Not too early for a late breakfast martini, though...

Get A Load Of This Gal Cam.

Boy oh boy, have I overcome a major writing hurdle. As I've been working on various projects this a.m., I put on Sirius XM's 40s on 4 channel- recently converted to all holiday music, all the time. Which I generally dig. But it wasn't doing much for my creative process other than making me want to swirl brandy in front of a fire- and it's about an hour too early for that. (Darn you, Andy Williams!)

Theeeen I remembered that P.J. had emailed me the new- and free- Girl Talk album. Which I also love.

And which my creative process loves.

So now I'm jamming out some literary awesomeness (or, at the very least, literary plenitude) to the wundy beats of some of my favorite classic rock tunes just shoved all up against some dancey R&B hits of whose titles I cannot name in this family blog. (And yes, this is yet another album of which I cannot listen to in front of my extraordinarily impressionable toddler. That list is surprisingly long. P.J. and I have gotten pretty darned adept at singing 'bleep' at appropriate times. Note- bleeps are always appropriate.)

So. Writing. Yes.

We had a superbly nice time in the Berkshires. Most of it was spent napping and eating while someone else kindly asked my daughter to stop eating the footwear, but, you know, that's the kind of thing memories of made of.

My Mom took P.J., Nora, and me swimming. (Nora digs indoor pools and shows no discernible fear of water= she may actually be someone else's kid.) A middle-aged and slightly insane man made some very real attempts to steal me away from P.J., so that's also cool. We also saw the Berkshire Museum's Festival of Trees which N.J. loved...until she realized that she was not going to be allowed to eat the ornaments- which she hated. And I took my Mom out to sushi for her birthday lunch and convinced her to order a bento box- which she loved.

P.J. and I even got to go see the new Harry Potter flick and pretend it was a date- minus the 60 bucks for childcare. (Note to those with whom I went to high school- Um, North Street is now gorgeous. And a new stadium seating movie theater? Uh, what? In my day, we went to North Street to get shot and we LIKED it like that.)

I spent a questionable amount of time organizing my parents' medicine cabinet, pantry, and kitchen shelves. There was also a goodly bit of berating on my part for the excess of toothpicks, Worcestershire sauce, and paper goods on their part. Kate and I also cleaned out part of the attic (how else was I supposed to get all of my Barbie doll shoes?) and enjoyed reading things aloud [Me] and throwing empty boxes into empty bags [Kate.]

Here is what I did NOT enjoy: meeting a mouse. A very dead one. (Note- I screamed like a smallish child. I initially thought that my volume had actually killed him. My Dad assured me that screaming did not cause advanced rigor mortis.) And here is what caused the screaming: I almost picked the thing up, thinking he was a shoe or something awesome like that.

He was not.

Based on my reaction, Kate thought I had been stabbed or electrocuted or something worse than having something unpleasant in one's line of sight. Nope. I'm that much of a child.

I have three major fears in my life (okay, more like ten, but for the sake of my pride we'll narrow it down to the biggies): Needles, the Dark, and Rodents. (I'm more into Pills, Nightlights and Cats.) But man, ever since becoming a homeowner and seeing the various critters than plague us here- I'd rather donate blood in the back of a cave than deal with a mouse or rat ever again.

That's all I have to say about that. Except to mention that the offending creature had met his maker between two lamps on the floor. Kate thinks that perhaps he was trying to get warm.

He faaaailed.

Nora was a rockstar on the trip home as well, except for a minor squabble we had in a rest stop- whilst I was holding her, using the facilities, and keeping her away from the floor, the walls, the door or the toilet...and keeping me away from the actual toilet surface as well. (Don't believe this is possible? It is. Until one's daughter has the checkmate of throwing her miniature shoe on the floor behind the toilet. Point to you, Nora.)

I also had the misfortune of total coffee cup failure- in front of witnesses. I had been attempting to refill my travel mug at a BP- sans half decaf, Splenda or anything else that makes my coffee worthwhile- plus a wiggly one year-old in my arms. (The kid, mind you, who had just moments before made me pee on myself in a disgusting stall.) After finally mixing a random assortment of stuff into borderline acceptable coffee, I turned to pay for...whatever it was I had in my cup.

And the BOTTOM of the mug gave out. Not the lid, but the structural stability of the thing itself. I saw P.J.'s jaw drop from across the BP Mart. Thankfully he grabbed napkins to clean up the mess- for I remained frozen, clutching an irate kid to my coffee and pee-stained outfit.

And this was Hour Three.

Nora also survived being placed in a Cold War-era portable crib the night before. She actually looked at me as if to say- That does not seem cool.

