops?)

-Taking a "break" to supersonically speed-clean the house when you received the intel that your out-of-town uncle was not only stopping over for a surprise visit...but was, in fact, parking the car up by the neighborhood bar as we spoke.

-Dishes, dishes, dishes. Also, the recycling.

-Taking a break to drive to a friend's house, disassemble a playhouse in their backyard, strap it in, out, around and through our car, drive it back to our place, reassemble the awfully heavy and realistic house...and then spend a copious amount of time in said structure with your toddler. And lots of chalk.

None of these things include the little activities you do daily, like the cat litter (which I haven't done in years, despite not being pregnant for "years"), Nora's nightly routines, or making sure that I nevereverever run out of almond milk.

You are swell. Let's not abandon our wives five mere weeks before she has yet another of your clone-like offspring, okay? But I understand if you need some downtime.

I hear there's a super sweet little house in the backyard these days. What say I toss a beer through the shutters, yeah?

You've earned it.

Mold N' Neuroses N' Manipulation

Everyone's feeling the crazy.

Motherhood has made me a new kind of crazy. (And- before- I used to think that my neuroses knew no bounds.) Which just goes to prove my extremely new theory that having a kid makes you MORE of what you were before. And that's not even one of those lovey, sentimental sampler stitchings- I was nuts before, but my insanity has been amplified since having Nora. I was kind of a clean freak before...now I'm a downright germaphobe. (But really, you'd never even guess at that by the state of my kitchen.) Same goes for being a defensive driver, kiddo movie fan, and tired.

But I digress.

My newfound nutsiosity has manifested itself in my upcoming trip to Cape Cod with N.J. and P.J. For which I've been packed since last night. We leave on Saturday. Okay, and to be fair, I'm not totally packed. My two iPhone checklists (yup) for Nora's stuff and my stuff is mostly done. There's a bunch of stuff that I can't pack until about ten minutes before we leave/right after she wakes up. And there's a checklist for that, too. I also have a list for last minute things like "water the plants," "make sure no cat is locked in the bathroom," etc. (P.J. is on his own for packing and lists. But, from what I've seen, he does just fine half an hour before by throwing some shoes, a shirt, and someone's toothbrush in a duffel. Boys.)

And the reason for all of this planning and pre-planning and post-planning is not so that I'll have a Martha Stewart-like calm about my house (btw, did you know that Martha turned 70 a week ago? Does that seem crazy? It does to me. And I should know). Oh no, the reason that I do things so early- and so written out- is because I can no longer keep a list of thoughts in my head. There are so few things that I truly need to bring for our trip (Doc Bullfrog, various medications, four pairs of shoes) but if I didn't write them down I'd be on the plane wondering why I had a carry-on full of dirty laundry and was panicking about the cat stuck in the hall closet.

And boy, I write down the weirdest stuff on my phone. (And here as well, but again...that's a digression.) You'd think I could remember that my child needs shoes on her feet for travel, but there it is. "Crocs on Nora." I'm shocked that I haven't yet felt the need to note "buckle Nora into car," but there's a few things I can feel decently confident about. Besides, Peej will be there.

It's not totally my fault, however. We have yet another contractor who began work this week. And having part of one's home gutted and mold-remediated and rebuilt can jar one's concentration. Especially if you're as giddy about it as I am.

This is the room that was initially a second kitchen when the home was a stately multi-family house. Then it  became a flophouse for wayward animals/drunk dudes/pizza menus. Then, once we moved in, it became storage. First ours, then for P.J.'s best friend. Once he moved his things out, it became a lumber yard for doors, shelving, and baseboards. (But never was it a kitchen. We paid someone to remove the defunct and foul appliances- and gave them extra to never again mention the things that they had seen.) And one day, during a long nap for Nora and a long audition for P.J., I cleared out the room. Doors were stacked in the backyard, lumber was slid out the picture window, I scrubbed down the place as best I could, and painted it a light spring green. (P.J. was shocked. I told him to put away his "toys" or I'd do it for him. Via the recycling trucks. He did.) And when I was done...it was still filthy. Because there was still water damage behind the sink and hints of mold and a general dinginess to the area.

But thankfully, we are having another kid. And this kind of thing makes P.J. wonderfully receptive to ideas, especially if I mention Nora's propensity for climbing in that room (which she doesn't have) and my plans to leave the newborn there for hours on end (which could be a bluff. But might not).

And these contractors are great. Remember the multitude of guys we've had working on the house for the past two years? The ones who show up at 11? Leave at 1 for a two hour lunch break? The ones who fail to secure parts or give us accurate quotes or show up at all? THESE NEW GUYS ARE NOT LIKE THEM. Yesterday was the day to gut the room. They showed up at 7:45am, stayed until 6:15pm and never left. The room is gutted and stripped and now the air is being filtered for 24 hours. And these dudes are pleasant. To me! No "little lady" condescension, no asking what my husband might think, no ignoring...they even remembered Nora's name and that we had two cats (stuck somewhere in the house). Pretty superb.

So yes, packing. Made slightly more difficult by the fact that the laundry room (and the playroom and lower stairwell and side door) and inaccessible due to plastic sheeting, like that part of E.T. or that particularly horrific episode of 24. Which means that I cannot do laundry. OH WELL.

Maybe I'll plastic off the kitchen sink and fridge this afternoon and tell P.J. that the contractors are doing something. Maybe we'll spring for pizza.

But I think he's on to me.

Just as motherhood has made me crazier, fatherhood has made him savvier.

Unless it comes to packing.

Baby Brunches And Potential Rodents

How is it Monday already?

Oh right, because the term formerly referred to as "weekend" has been replaced by "super-sonic crazyfest." Aka "summer."

Zumba behind us!

This past crazyfest was especially lovely, as my big sis Kate was in town to boss me around- er- make sure everything got done before The Monkey had his/her arrival. She even threw me (and The Monkey) a sweet brunch at Selmarie in Lincoln Square and hosted a few wonderful friends! Some highlights:

-My salmon scramble.
-The party favor coffee mugs- which I have yet to stop using for every single beverage.
-The enclosed biscottis...brand name THINaddictives. Wundy product. RIDICULOUSLY wundy name.
-Watching the blue-haired flash mob Zumba in the square. "Watching" it.
-Vintage shopping with Kate and convincing her of the necessity of items.

I NEED this.

She was also a massive help getting stuff sorted for the upcoming neighborhood yard sale- for which I have an embarrassing amount of stuff to contribute- and clearing out the rec room downstairs. Which has been a major wish list project for me. For I am a-nestin'. And by "rec room" I mean "musty old apartment second kitchen which has not been not been a functional KITCHEN for years but is in fact a fully operational storage unit." (For the kids playing along at home, do not attempt to turn a multi-unit into a single family home. It is NOT whimsical. It is not.)