But it was, and she was. No fingers were lost, although a good bit of sleep was- after sleeping during the six hours of transit the previous night, she was ready to PLAY. In the dark. At 3am. Peej and I can sleep through that, but I don't imagine the people with whom she shared a wall were able to. Ah well, that's the risk we all take when we reserve rooms at the Microtel. (See: Amorous Activities at the Days Inn.)

And now we're home. The house is surprisingly clean. The kiddo is miraculously sleeping. Not shockingly, we're completely out of food, but that can be amended easily enough. Later.

But for now, there's one track left on this album. Something this non-kid friendly requires a special activity.

The newly re-acquired dollhouse furniture ain't gonna arrange itself.

Don't Mind If I Do.

Jared and P.J. were there, too.

(See what I did there? I do? Get it- weddings? Ah HAH. Marriage humor.)

So Peej and I have just returned from Napa and the glorious wedding of our two pals, Annie and Jared. Here are some summed-up highlights (for to give each terrific day the review it truly deserves would cause Blogger to wonder if they should charge me more):

Our bed and breakfast, the Wine Way Inn, was RAD. We stayed in the Oakville room, there was always a bottle of wine decanted in the sitting area, the breakfast was gourmet and at least eleven courses, we had a private terrace that expanded onto a public terrace that worked its way up to a treehouse, and I got to sleep in as late as I wanted. (Sure, I had bridesmaid-y duties and my internal clock/Mom alarm didn't really allow much more than 8am- but dude! I got to sleep until 8am!!)

The rehearsal and reception took place at Hans Fahden Vineyard. Which is a kinda nice mix of Narnia, Terabithia and a postcard of a vineyard- you know, the type of place you see in an ad that makes you scoff, wondering how daft they think we are that we believe those places exist? (Those places exist!) We rehearsed for the ceremony at a little bend in a rock wall that overlooked a fish pond, vineyards and hills. The gals entered from a covered bridge that was surrounded by some very Alice In Wonderland-y pockets of nature. (The coordinator warned us not to go off of the path, however, since there were some recent rattlesnake sightings. I'm not sure if this was to keep the children in check- or to get me to stop wandering off and babbling about like a loon about the charm. Either way- path= 1, off the path= 0.)

The rehearsal din was at a "beer garden." Except, replace "beer garden" with "magical fairy light secret garden with marscapone thingies on trays!" And guess whose husband decided to try out the ridiculously tall mojito at the bar? That's right, folks. Mine. That started an unfortunate trend of other people trying out the mojito at the bar...and then we had the kind of scene that can only occur when people are drinking really tall mojitos. I've already said too much. But, Point One- the bartender was a member of The Guild. We had no idea what that meant, but it sounded important and we trusted his judgement. And Point Two- there may have been some dancing in the attached bar for Reggae Night, and there may have been a time when I cornered the DJ and informed him that not only did I NOT like reggae (at all) but that I really did kinda want to hear some hair metal and classic rock. Now. I think we all know who won that round.

The AC/DC air guitar champ, that's who.

And now, a side note about Max. He's Annie's three year old nephew (I'm pretty sure he's three.) He's a ball of awesome loaded with sugar and coated with grass stains. Peej and I really dug Max. Here are some of his gems:

-"Is she a boy?" [in reference to a vineyard pup]

-"She smells like FUR!" [happily, in regards to same pup]

-"My BOOBIES are falling!" [racing around the bride's room, in a poor attempt to attach the bride's strapless bra to himself]

-"Not off the path, there are rattlesnakes!" [announced mere seconds before he was to walk down the aisle as a ringbearer, and moments after he announced that he had to pee- badly- and couldn't hold it. They ceremony waited.]

Also worth a side note: Our darling little Aveo. Rental car companies love to give us Aveos. (There are actually only fifteen in the world. We've driven them all.) P.J. made an aside that he loves economy cars- not because they're affordable- but because they're Good For The Environment. Like he's putting the 'eco' in economy. He still hasn't cracked a smile on that one, so I'm only half sure he's kidding. Another clue he may not be into saving the world? As we were leaving San Fran, a guy with a long white beard decided to make his own crosswalk- and Peej muttered that Santa was about get to run over by an Aveo. Oh, we laughed and laughed. (I swear to God he's a good person.)

Back to the romance.

The wedding day was perfection; sunny but not crazy warm, people mostly being where they ought, and a cool as a cucumber bride with a checklist three miles long. And I am not in the least ashamed to admit that, when I saw Annie being walked down the aisle by her Dad, I wept with all the grace of a toddler. There was some sniffling, a snort or two. More than a little runny makeup. I cared not- their vows were beautiful. And having gotten to know the fam and other close friends and seeing EVERYONE react the same way...it was simply a great wedding.