Home sweet home.
Also, I am a boat.

She and Peej were a two-person demolition crew for the mammoth Formica island and skinny shelving unit...which- inexplicably- was cemented to the floor. That's right, someone had filled the base of the shelf with cement. And cemented it atop the ceramic tile. And for good measure, they drilled into the tile floor to hold it in place. The countertop, however, was just gently laying on top of the base. No screws, no glues, just hanging out. And when they ripped out the base and- miraculously- chipped away the cement without hurting the tile, what was left was...water damage from the recent monsoon. Underneath the window. Also, a large hole left by gaping baseboards/wavy drywall. (And we all know how I feel about rodent entry points. Psychotically against.) So, uh, the yard sale stuff is all sorted and most of the rec room is neatly organized.

And I'm waiting on a few calls from contractors. (And I'm taking referrals, Chicago peeps.)

But still, it was fabulous to have a sibling in town for the past 48 hours.

Even though I think my fam's gonna stop returning my calls soon.

We Have A Work Order Attached To The Window By Animal Stickers.

I'm not kidding.

I have some excellent news for folks who are planning to stay with us from here on out- you will not burn in your sleep! Isn't that exciting and homey?

For those of you who have slept at the Schoeny Chateau (all eight of you since mid-June)- nice work on that narrow escape.

Turns out, even though I really wanted to work on something we could SEE as opposed to boring ol' electrical work, it desperately needed rewiring. And sure, there was a crazy breaker box deeply embedded in Nora's crawlspace insulation...but dude. A deck.

So we had our electricians come two months ago. This laid the groundwork for them to show up roughly once a week and tell us work would begin soon. Once they had the permits. And parts. (We had so many delays due to "parts" that I almost began forging my own in the basement made entirely of broken picture frames and toys Nora has yet to grow into. Yes, I have enough of both.)

And I think, in my next life, that I shall endeavor to be an electrician. Based on what I've seen, the hours are incredible. 11am to 3pm...with a two hour lunch break. One day they texted and told me it was too hot to work. (But uh...is it cool if I plug in this fan? You know, into the outlet you said would burn the house down?)

There would be huge chunks of the day without power. Sometimes they'd be nice enough to run an extension cord from Nora's bedroom window out to a generator so she could take a nap with some semblance of circulating air. Unfortunately, that would be when they'd choose to drill into the brick directly on the other side of her crib. (It's not like they didn't have three full floors into which they could drill at that time, all with timely and explodey wiring.) This also severely cramped my Eating Directly Out Of The Fridge habit, what with needing to conserve the coolness of the darkened fridge and all. I still did it, but my style was cramped.

And there were days that they warned me there would be "extensive" power outages- starting at 9am- and I should make "alternate plans" with Nora. So I would. I'd put the cats on the lower level with food and extra water, I'd pack up Nora and prepare to let the electricians into the house and then take off. Which would inevitably happen around 1pm, leaving me sitting on our stairs like a kid who missed the camp bus.

And there was the day- during "sporadic outages"- that I loaded Nora into the car to return a thing of yogurt to the grocery store (long story), to discover that there was no power in the garage. For no good reason. And since the electricians were on an indeterminate lunch break- and since Peej had loudly forbidden me to lift the garage door manually (sheesh)- I unloaded N (and the yogurt) to cloister ourselves in her closed-off room (to conserve previously conditioned air) where we awaited their return by peering out the window...without lifting the shades too high. It was hot.

I fully believe we can file this whole escapade into the category of First World Problems...but still. Our home is safe. Unless ComEd and their inspection team and their indeterminate 5-10 hour window within 5-10 business days says otherwise. Seriously, Nora. Trade schools. Look into them.

And then return home to care for your parents' abode. For we shall never be able to afford to leave.

Not with the sweet deck and patio I'm planning.

He also wears dark socks with shorts.

I love a parade.

I love The Fourth.

Specifically, I love any holiday where you hafta take a day off (in a good chunk o' industries). More specifically- when P.J. has to take day off. We didn't travel. There were no houseguests. (And don't get me wrong, I've blissed out on having some favorite friends and family here...and will continue to...until August...but our good sheets are gonna be threadbare by September. And for those who have yet to see my home? This is the time. Place is CLEAN. This is also the time as I most likely wouldn't know you're here amidst the chaos. Win/win.)

So, good chunks of Saturday and from Sunday late afternoon until Monday evening there was no work. No theatre. Minimal yardwork [for me. Peej was SWAMPED]. We did spend the majority of Saturday fixing up the new kid's room. Like Nora's nursery, a couple of months before she was born, you ask? Nope. For you see, the house already has a roof, [most] windows, a floor, and running water. But I did have to get rid of a nice cross-section of my hoarding. And then I had to do some spackling while Peej hung awesome curtains at a dizzying height (to create the illusion of vaulted ceilings. Or at least Higher Than Eight Feet Ceilings). And why the spackling? Because I am an incredibly lazy person. It's true. I work really hard to keep this in check but, left to my own devices, I will hang a 4x6 frame with drywall screws. Out of curtain brackets? I will make one out of twisted metal found in the recycling bin. The key to my laziness is this: if I don't have to leave the room to complete a project, it's a success. Even if we don't have all of the materials. Especially then. The end result is golf ball-sized holes in crumbling plaster whenever we need to redecorate. (Which of course, I never think of. My laziness lives in the present.)

But I think I've learned my lesson this time. Because after spackling and sanding and [having P.J. do some] paint-retouching, I actually found myself cursing the moron who had hacked into the walls. Baby steps.

We also finally matched the master bedroom wall color (Gold Dust) to cover up the sample that I had lazily thought would be just fine (Marigold.) This was difficult, as all paint samples remind me of the colors in my room. As do the names. But thanks to a little detective work (our electricians used an old piece of dropcloth to clean a project and it miraculously had a splotch of the correct paint color- and not the erroneous one I had written down) we were able to match the sample. Making us stupidly proud of ourselves (and our yellow room).

The age old holiday tradition of selling a bed on Craigslist was also acknowledged, complete with no-shows, price hagglers, 'round the clock emails, requests for headshot-like photographs (of the bed, sadly), and a culmination of a non-native English speaker and his newly hired moving guy who- I am not kidding- instructed the former to grab onto the sides of the mattress like "a pair of t**tties."

There were also naps. Which did not include anyone in the previous story except for my husband, my curlicued kid, and my stompy midsection kid. Also two utterly confused cats.

And as we enjoyed no fewer than seven unobstructed firework displays from the comfort of our front stoop, living room picture window, back kitchen window, and upstairs window, I feel that I am well-qualified to offer up this advice to the city of Chicago: Out of money for the annual explosion gala? Ask each pyro in my neighborhood to donate five bucks worth of explosives to the town. You'd have a show to rival the denouement of Independence Day. (The movie, not the actual holiday.)

And to the parents of the Power Wheeled five year-old setting off bottle rockets (!) solo at 1am, I offer up this advice to you: Stop it*. Please.

(*Having kids/ letting them run willy nilly/ not setting bedtimes/ driving to Indiana to purchase said detonating things. Any or all.)

Or I'll have P.J. come out in his socks and sandals, turn on the sprinkler, and shake his fist at the darned hoodlums. I'll do it. And so will he.

With the slightest provocation.

Really.

Is that not the best short fiction title EVER?

I was not kidding.

I've recently begun a new project.

Which means I've been talking about it nonstop and whining about it to my big sister.

But not so much actually "doing" it. (We all have our process, right?)

And it's a big undertaking; I'm going to attempt to scan and file every single document of importance ever, so that future generations can marvel at my utter inability to throw away a napkin.

Picture this- I've kept a scrapbook binder of STUFF since middle school. One for each year. I am now 31. And I've been keeping one for Nora since her birth. She's gonna be two this year. Now, I'm no math expert, but I'm getting some pretty scary exponential numbers in my head here. (Okay, on my fingies.)

Plus, I've been watching an awful lot of Clean House lately...and it's always the same. Women who don't have a problem, confronted with their problem, crying about how they didn't know they had a problem, and later yelling at the people who are trying to take their problem stuff away to the Salvation Army. Television magic, sure, but it hit a couple of crowded nerves. (My elbows were resting on binders and scrap boxes at the time. Scrap boxes, you ask? Oh, that's when she's too lazy to actually rubber cement or three hole punch something- and just shoves it into a random shoe box for later sorting. I could open the worst Foot Locker ever.)

It got me thinking. This kind of keepsaking is a type of vanity, isn't it? Like I'm thinking to myself, not only is my stuff amazing, but the trajectory of my life has been so unreal awesomesauce that people I don't even know will want to analyze my dating history. And who thought I was great enough to send me a postcard from Rome that one time. Or ponder the significance of the one Highland School Field Day ribbon, circa 1987. (None. Everyone got one.)

Not to mention all the room this stuff takes up. I already have a lot of- er- collections. Teacups. Handbags. Leather boots. Books n' books n' books n' books. Quantum Leap fan fiction- whatever- we don't have to psychoanalyze it. The point is, I've always entered into any relationship with a bucket o' parts. I married this last guy and we darn near completed a wedding registry. (That's expensive stuff!) And now that I've passed a good chunk of my childhood possessions onto my kid (provided she plays with them correctly), I'm starting to see what's important and what isn't.

Starting to.

My new guideline is this: if- God forbid- there were a mammoth fire tomorrow, what personal documents would I be devastated to lose? (I have to keep this hypothetical situation strictly to random documents. The idea of a real, Lose Everything kinda fire makes me want to run around screaming with armloads of knicknacks, Ender and Bean, and that new pink armchair I love. Nora's got new sneakers- not only can she follow me outside, but she can grab my Kate Spade china mugs as she goes.)

The problem- beyond a culture that prides itself on ownership- is that I have an eighth grade-esque love for every single thing I own. It's true. There are very few things in my home to which I'd give a disinterested shrug. (Which would also be odd to see.) I love dreaming over things, organizing them, moving them around, and telling other people how much I adore them. (The things, not the people. If the people don't know how much I love them, well- one can only do so much.) And I realize that we are not our possessions. I know this. I do.

Baby steps.

So. Yes. My plan is to copy every document, save and tag it, and file it on a big ol' external hard drive. That way I can take a walk down memory lane without getting beaned in the head by 1998. (A good year for memorabilia.) Hopefully, that will free me up to toss out napkins and movie stubs, saving room in my ONE scrapbook for truly important things.

I have not yet narrowed down what that may be.

Pretty sure all of my writings penned around second grade need to be immortalized in hard copy. Especially the ones where I was also the illustrator. Double especially the ones with a foreword- by me, obvie- and credits. Which was...all of them.

Definitely yes. Those need to stay.

I can sense that I may run into some difficulty, here.

I am so lazy.

This floor is dirtying my nightgown.

"Fast, cheap, and good… pick two. If it’s fast and cheap it won’t be good. If it’s cheap and good it won’t be fast. If it’s fast and good it won’t be cheap. Fast, cheap, and good… pick two words to live by." - Tom Waits

That's one of my husband's favorite quotes. And it happens to be attributed to one of my favorite songwriters. I've been thinking about this a lot lately, in terms of general housiness and productivity.

My trifecta, however, is more noun-related: Baby, Household, Writing. I cannot have more than two awesome nouns at a time. I've tried it. Repeatedly. It doesn't work.

On days where I feel on top of the mopping/scrubbing/folding and manage to teach my kid her colors/take a blanket tent nap (with her, of course), I feel like a really great Mom/wife/homeowner. Too bad my laptop doesn't get opened and zero projects get attempted, let alone completed.

Then there are times when the house is immaculate- or at least mildly sanitized- and I've blogged, essayed, scripted, emailed and filed. But Nora has watched five back to back episodes of Clifford the Big Red Dog. Including commercials. Extra commercials, in fact.

The best of the three options happens when I play on the floor with Nora for hours on end, and follow it up with some stellar writing once she naps. Dual job-wise, I feel invincible. Food and homestead-wise, I feel hungry, dirty and cluttered.

(All bets are off on days when Nora and I are at work, however. On those days, my home actually gets messier and my documents begin deleting themselves word by word. Nora and I would be cool with each other on work days, if not for the fact that I wake her at least twice to run errands and pick up kiddos. I'm pretty sure she'd rather we not talk on work days. But then again, we don't get paid to clean our house/write an opus/snuggle stuffed frogs...and her braces aren't gonna fund themselves. So we must resign ourselves to a few grumbles. Besides, the trade-off is that she gets to be with her favorite big kids in the entire Chicagoland area. Some things are worth being woken up for.)