And the reception! After a neato unveiling of the room where we'd be dining- accompanied by Europe's 'The Final Countdown' (Jared! Yes!)- we were escorted into a wine cellar that was outfitted like a different kind of Narnia/Terabithia wonderland. (Clearly, the apex of my happiness can be achieved by simulating children's books.)

Best dinner ever.

Best slide show ever. (Again, more Ugly Crying. What is WRONG with me?)

Best first dance/parents' dance/new friends/old friends/tipsy friends dancing.

Brunch the next day at a spot so pretty that, had I known, I would've camped out with Annie and Jared the night before. (Hi guys!)

And then- AND THEN- OMG vineyards. Like, Napa vineyards. Where they letcha drink the wine. We met up with some darlin' pals at A. Rafanelli Winery and entered with a secret code. (I live for stuff like that.) Not only were we given wine glasses the size of globes and strict instructions to 'catch up,' but we were then taken on a private tour of the rooms where they were pressing the grapes and storing them in 1k apiece oak barrels [Nat: "As you do..."] And we got to taste grape foam! And stick our heads in barrels and almost pass out from a C02 blast that nearly exploded our nostrils! And see the Prohibition Era washbin that started it all! (As another gal on our tour announced tipsily, "It's like Willy Wonka- BUT BETTER.")

And there were more vineyards. And vintage stores. And naps. And dinner at Mustard's, a fancy schmancy bit of awesomeness- which we took to calling Moutarde's- that we discovered on the Food Network. That seems to be our thing, lately. And it was really, really good. All of it. Except, maybe not the girl passed out on the parking lot dividers. She wasn't so awesome. But her friends were there to make sure she wasn't too drunk. And to cheer on the game of some sort they were watching on the bar area's TV. Go sports. 

Of course, we had to have one last drink with the bride and groom- at the site of the first evening's revelry. I had a Diet Coke. This led Annie to believe that I was dying. (She has never seen anything like that in my possession at a bar.) 

When it was time to go, I hugged her for a million years. It hit me that this pal, this terrific friend and massive part of my life, really lived in California now. With her husband. (And their two cats, but that's a different story.) And I was SO excited to be going home to my bitsy gal (whom I missed like an amputated arm- did I mention I cried on the flight out? Maybe I have a hormone imbalance) but the thought of not seeing Annie for every single event in my life, inconsequential or huge, was gonna be HARD. 

But you know what made it easier? Knowing how happy she was. And how well taken care of she was gonna be. And I really can't mention the happy part enough. They're gonna be blissfully married for the rest of their lives and I got to play a small part in it. That's forever, too. And so I'm content and a little weepy and grateful and kinda tired and stoked and fearful of my American Express bill. 

And wondering if I even know the meaning of "summing up."

Cheese Royalty.

The Cheese Queen & Princess.

Our toes are just beginning to thaw, I've got a shelf full of vintage treasures, and I found a cheese curd in my pocket.

We've safely made it back from Wisconsin.

Now, back in the old days, way before I was married to a Midwesterner and was simply a gal from the 413, I couldn't have differentiated between Wisconsin and Iowa on a map. Really. Granted, I'm kinda terrible at geography, but in Massachusetts (a puzzle piece of a state so teensy that you could step back, squint your eyes and pinch it from across the room) all of those states Over There are kind of one big nebulous corn (or cheese) borderin' square. Even the ones that are decidedly not squares.

But I married a Schoeny. And to a Schoeny (or Verkamp, to be fair), Wisconsin is a Narnia/Disneyland combo of epic summer proportions. (And yes, that's 'summer' as a verb.) And I was wholly unconvinced. Until the summer of '07 when, as a fresh-faced fiancée, I accompanied P.J. to a week of family togetherness in neighboring lake houses.

I kayaked every day- at least three times. I pretended to swim- in the way I do that's not actual swimming (I don't even know if I can anymore)- even though I still do not care for the feel of lake bottom on any part of my being. I rode the well-loved and oft-lamented oldie bike Limey. (With our hoodies and bare feet, Peej and I could have been just another two kiddos at camp.) I ate fresh produce and more cheese than was wise. We had bonfires and bottles of wine on the dock, went stargazing and yard-saling. Fireworks were viewed from boats. I found a cove that I pretended to have discovered (though, in all honesty, I do this all over the world.)

In short, I dug the place.

So this past weekend, when we were invited to spend time with P.J.'s Mom, sister and nephew (the guy born just five days before Nora), we were stoked to take our little Bitsy up North.