The other day I thought I could beat the system. Nora "helped" me fold an impossibly large number of laundry loads (I am still not entirely convinced that people are NOT randomly dropping off clothing to be laundered and then spirited away while I towel-nap. Who owns all these socks?) and clean the floor. (Her contribution was removing cat hair from the Swiffer while I mopped- and then holding dirt and furballs up to me with a disdainful "yuck." Then she'd empty out the Tupperware cabinet and throw bibs around.) But the house was decently clean. So we made Valentines. Really sparkly ones with extra stickers and purple crayons. We followed that up by opening the Little People playhouses across the floor and arranging a township's worth of plastic pilots, squirrels, princesses and backpack-clad kids on appropriate seating. Then we fed them tea. She had a multi-food group lunch (and so did I!) and then settled down for a big ol' after lunch nap.

And I opened my laptop. I knew that I'd have at least the next two hours available for some quality writing time.

A fact which apparently crippled me.

I got nothing done. Less than nothing, actually. I may have even killed some brain cells with the stupidity of the few sentences I managed to eke out. They were the worst sentences ever to be typed and then immediately deleted. If I could have deleted them multiple times, I would have.

They were that bad.

And I wasn't surprised. After all, I was taunting Fate- who had VERY CLEARLY laid out the rules of productivity. Choose two.

Most days I wish I could just choose Nora twice. 

The real low men on the totem pole are the cats, though. They used to be in the triple rotation, with special treats and five page manifestos for the cat sitters. And even though I still adore them, I fall back on this idea that- at heart- they're wild animals who prefer to fend for themselves. (If only they had thumbs!)

At least they're not the plants, which haven't been watered in months. 

Prioritizing is hard.

  I made to the Top Five for Parenting Blogs! Go vote!

"It costs more because it SAVES more."

Sometimes things just don't turn out at all how you expected.

Example A: Instead of enjoying a cup of coffee whilst typing, the ottoman tray upon which my Mama Bear mug had previously rested decided to upend said coffee onto tray, couch, self- but most importantly, not computer. The empty mug is now being cradled by a vanilla powder-scented baby doll. This is a first. And sure, while annoying, it doesn't really represent the bigger picture as well as-

Example B: The other morning, while crawling around on my hands and knees in Nora's bedroom, I smelled something awful. Sure, this in and of itself is not unusual in the home of a smallish child- but I was fairly certain it was something rather dangerous. I called in the troops. Or, uh, troop. I asked P.J. if he smelled anything like gas or a chemical, to which he replied that he was certain it was just Nora's diaper pail, proving that even my husband believes that we live in squalor.

I called People's Gas and they showed up ten minutes later. Wow, I thought. What a helpful and prompt organization run by the city! They'll get this fixed in NO TIME!

Except.

His sensor thingie went wild in Nora's room, due to gas leaking in through the drafty baseboard that led to the crawlspace (you know, the one we just spent bank trying to insulate?) He then outdid himself by finding four more gas leaks (at LEAST, said he) down by the boiler and water heater. Nervous but optimistic, I asked what would be best to do.

He shrugged. Gotta turn it off. Law.

What?! You can't turn off my hot water, cooking gas and general warmth in DECEMBER in CHICAGO! I politely informed him that I had a young child, two cats, pipes that I'd prefer not to have freeze prior to New Year's, and a general desire to shower.

He told me to call my "guy-" but warned me it would be pretty extensive work. And that's where it got ugly. I was informed that at LEAST one wall would hafta be ripped out upstairs (to even find where the leak MIGHT be), and I'd need to solder off THAT piece and put a T pipe in HERE and have "your guy..." And I felt my optimism falter. Maybe quiver a bit. And, as most of you know, my strength is not hearing technical descriptions and committing them to memory. It just isn't. So I asked him to write it down.

"Too much to write," he helpfully dismissed. So I then asked (and I HATE myself for this part) if I could call my husband to hear all of these instructions for our plumber. The kindly gentleman from People's Gas then told me that I have EYES, I'm the one HERE, just LOOK at this and remember that it needs to be soldered here and a T pipe put here...

And I really, really hate myself for this next part- but I got so overwhelmed that I cried. A lot. The kind of sobbing that you pretend you're NOT doing, the kind that you choke back to reply to A SUPER TECHNICAL QUESTION, but it only comes out in high-pitched squeaks. The type where the city worker looks at you with utter confusion/disdain, the kind where the toddler in your arms wonders what weirdo game we're playing now, and the variety that makes you see the dollar signs floating away into the ether like some deranged cartoon and also at the pajamas which you may well be wearing for the next week. That kind.

So he shut off the gas and left. ("Sorry. Law.") And I called P.J. and for a good few moments he didn't know who was on the other end, perhaps some tragically hyperventilating chipmunk. But, as he so often does, he took care of it. Namely by leaving work early. And getting our "guy." And crawling into the insulation to dig out pipes with our plumber. And moving stuff into storage, outta storage, into storage again. And talking me down from my useless cliff of hand-fluttering.

But it all ended decently well, even though we're sure the city of Chicago now believes us to be dangerous horders, what with our upended storage spaces and all. Our "guy" fixed both the downstairs and upstairs leaks WITHOUT tearing into any walls. (I imagine he also soldered something and used at least one T pipe.) I made an edible emergency crockpot Beef Stroganoff with none of the traditional ingredients therein. The gas company arrived at 7pm to turn the gas back on (after a manly competition with the plumber of Whose Monkey Wrench Is Bigger.) And, most impressively, the house which we constantly disparage did not get below 62 degrees, despite an entire frigid day with no internal heat. Let's hear it for brick construction!

But, as I think you'll agree, that anecdote is a terrible way to end the bloggy year.

So how about if I wish a WONDERFUL birthday to my lovely pals Natalie and Cassie, and tomorrow to my darling sis in law (and pal) Natalie! (Also, did you know how long it took me to realize why so many ladies born in December have the name 'Natalie?' Including my mother in law. I work with words, folks.)

And may the new year bring more blanket tents for fun and less for warmth.

More stellar programming and less cancelled shows.

More sushi and less Ramen.

More hugs and less missed Skype calls.

More happy tears and less Ugly Cry.

And absolutely no rats.

Nora got to choose a punkin'. We didn't COMPLETELY abandon her.

Did they leave me AGAIN?

I've pretty much guaranteed that P.J. will never again leave the house- for real this time.

Saturday was innocuous enough; a few errands and appointments and general loafishness. It was Sunday that hit him like a ton of bricks. 

Over coffee (mine), Ovatine (Peej's) and Costco waffles (all Nora's- she doesn't even begin to think about sharing those), I made a list. A little list. Of stuff we HAD to get done before this coming week. And before the winter. Or really the shank of the Fall. And certainly before we left our daughter for four and a half days. 

P.J. agreed. Warily. Because, sadly, there is no "right" answer. (You're either on board with the overhaul or against my personal freedoms.)

So I sent him out to Home Depot (where everybody knows your naaaaame...) and I got to work. You see, regardless of the heaps of laundry, personal correspondence or the positively Sisyphean battle of child-proofing left to do...I had a little thorn in my side called the Storage Room.

It should not have been called the Storage Room. It's actually a second kitchen, on the lower level. Same size as our main kitchen, huge picture windows, enough room in which to house a bouncy castle. (Ooh!) But it has been a way station for building supplies, actual storage, and friends' furniture. And it was filthy. And more than a little musty. And- most importantly of all- the paint was awful.

SO. Despite all of the tasks looming before me, I'd decided that I could not live another day without putting new paint on those walls. Cinchy. 

Trouble was, to even get to the walls, I needed to remove an entire Home Depot's worth of oak doors, baseboards and planking, and random pieces of wood that WE ABSOLUTELY NEED, KEELY. 

During Nora's first nap, I secured the cats in the laundry area, propped open the side door, and lugged a potentially unwise amount of heavy lumber up the stairs and into the backyard. (Once there? Who cares? It's like I tell my Littles- if we don't find places for your toys, maybe we should put them in the yard? Where other kids might like them and want to put them away? Honestly, the best case scenario would've been if someone robbed our yard then and there.) I got some serious elbow splinters and more than one ugly scrapes from broken hardware. The neighbors think I'm totally crazy. Crazier.

Side note- Did I mention my tetanus shots aren't up to date? I have a bit of a sulfa allergy. Not sure whether it's worse to be violently ill for a week or get TETANUS, but we may soon find out. 

The look on P.J.'s face when he returned home was one of shock (How did you CARRY all of that?) and dismay (So- we're doing this?) And I kept on keeping on: scrubbing, degreasing (did I mention it was an olllllld kitchen?) and paint-taping until my fingers threatened to fall off. And this was just the prep work. 

Long story kinda short, I finished up at 10pm. (Fun tip: Find a paint edger at around 8:30pm. Then you'll realize how much of your edging/paint taping/finger misery was rendered completely superfluous! Seriously. Then go back and re-edge the entire room in- oh, about five minutes. Then- and this part is really important- jab out your eye with a corner of the paint edger in protest of your lost afternoon.)

And I fully realize that the cleaning and organizing frenzy of which has consumed the past month is solely due to the fact that I am freaking out over my impending trip. (Not the trip so much- that part will be AWESOME- but the leaving of my kiddo.) So yeah, nothing has been done in terms of actual Stuff We Needed To Get Done...but hey, at least Nora has a rec room in which to console herself over the lack of clean clothes/secured cabinets. In "spring morn" [green], no less. 

That sorta makes up for your parents jaunting off to northern California for awhile, doesn't it?

Doesn't it?

(p.s. Please go vote for her on the left-hand side! The sting of bad parenting is easily soothed by a huge prize from Baby Gap.) 

Her therapist thanks you.

Insulation Confrontation- The Sequel

This needs insulatin', too.

The insulation guys are upstairs. So, I'm assuming that our crawlspaces are being done up. (Hopefully the right side up this time.)

There was a momentary glitch this a.m. when a neighbor flung my lawn chair (previously gracing a parking spot in front of the house) into a different neighbor's yard. Then he parked his car. So Nora and I ran outside to a) retrieve our chair and b) give an evil eye to the chair flinger. Of course, that was when the 40-foot insulation truck pulled up. The car driver feigned ignorance. The truck driver raised his arms at me like- What?! But I know that move, too.

He argued with me that I was supposed to have a spot blocked off. I told him that I did- and in fact had four blocked off. LAST WEDNESDAY. (I am rarely confrontational. It felt good.)

I went inside (after I yell, I always retreat) and was sure that a) I was in trouble or b) we weren't gettin' no insulation did. However. The truck driver and the car driver argued in Spanish. Guess who won? That's right- the guy insulating the third floor.

I should argue more. HEAR THAT, PEEJ?

Half an hour later, one of the workers asked if he could use one of the bathrooms. I told him sure and pointed to the one on the second floor. (Nora and I were downstairs at the time.) He chose to use the one on the third floor, which- ha HAH- recently lost its ability to be flushed. He apologized. I assured him that it was previously broken and not to worry. I then realized that I missed an awesome chance to get the toilet fixed on someone else's dime! But the Pollyanna side of me could never let that fly. Besides, I'm an awful liar. (I was about to say that I'd make a terrible spy- but I couldn't remember the word. What did pop into my head was the word 'Decepticon.' I'd make a TERRIBLE Decepticon as well.)

So. This weekend.

I engaged in what P.J. considers his personal hell- and Feng Shui'd the bedroom. He seriously hates when I move anything to any other locale. Also making his nerves work overtime? The fact that I have the most rudimentary knowledge of Feng Shui (like, kindergarten Feng Shui) and frequently change my mind after the heavy lifting has been done. That said- it needed to happen. Our bedroom is a pretty good size, but narrow from the door over to the double window. We used to have the window as our headboard because it looked awesome. And it was great to get a breeze in the summer. And- really- who doesn't like hearing someone break a bottle on a car at 3am?

But here's what convinced me that we needed a change. I read- online, obviously- that one of the worst bed positions was with the headboard against a window. Noise! Energy! Frantic dreams! (I will start to blame all previous problems on this headboard placement!) And the worst bed position? Feet to the door- the Chinese position of DEATH. (That sounds way more intense than they probably intended. I may have gotten the wording wrong.)

So I fixed it. Everything, really. And it looks quite good. And even P.J. liked it- once I got him into the room under the pretense of getting something for Nora. (Subterfuge. Hey- maybe I would be a good Decepticon!) I guarantee that Peej won't be running errands for longer than an hour anymore. He'll be too afraid of what he'd come home to.

I also did some heavy duty fixin' up of some found objects (God bless Craigslist's Free Stuff section)- namely a partition screen that someone was just giving away! It was blue and white checks with broken buttons on crisscrossed ribbons- obviously we needed it. I stripped and recovered them with heavy brown velvet curtains that had been gifted to us--

[Major side note: P.J. does not like when I repurpose things. What if we need them for their originally intended use? I assured him that, unless we wanted a sickroom with dim, dusty light spilling onto my prone, plaid blanket-covered figure, we would not be using the heavy curtains any time soon. He wasn't convinced- what if we need them for one of the kids' bedrooms someday? If he wanted his kid to be Colin from The Secret Garden, then sure. Let's hang the curtains. He gave me the blessing for the fabric.]

--and I got to use the staple gun. Which makes such a satisfying 'ker-thwunk' when you use it. And then it's stuck there forever. With metal. While I worked on this project, I helped P.J. run lines for an audition. I don't know how helpful I was.