It was a little colder than it had been a few summers ago- but it just gave me an excuse to break out the baby hats with animal ears. And sure, Nora's lunch one afternoon consisted of me feeding her leftover pizza in the backseat of our car...but I know she had a good time.

The kids attempted to toddle in a pumpkin patch. They crawled on piers (and each other). They shared pack n' play time, all of their toys, and more than a few of their germs (Sorry, Dor.) The grownups shared lovely meals, crisp Fall afternoons, and a spin in the sauna. (I could have happily slept there.)

And we got to go antiquing- one of those clichéd activities that women supposedly love and men are obligated to grumble about. But it's true- I love poking around antique and vintage stores. P.J....tolerates them. Nora thinks they're awesome, but sadly, they do not feel the same way about her. So yesterday, Peej gave me the most fabulous of gifts- he took Nora to go visit some family friends in town...and left me to chill at an antique emporium FOR AN HOUR. (I actually teared up. And my heart palpitated with excitement. Seriously. I've so rarely felt that fondly about another human being.)

And it was great. Overpriced as heck, but great. Especially since I found The Find of All Finds.

Lemme take you back a little- back when I was a kid, I loved having tea parties and using fancy glasses and plates. My mother- possessing a fabulous assortment of such pieces (not to mention the patience required of a mother to a fancy child) let me use these lovely things for special occasions. She also let me arrange her cabinets and ooh and ahh over the very fanciest. (I LOVE to arrange fancy things. Have you seen my dining room? Or living room? Or- heck, the upstairs?)

But there was a set of glassware that trumped everything else. Frosted Libbey iced tea glasses, all with a different brightly-colored carousel animal. A green and black zebra, chartreuse lion, reddish orange giraffe, yellow lion, pink elephant, teal deer...and a red pony. I loved the red pony best- loved it. And I would use these with all of the reverence and care of the queen's finest china.

Until the day that I dropped and broke one.

And it was the red pony.

I cried and cried. I don't even remember my mother being angry with me- I think she knew how heartbroken I was, and that it was an awful punishment to never again be able to hold that wonderful glass. And we moved on (somehow) and she even promised me the set to keep way down the road.

But now, here I was in the antique emporium.

Looking at the red pony on a frosted carousel glass.

And yes, there was also a blue tiger, an orange and tan pony, a pink and red elephant, and an orange and black zebra (how many did they make?)- but I am not even the littlest bit ashamed to admit that I wept in the middle of a Wisconsin antique store. And I called my mother. She was excited (but really, I don't think my level of excitement can be topped by anyone, ever.) And I finally feel like I have atoned for the horrible crime I committed back when I was eight years old.

And I have my red pony back.

Best. Trip. Ever.

And sure, we took a long overdue trip to the Mars Cheese Castle (it is a CASTLE MADE OF CHEESE- you cannot ever begin to convince me differently) and I felt like royalty with my bag of cheese curds...

...but seriously? The trip was made when I found that glass.

For two dollars and fifty cents. The one item in the store not marked for a hundred bucks.

Making it an act of Fate.

Or maybe an act of Wisconsin.

Total amount of sun= two hours. So far.

I am heading down the steps to the beach in a few minutes. For the first time- in direct sunlight- on this vacation. Sure, you say, an overcast patch in your Cape Cod wonderland? Poor things.

Except.

It has been positively Noviembre in general amount of clothiness and blanketude. Non-stop sheets of rain. Temps hovering around 60 degrees- if not lower. No sun-kissed naps here...you know, the kind where you awaken with glowy skin and sparkly mermaid hair? (I know you do.) Nope- the naps taken this week have been the grumpy hibernation type. We've been waking up and squinting into the half light, eating something carby and then wrapping a blanket or towel back around our faces to lay on the couch and challenge one another to yet more games of online Scrabble.

That said, we've all been taking naps. That's a definite vacay plus.

And we've been forcing Nora to better acquaint herself with the ocean- although I can't imagine she's forming any lifelong bonds with rocky, subzero shorelines. She also raged at me when I removed large rocks from her mouth- she thinks they taste like French fries. I think they taste like orthodontics.

In addition, the irony has not been lost on me that we've been using a noise machine in our daughter's corner of the room- set to rain. Against floor to ceiling windows. Being battered by rain.

And those windows were reflecting a crazy amount of harbor lights last night- to combat the foggiest of fogger fog- coming from at least five different lighthouses and beacons along the canal and bay. This, in conjunction with the snoozing light from one Dell, one HP, one iPhone, a Verizon flip phone and a dying Blackberry Pearl, made me feel like I was in Tron.

But this morning we were greeted with a stunning sunrise from our bedroom- the one that possesses three separate ocean views. (Yep, just now realized that.) It's gonna be a good day. Freckles will be frecked. A boat may be liberated. I will probably eat more shellfish than is wise. There is speak of a taco fiesta for dinner.

This is the exact definition of my happy place, even before the tacos. They're just the icing on the [key lime] cupcake.

I am now starving. Okay- pit stop. Snack first, then freckling, then boat-liberating, then snack. Maybe a nap. And no more technology for the day.

For at least an hour.

And Peej may or may not have sunken a dinghy.

It is currently a balmy 63 degrees in Cape Cod.

This is strange for so many reasons:
a) We are at the beach. It should be well over 100 degrees.
b) All summer long- in Chicago, mind you- it's been well over 100 degrees.
c) I only packed halter tops. For Nora.

That said, our digs this week are a stunning "cottage" with three floors of window seats, wraparound porches and mind-boggling amounts of alcohol. Even more mind-boggling is how quickly the supply will be decimated with three sisters, two parents, two husbands, a boyfriend or two and a plethora of pals. (There's also four kiddos, but they aren't hitting the stash yet. Overmuch.)

Nora, for her part, has been chasing her big cousins, shoving objects (sand, shoes, mini front-loader trucks) into her mouth, and passing out each night with a sleepy giggle. She has effectively been aired out.

My new obsession: looking up real-time star charts and pretending to see them in the cloudy sky. P.J.'s? Listening to an CD he found in the TV room called "Angela's Bachelorette." The gentlemen residing here initially hoped for a DVD. No such luck.

I also have my new gadget to keep me outta trouble: a refurbished iPhone 3Gs. This a big deal. A really big deal. I've been a loyal, tried and true Blackberry Pearl user for the past four and a half years. I love the Blackberry Pearl. I love it. Sure, it has a limited capacity for web browsing, memory storage and camera speed. And absolutely, the trackball tends to implode, rendering the entire cell phone a useless mini brick. (But it's so cute!)

Regardless of its shortcomings, I've come to acknowledge the BBerry as a general extension of my right hand. I am disgustingly good at texting on the thing. I ask things of it that it cannot possibly deliver- accurate GPS, an updated blog, etc.- yet, somehow, it does. Slowly, but it does.

But the other day, the trackball on the phone died. Again. Stuck itself so far inside the phone that it became a pebble. And about as helpful as one. Suddenly, I was unable to make calls, answer calls, look up numbers or addresses, text, email, take or receive or view pictures, or do anything generally associated with an actual phone. It became a lovely object with which to thwack things- precisely the activity in which I engaged for the full day I was without any means of communication.

And I was embarrassingly inept at dealing with this. Could. Not. Handle. It.

So I needed a new phone- pronto. Peej thought that I could do without a cell- smart phone or otherwise- for the week we were on vacation. He was sorely mistaken...and won't be making such inane and unhelpful assumptions again any time soon, I promise you this.

And we looked at comparable phones on T-Mobile (which I love) and found that even the nicest ones were iPhone ripoffs- for about two hundred more dollars. So we contemplated the iPhone, even though:
AT&T Has Terrible Reception In Chicago, and
We Don't Need An iPhone, and
The Data Charges Are Crazy, and
It Is Trendy.

But it turned out that it would be cheaper to get a refurbed phone (named The Furb) on a comparable data plan with a phone that- get this- allowed me to ask waaay too much of it, media and communication-wise.

Which is good. And bad.

And very bad.

But I'm in good company. Nothing says Family Time like six Flynns and their various family members attached to a laptop and iPhone apiece. We've actually played word games in person (on paper) and across the room (on Facebook.)

As soon as the sun comes back out I'm sure it'll be a little different.

At least outfit-wise.

That whole "noon" thing was really ambitious.

     This past weekend was a doozy.

     After a slight change in plans allowed me to attend our darling pal Caitlin's going away party at Mrs. Murphy's Irish Bistro (go rock the West Coast, sugar!), Peej, Nora and I left for Indiana eaaaaaarly Saturday morning.

     I'm pretty sure I'm a part time Indiana resident at this point.

     We headed to Bloomington for the wedding of Natalie and Dave- she of my Pilates-classes-gettin'-me-back-into-jeans-without-elastic fame. Also, Peej's high school friend. But I've commandeered her.
     Their wedding took place at the State Forest, overlooking a gorgeous dropoff full of foresty goodness. (Nora was surprisingly good during the service, although she did start singing to herself during the vows.)
     The reception was at the Museum of Art- kinda the most wundy place to have a party, ever, but also a locale where I was terribly afeared for my daughter's tendency to grab/poke/Frisbee things.
     She enjoyed an exceptional cocktail hour supper of canapes, cheese truffles, and some sort of rad sweet pea gazpacho. You know, typical baby food.
     THEN we handed her off to P.J.'s folks- who had driven in from Cincy for some solo Nora Jane time- and they took her back to the hotel to give her lollipops and ponies. (I don't know what grandparents do, but she's always really stoked after spending time with any of the four of them.)