"But then there would be no play, Mr. Merrick." [ker-thwunk]
"If he did not love her [ker-thwunk], why should there be a play?" [ker-thwunk ker-thwunk]
"Keely."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm reading. I am."
[ker-thwunk.]

He really didn't need me, anyhow. He's the best actor ever. And the partitions look fabulous. 'Cause he's the most tolerant husband ever. And thanks to the insulation, he'll be the warmest one, too.

Which is good, because I'm certain our neighbors will be flinging eggs at our door in due course...

...And it'll be chilly tonight when he has to go clean it off.

Insulation Cancellation...*

Overshot the Peekaboo.

...and My Kid Is Terrific (Parts 1 and 77, respectively.) *Thanks, Dorrie.

Yesterday, we were going to have a guy come and fix our crawlspaces. They are seriously hurting. Four attic-like rooms off of the upstairs bedrooms- two the size of [really awful] bedrooms themselves- and all with upside down insulation...if at all. (There are, however, crazy amounts of notebooks, beer bottle caps and at least one high school prom mug. Good Counsel, Class of '83, if anyone's missing it.)

So I was excited to get them fixed for storage and general not-freeziness. But I was also wary. Here's why. This is how a contractor deal works at our house:

1. P.J. and I choose 3 companies.
2. I meet them all, listen to their spiels and Little Lady pitches, all roughly three hours apiece.
3. I suggest the company I like best.
4. Peej goes with the company of which he's just Googled something crucial.
5. On the Big Day, I ready the area, lock the cats in the laundry room and adjust Nora's naps accordingly...and wait. And wait. And sometimes wait.

Yesterday was no different- except- the insulation truck needed THREE SPOTS in front of my house. First thing in the a.m. Okie doke. Because, you know, I live on an extremely busy one-way street off of an extremely busy two-way street with rather expensive metered parking boxes (thanks, Daley), making our busy street the only free, non-zoned parking for blocks.

But sure, three spots.

However, I peeked out the window at 6:45am and saw the spot right in front of our gate had vacated. I ran outside in jammies, a hoodie and Crocs to place a questionably light folding chair in the space. Which is totally your best bet for staking a spot. Nothing says Back Off like a folding chair.

And somehow another spot opened up. And another. AND A FOURTH. I was so stoked and took it as a sign.

Oh, it was a sign, all right. It was a surefire way to guarantee that after I'd gotten the spots secured (as well as the wrath of my neighbors) and after I'd sealed off Nora's door against dust and shards, and after I'd settled the kiddo into a confused sleep in the downstairs pack n' play...that I'd get a call at 10am canceling the appointment. You see, the head supervisor's wife had had a baby the night before. I mean, mazel tov and all that, but THAT shut down operations for the day? And we're not talking about a Mom and Pop operation, here.

They said they were sorry. I said it was okay. (Grr, I always say that. And I so rarely mean it.)

But then I got to spend the rest of the day with Nora in a half-clean/half-rearranged household. And there's nothing like spending the day with Nora and her Doc Bullfrog and Jeopardy and the park.

I love my kid. I really do. As I was singing her to half-sleep and she was doing a patpatpat on my cheek in acknowledgement, it hit me (not her hand) that I'm blown away by this little child almost every day.

I looked down at her sleepy 11 month-old face and was kind of amazed by the fact that she was, indeed, this old. And still this young. And so, so busy all of the time. And such an independent little thing but still so happy to be held and rocked and kissed.

And she's ours. And she looks like both of us and no one else at all but herself and she never even used to exist. That blows me out of the water. I think it always will.

Parents always say that Having A Baby Changes You and You'll Never Be The Same and You Cannot Imagine The Capacity For Love and blahblahblah. And you nod and smile and roll your eyes, thinking- yeah, I know how to love. I'm gonna dig my kid. Yep.

But it's seriously unlike any other feeling I've ever felt. Even towards my husband. And I like him. A LOT. But here's the kicker: This feeling towards Nora? This wildly out of control love and constant gleeful surprise? I still couldn't explain and do it justice to an expectant parent.

I think it's kind of like how humans can't hold the full memory of pain in any sort of constant way- nor would one want to. You'd never get anything done, remembering exactly what it felt like when your arm shattered after a fall from a bike or that last migraine that left you incapacitated for days. But you know it hurt. And you tell friends how much it hurt. But even you've forgotten- just a little- how overwhelming that pain is.

And that's what it's like with Nora.

Except non-painful. (Unless I'm in a mood and full o' tears.) Because I think I have moments like I just did as I got her ready for bed because I can't keep that kind of awareness going 24/7. And so it's shocking and wonderful and silly when I do.

It's funny- I did not intend to write about this today. Really. I had planned on whining about insulation and home repair. Maybe gripe about laundry a bit. Share an anecdote about how people will still not talk to me at the park.

But as I started typing, here I was- again- extolling the virtues of being a parent. And I imagine- to my friends who have no desire to have babies- it's worthy of a little eye roll of their own. But here's another kicker: I think the majority of this amazement and love comes from the fact that I had SO little to do with how wildly cool this girl is. She just showed up, guns of awesome a blazin', and decided to change our lives.

And for that I have nothing but love in my heart.

And little but sweet potato on my shirt.

But who's gonna meter my rage?

            Today's post is a failed attempt at guest-blogging for a bigger site. So I'm using it here- 'cause I LIKE it, even if it met none of the previously-non-mentioned-but-yeah-it-kinda-makes-sense criteria. It's just as well- I'm horrid at following directions (baking, unplugging my laptop during a storm, that whole waiting after eating to swim...)
            I wrote it about a month ago. Ah, how simple things were back then. They were different times.


******
      

            The water people have just left. I think they have a real name/company/title, but that’s what I’m going with.

            They’ve been here three times.

            Optimistically, we signed up for a water meter that would- ideally- cut back on our usage. Or, rather, what the city thinks we use. (For those non-Chicagoans, you don’t get your own water charges- oh no! You get what the City of Chicago- a wonderfully, refreshingly honest town- thinks you’re using based on what your neighbors are doing. Or what the city thinks they’re doing.)

            This means that, based on the fact that we live in a predominantly Hispanic neighborhood with multiple families living in the same three-flats, the great Windy City thinks our water usage equates that of eighteen related people fighting over three showers.

            A water meter seemed like a no-brainer. And of course, that’s exactly what it turned out be; a project with zero brains involved.