     Seriously, the wedding- and the bride- was stunning. She's the kind of gal whom you look at and say- I could be like that someday.

     If I learned how to really do my hair.

     And wear better clothes.

     And acquire a completely different metabolism.

     Some other notable moments on the [10 hour total time in the car over 29 hours] trip: the extremely mellow group of collegiate kids outside of the Art Museum...on their backs, feet up against the wall, enjoying the atmosphere. Out of their gourds on some sort of substance rarely found in nature.
     Or the ladies who informed me on Sunday morning that Nora had been the prettiest girl at the previous night's event...and when I later found out they had attended the hotel's other wedding. 
     Or the colossal tip the Waffle House staff got after our darling girl tornadoed the facility with waffles, bacon, tomatoes and grits. (She eats everything.)
     Or the Mulch Castle on the side of the road in Indiana. Seriously, a castle with turrets and everything, with each spire full of a different kind of mulch. Stuff dreams are made of. At least mine. Minus the mulch. I don't dream of mulch. But I like reimagining castles.

     Happy Monday, everyone. Hope the week is lovely- enjoy nature and the last few weeks of summer.

     Find a building and lean upside down against it.

     Mood-enhancer optional.

     Nora prefers grits.

And we've listened to Life Is A Highway 89 times. Today.

My daughter is currently snoozing upstairs. Sleepin' the sleep of the completely stoked. The slightly bewildered. The most definitely over-fed.

Let's backtrack a tad.

On Tuesday morning, Peej dropped Nora and I off at O'Hare, the Airport Where Dreams Go To Die. I had decided to wake her up a bit earlier than normal for our 8:30am flight...only to find that she was already awake, happily waving at me over the rail of her crib. Subsequently, she was ready for her first nap, oh, around the time when we were doing curbside check-in. And after getting checked in behind an international family of 22, she was really ready to sleep. Just in time to wait in a security line so long I was certain we were about to board Space Mountain. (But no. Just the ride called Take Off Your Shoes- and The Baby's, Too.) Some kind soul alerted me to the presence of a magical portal called Priority And Family Line. Originally, I had feared that this line would be the 4pm, Bluehair Dinner Special of security lines. (Like at Midway.) Turns out, the "line" entailed a security worker opening a gated-off area and waving us through to the front. (Oh, the looks we got. Suckers.)

The rest of our time in Delayville went surprisingly well. Plantains were consumed and only a moderate (and totally washable) amount was shoved into seatmates' hairlines. Sure, we boarded the plane absolutely last (seating group 5, baby, kinda like how popular partygoers do it), and we ended up in a row of simply horrified passengers. (She's not Godzilla, folks, just a little sleepy.) And sure, Nora ended up flashing me to the 20 year-old college kid seated in the middle. He spent the rest of the trip Averting. His. Eyes. At least when Nora wasn't bodily attempting to adjust his seat and change the channel on his armrest. (I call this kinda treatment "free birth control.")

But then- oh, then!- we got to Boston! And I met Mr. Declan Seamus, who reached the lofty age of four weeks yesterday. And then I ate him, for his cuteness and intense stare made me Feel Feelings.

We have had nothing but fun with my sisters Kate and Em, my bro in-law Tom, the biggies Quinn and Cole, and the bitsy man himself. Nora has not yet lost her wide-eyed and excited stare, nor the crazy chuckle that my family has deemed The Dolphin. She has been sprinted through the sprinkler, dunked in the splash table (her own doing), belly-flopped over an armada of miniature vehicles, and been kissed up like a good luck charm. She has also eaten all of the eggplant parmesan in the county. (Also, the waffles.)

My sister Emily takes care of the dudes a few days a week, but yesterday- her day at the New England Aquarium- Kate and I wrangled four kids, all eighteen months apart. Except for the last two, rockin' a mere eight month difference.

We missed her.

Some gems from yesterday: Cole informed me that he could see through my two layered tank tops. (Those aren't the exact words he used, but this is- somehow- still a family blog.) Quinn told me that my leg felt "sharp" and that I should take care of it, perhaps with "very little scissors." Cole dubbed my phone a WhiteBerry. This moniker just may stick.