            The first team, having shown up late and having hung out for a good hour, couldn’t figure out how to turn off our water. (Given that our previously foreclosed rehab is less House of Dreams and more Money Pit, we believed him.) They told us about a B-box or somesuch that needed a blowout. (Look, if we’re handing out city-funded blowouts, my hair has been standing in line since last November. Also, I originally heard “beat box,” rendering me tragically excited.)

            My husband called to reschedule the water meter install and the B-box blowout- but sadly, no accompanying a capella group- and was informed that the B-box thing had already been done. Wow! Okay…

            The second team showed up a couple of weeks later. Late. (It is the city, after all.) They informed us that our water wouldn’t shut off and that the B-box needed to be blown out. Hmm.

            This morning, the third team arrived- including, as the supervisor put it, his “best guy.”

            I was prepared to be less than impressed. In fact, I was riled up to be downright snotty. My husband, who had been here for the previous attempts, offered to work from home this a.m., something that I waved away. I wanted a confrontation. Tuesday mornings are my time off from nannying with our infant gal in tow, a couple of hours that I can enjoy writing while she naps- in other words: Me Time. Now these fools were going to waste Me Time with a third vocal acknowledgement that we needed a blowout of some sort? I didn’t want my husband to temper me. I didn’t want witnesses.

            Turns out, all we needed was a “best guy.” He turned off the water indoors (“I don’t know why the other guys couldn’t get this!”) He turned off the water outdoors (“No prob.”) He installed a water meter (“You’ll be seeing a big reduction in water bills.”) And, for our troubles- a free rain barrel! Sure, people in more civilized, green and outdoorsy parts of the world already have these. But here? Cutting. Edge. Technology. (Also with a multi-month wait list. Suckers.)

            Now we’re the home with only three residents- and a water bill to match- plus the means for a slightly more sustainable backyard. (Hey kids, it’s your pal Whitey McHippie!)

            So now it’s on to dealing with the 2010 Census; folks with a razor-edged vendetta, bent on proving that our single fam home is a secret haven for multiple apartments, tenants and doorbells.

            I am only one woman.

            Regardless of what they might have in their file.

Home is where the Swiffer is.

My Wii Fit was snarky to me this morning. We have a history, that thing and I do. Back in January it called me obese. Then the boxing instructor openly mocked me. And if it's been a bit of time between sessions, the Wii console character is all- Well howdy DO, lazy butt! 

My "trainer" is condescending. And forever changing her hairstyle. And wondering if- perhaps- I'm putting too much pressure on my toes. Or my heels. Ease up, heifer! (She seems to say.) Today she suggested that when working out, I try to use both legs. Equally. Which is a remarkably helpful tip, as I kept falling down. Using only the left leg for squats will do that.

My favorite tip ever, though? "When walking down the street, swing your arms wildly, like a pendulum." Thanks, Wii Fit! Now I'm an Orca AND a danger to others! 

I might start taking my ten minute [a week] cardio elsewhere. 

Other household items of importance. Let's start with the kitchen. I've recently upped my focus on that room- the one that, despite each of us having an office (even Nora! Okay, hers is a broom closet), ends up with every bill, envelope, pen, baby toy, diaper and potted plant on its countertops. Occasionally dishes. You'd think I would have really stepped up my game when- oh, I had a child, or maybe even when she began to crawl. But no. 

This past weekend I realized that I was tired of having stuff pile up at the end of the week, resulting in an hour long search for the paper towels to scrape bananas from the ceiling fan. I decided to make the room spotless after every meal. Which would have been a great habit to develop when it was just two of us living here, with the occasional cat and their occasional hairball issue. 

But no. I decided to overhaul my cleaning habits the moment I never had more to clean in my life. Seriously. Nora's always been a little bit of a Pollock disciple in terms of food distribution. But lately? Now that she knows where the spoon goes and thinks that perhaps someone could speed up the portioning of carrots and croissants? She's taken feeding into her own chubby little fists. She'll grab a handful of perfectly diced fruits and veggies, mash them against her forehead and then flick specks at Ender. Who always hopes that she's eating a deli meat. Sometimes she gets excited and tries to alert me of impending awesomeness. With amazing follow-through. (She could be stellar on the free-throw line. I mean it.) This results in food ending up in the darnedest places! Like IN the cabinet. Or under the Jumparoo. Sometimes down the back of the diaper. (That's only when she's being a show-off.) 

I kinda want to invent a food catcher, but so far the only idea I have is to wrap the entire highchair (and baby) in a big ol' thing of netting. Which I can't imagine will go over well. But- then again- someone invented the built in pasta strainer and that's downright absurd. ("Tired of spilling scalding noodles all over your loved ones? Have trouble walking to the sink?")

So. Yes. Cleaning after every meal. Not just loading the dishwasher, but wiping everything down, sanitizing the high chair, la la la. It's been a bit of a challenge to get everything sparkly before Nora and I leave for work, but I've been sticking with it. And here's what I discovered. That could be a full time job. Here's what else I discovered- I get really mad at P.J. if he tries to sit in the clean kitchen. Let alone use a glass. 

I've been trying to de-clutter the general area with the hope that eventually, if nothing is actually IN the kitchen, I can just hose the place down. And isn't it funny, the things you look at every day but never really notice are there? As I was washing dishes yesterday, I happened to glance on the backsplash of the sink. We keep a sponge there, some hand soap, a Brillo pad...and three pan scrapers. I so rarely even use one- what kind of catastrophic lasagna pan am I anticipating? Or- have you ever seen three people simultaneously wash the dishes? It's that kind of excess that makes me hate my kitchen. 

Also, the flooring. And the counters. The cabinets could use a little spiffying up, too.

And I'll leave you with a little special insight into my nightly habits. ("The other guards won't show you this part...") Okay. I talk in my sleep. And thrash. Sometimes walk around a bit. But I think P.J.'s favorite nighttime activity of mine is...the continuation of the dream. 

I had been having a pretty special dream in which P.J. was yelling at me that I never let him cuddle. (Let's just take a sec and enjoy that one.) I remember- in dreamland- rolling my eyes and saying "Well, go ahead!" And he kept informing me that I wasn't doing it right. Or he couldn't reach me. (According to Wii Fit, anyone should be able to reach me from any room in the house.) So I woke up. Kinda. And saw that my actual husband was sleeping with his actual arms wide open. So, Alert But Not Really Awake Me smacked him. 

"What?!" 

"You can do it now," I crossly informed him.

"Huh?"

"Go ahead."

I waited for him to cuddle me. He went back to sleep. Dream Me was uber-ticked now. So I poked him again. But...I was falling back to sleep myself, and sorta crossed reality with a dream about a computer. Or something. Because the next thing Peej knew, I was shoving him and tapping the center of the bed, demanding that he "click" the sheets. 

"WHAT!?"

"Click it!"

"I don't know wha-"

"CLICK IT!"

And God bless Peej, he leaned over and went 'CLICK' to the middle of the bed. Then rolled over and went back to sleep. I recall drifting back off, wondering why I had ever married such a jerk.

Sorry, P.J., I'll make it up to you.

You can use a glass or a plate with dinner.

Maybe a pan scraper.

"Well, um, actually a pretty nice little Saturday..."

I have Mount St. Laundry in my stairwell. And it cannot be scaled.

The tumbleweed cat hair is the size of the actual cats.

So of course on Saturday morning I told P.J.- "I need to paint the upstairs bathroom."

He responded to this the way he generally reacts to any major change in the household; with complete and utter dismay. A little stonewalling. Perhaps a half hour of ignoring (which never, never works). He asked me why.

I wanted to tell him that the aversion I have to that corner of the house is disturbing (I pretend that I know feng shui- I do not), that the "master" bathroom is essentially a few pieces of sheet rock propped up against a shower fitter- you know, the kind your Grandma has?- and that my hatred for the dingy walls represents everything that I hate and fear and want to change in the world...

"Because I want to," I told him.

After a few moments, he came back with this- "You want to paint it white, right?" Yep! Because when I crave change and pop and a new lease on life, I choose...white. Sure.

I told him that I wanted a deep brown, a color that has been chosen by folks for whom I've worked (and it's rocked.) He said no. I got so mad that I went into the backyard and pretended to mulch trees. Later, I was much too tired to think about painting a bathroom- and our excellent friend Jamie came over to shower us with gifts, Ecuadorian food, and lullabies for Nora. It was a fantastic evening, and one that gave Peej a false sense of security that the bathroom "thing" was over.

The next morning I left for Home Depot ("Where everybody knows your naaaame...") and picked out paint- I took into consideration P.J.'s trepidation towards dark colors and tried to temper my choices based on that. Bought one I dug and that I thought P.J. might actually...be okay with. I did not tell P.J. the color, nor did I let him see it until it was already slopped on the walls, rendering it DONE.

Turns out, he loves it. Or said he does. Which is wise. The color is Adobe Straw (Rachel: Ooh..! Keely: You have no idea what color that is, do you? Rachel: Nope!) And it's actually a variation on brown. (Shh...)

And here it is:

This is the best angle and lighting I can get, given that this bathroom is essentially the size of an escape pod. But as of last night it's an Adobe Straw escape pod. Maybe we can start to take the air quotes out of "master" bathroom. So now: The lower level bathroom has a soaking tub and new tile (and is rat-free! Woot!), the main floor bathroom is no longer teal and has shelving, and the upstairs bathroom doesn't make me cry any longer! Who says I can't have it all? (Whoever says otherwise will be argued down. Ask Peej.)

And here's a freebie li'l cleaning tip for you! Want a sparkling bathroom in five seconds? Take everything out of the bathroom, ever. It works wonders. Sure, your husband will search for months for his toothbrush and there will be no actual "soap" on the premises...but it'll look like a million bucks.

Or at least $23.47.

Friends: 0. (Sigh.)

At the risk of sounding like a fourteen year-old girl, I am going to start implementing some changes to my Facebook page.

Notably, my "friends." Notice the quotes. I do not put the quotes around my real friends. (I use my arms!) The former are people whom, if I happened to bump into, would most likely not recognize. My "friends" are people who could care less about my writing, my daughter, my husband, my "dream house" (more quotes!) or status updates regarding anything in the previous list. I shall delete with wild abandon, starting with:


People Who Are Stupid: Yes, on paper this sounds harsh (but on a webpage it's positively blinding). People who cannot spell, consistently fail to use punctuation (four sentences with nary a comma nor a period, por ejemplo) or who think THAT ALL CAPS IS ACCEPTABLE FOR STATUSES LONGER THAN A WORD. Quality of status is nice, too, but I thinking I'm aiming too high. Maybe we can put a kibosh on statuses that are the entire day's happenings, complete with color commentary and a tremendously abusive amount of 'lol,' j/k, 'hahahahahahahahahas,' and such.


This group is but a distant, stupid memory to me. Also:


The Malcontents: Yes, we all have gripes. I'm having one right now! But c'mon, peeps, if every single day is such a trial, perhaps you have bigger problems than "Monday again? DAMMIT!" The amount of people for whom each day's status is a complaint that it's "that" day...is simply staggering. And those are the folks who post all Sunday about how the weekend is almost over! So, Saturday at 11am is a good status-time, then? (Unless you're hungover. DAMMIT!)


And let's not forget...


The Flag-Wavers: I am consistently alarmed and amazed by the amount of so-called patriotic citizens on Facebook who could not give a fig about 80% of this nation's residents. Supporting our troops is great. I love America, our armed forces, the freedoms we enjoy and the ability to complain about it. But sometimes I want to ask the Flag Wavers whom, exactly, they think our troops are fighting to protect? If I go by status updates, I'd have to guess upper class, Republican, straight white dudes. Apparently everyone else is on their own. (Interesting to note: this group and the ALL CAPS ALL THE TIME gang do a lot of cross- mingling.)


Wow. That was, quite possibly, the most political I've ever gotten on here.


Let's take it back down a notch to-


The Rest Of The Bunch: The Haterz, The Drunks, The Pollyannas, The Loss-Of-Identity-My-Baby's-Pic-Has-Replaced-Mine-Procreators...oh, I could go on.


And yes, I'm highly aware of the fact that I break a ton of rules as well. I post about Nora like it's a part-time job (as someone snarkily asked me last week- "So, you have a kid?" DELETED!) My housing problems are the biggest deal in the world. I litter your homepage with blog posts. I'm [usually] irritatingly optimistic. My husband is hot.


These things annoy a ton of people. I understand.


However- and this is the crux o' the whole thing- if we are friends? Real friends? How-are-you-I'll-wait-for-a-response friends? These updates shouldn't be akin to nails on a chalkboard.


Just sayin'.


*****


Confidential to...anyone who hasn't deleted me by now:


Nora's five months old today/We had an ant "thing" in the house but Peej obliterated them/Went to a great dinner party with the extraordinarily tolerant bitsy babe/Met with the Lady Writers this weekend for brunch, ginger cocktails and superior writing/Had my butt handed to me in pilates- since it's still big enough to actually be handed, I should probably continue to go/I'm making this rad shrimp dish for din tonight/I managed to shower today- before noon!/Good God, are you still reading? We must be friends.


Hugs (with arms, not quotes),
Keely