And today's favorite: Quinn took some attachments from a breast pump, wrapped them around his neck and attempted to "pump up his face." Sadly, this is not how it usually works, but I totally prefer this usage.

Declan has been staring on, alarmed, while Nora has attempted to jump right into his [occupied] bouncer seat.  Also noteworthy- this is the first time EVER that my 10th percentile daughter looks ginormous against anyone or anything. In addition, her mood is enhanced by the mammoth (and sharp) top right tooth that has finally made a painful appearance.

In short, the noise level is something to behold. And be-hear.

I recall resting my forehead on the kitchen counter right after the kids went to bed. That is the last thing I can distinctly remember- aside from Kate asking me if I was drunk. (No.) Even more seriously, last night was a new episode of Psych. It comes on at 10pm- crazy people- and there was NO WAY that was gonna jive that evening. (As Peej stated, they should watch it an hour earlier, like those in the Midwest. Who hafta get up early for the crops.) It was a smart call, as my dearest darling daughter chose to stir at 10:45pm. And 1am. And be fully awake from 3:30-5am. (Something she has not done since December.) I vaguely remember looking at the clock the first time and being completely wowed that Psych wasn't even DONE yet.

And nothing was even the matter with Nora- she simply wanted to hang out. Which, while normally awesome, was completely and wholly unacceptable. Especially since I have zero NJ backup. And to think- as we drove to the airport I actually felt sorry for P.J.

No Nora snuggles. No shared meals. No early morning diaper changes.

I've essentially given him a no-holds-barred, get outta jail free card kinda week. When he texted me late [early] last night, informing me that he was out for a drink, the venom rays I sent out into the cosmos shoulda felled him like a tree.

Or at least soured his drink slightly.

"I wish I could do this for you," he sadly- or so I thought- told me the day before I left. Meaning take Nora for a week. And sustain all of her dietary needs.

But I can now say with all honesty and none of the schmaltz previously (and bloggily) associated with this phrase...

...Just wait.

I may actually still be in transit. And/or Indiana.

Weekend trips can really teach you a lot. Like about the importance of deep breaths.


For example. Try this li'l exercise:


After watching your husband toss a few outfits into a duffel bag the night before the trip, try-
a) packing your own stuff, 
b) the baby's stuff, 
c) healthy-ish meals for the baby, 
d) junk food for the husband/self/baby if she's feeling really quick, 
e) items forgotten by one's husband, 
f) things the kiddo needs- but still needs for the a.m nap, 
g) new outfit for the baby after lunchtime destroys first one (taking a T.O to do an emergency load of laundry and/or sinkfull of dishes. Maybe two by this point),  
h) set out food and water for the cats, plus enough catnip to dose a jam band, 
i) put on brief, educational DVD for the child in order to facilitate packing of the car, 
j) realize child will likely pass out from rage if she cannot accompany you, 
k) take child with to Pack. Each. Bag. Into. Car., 
l) acknowledge fact that you should have left to pick up the husband- oh, half an hour ago, 
m) forgo shower/non-smushed food/brushed hair/pants, 
n) remove cat from hall closet, 
o) forget to open dishwasher to "breathe," 
p) remember to turn on completely theft-deterring porch light, 
q) strap octopuslike and still inexplicably upset child into her carseat, 
r) reason with said child about how well rested she is, 
s) get a frog in the face for your trouble, 
t) receive jovial message from husband, 
u) plot his demise, 
v) wonder why you bothered with a list AT ALL, 
w) let alone began to pack the night before, 
x) drive downtown through summer construction/lunch rush/filming ofTransformers, 
y) realize you have still YET TO PEE TODAY, and 
z) pleasantly answer the question "How was your morning off?"


And the transit/weekend yielded such questions as whether or not Nora was a) a boy, b) able to eat the food I was giving her, c) three months of age, and d) six WEEKS of age. (Come ON, she has teeth!)

But in Cincy Nora got to play with all seven of the Schoeny cousins- and she could not have been more in love with their faces, their toys and their exotic snacks- and slept like a, well, baby in her private, darkened nursery. With fresh air all around the homestead. And nary a siren nor a Kedzie Avenue.

And I got the distinct joy of realizing that our 12 year-old nephew Tony never misses a blog posting- and votes every day for Top Mommy Blogs [sidebar, by the by], earning him the shoutoutiest shout out ever:(Hi, Tony. Nice divin' at the pool.)

And there were birthday revelings all weekend long for Peej's 40 year-old twin bros. And a pool party.
And a blowup giraffe pool party (the latter of which came back to Chi with us- and which I promise to share with Nora. At least once a week.)

I consider the addition of an animal-themed kiddie pool a plus in the 'weekend success' category, don't you?

Plus Peej's stellar driving skills that returned us to Chi in a timely ['True Blood'-wise] manner.

And all that family bonding time. 

But I'm really excited about the giraffe pool.

The issues seriously do not stop coming.

Bananaversaries are wonderful. And, for the uninitiated- i.e., anyone I'm not directly related to and/or folks that don't have to endure my lax take on the English language- I once gave my sister and bro in-law a card with two dancing bananas. Okay, they may not have been dancing. But they were celebrating an anniversary. Hence, bananaversary.

And that is the only acceptable word for which to describe a milestone in Chez Schoeny. (And Flynn. And Grant.)

So, the bananaverse was lovely. We spent a great, extended weekend in Cincy with Peej's fam; coffee with Dorrie, her pal Bridget and their boys (born the same week as Nora!), an exquisite jaunt to the Gap/Banana Republic/Old Navy clearance outlet in Kentucky (we actually caused a register to sit the next one out), a walk to the farmer's market in Hyde Park Square (where, inexplicably, a woman handed my daughter a hat- from Old Navy, no less), and a positively revelatory Martin Sexton concert, whereupon he played four of my top eight [silently] requested songs. And the day itself? Although not too much like our wedding day; a seven hour trip through the Midwest, lunch at a roadside burger joint in Indiana, a miniature person sporadically screaming her displeasure directly into my nostril...it also wasn't entirely not like our wedding day. Bed by 9pm was a new addition, as were smashed peas in my hair.

Miss N.J. was spoiled beyond recognition by the morning we left for home. Seriously. I think she's bored with just me, as opposed to a household of people exclaiming how perfect she is. She's too polite to ever say so...but still. It's totally the White Elephant in the room.

And now: The Issues.

In Advertising.

First up, we have Captain Morgan. We saw a few billboards on Route 65 for the new "Lime Bite." At first we thought it was just another malt beverage- and, side note: Why are the commercials for these drinks always featuring guys at a bar or a loft party? If you were on a date, say, with a non-heterosexual, fully aged male and he asked for a Zima, or a Smirnoff Ice, or something of that ilk, wouldn't you question his tastes?

I did- er, would.

Sure, they're tasty. And pure sugar. But perhaps revealing that sort of preference should be reserved for a second or third date? In the comfort- and privacy- of one's home? With no other fully aged males around?

But back to the Captain. Lime spiked rum? Really? How hard is it to, you know, spike your rum with lime? There's only one ingredient. (And, if you drank "real" drinks, you'd already have one on hand.) So, for whom are they making this easier? One word: teenagers. Or, two words: tween girls. Leading us to believe that, for all his bravado, Captain Morgan is no better than Tony the Tiger.

Second up: Lanacane Anti-Chafing Gel. Oh...where to start. Here's the copy from the circular:
LANACANE Anti-Chafing Gel
Soothes and Prevents CHAFING (Soreness from skin rubbing on skin and skin on clothing)
ANTI-FRICTION FORMULA (Dries On Contact)
FEELS SILKY (Long-Lasting Comfort)
NON-GREASY (Non-staining, Moisture-Proof)

The ad features a slightly larger than average middle-aged woman. Dancing. Happily. Lifting her skirt, even. To twirl? To show off her non-raw thighs? Who knows.
Directly behind her is a girl, jogging, elbows asunder, gleefully living the chafe-free lifestyle. Or she could be running towards the dancing woman.
Which is clearly what the slightly larger than average middle-aged man next to Jogging Girl is doing. Or dancing. Poorly. But chafe-free as well. He could be looking for a new dance partner. Or he could simply be drawn towards the woman's loose morals and/or chafe-free thighs which are on display for the entire Greater Chicagoland area to see.
Maybe Jogging Girl is their daughter.
Perhaps they have bigger familial issues than whether or not one's thighs are rubbed raw in the day to day lascivious lifestyle this woman is clearly leading.
And maybe if she's so concerned about receiving an entire day's worth of relief from a body part touching another body part (and unless she's competing in a dance marathon), she should just sit down.

And finally, speaking of advertising, shameless self-promotion, and websites (clearly, you enjoy a good website or two): might I ask that you take a gander towards the Top Mommy Blogs button on my sidebar? It takes two clicks: one on the button, one to vote for me. No email addy required, no spam, nothin' but good, ol' fashioned appreciation in anonymously bloggy form.

It's actually pretty misleading. One doesn't have to be a Mommy Blogger to be featured on that site. Or even "Tops." But I do have the goal of making it to the top five humor blogs on their page (I dream so, so big.)

You can click once a day, if you'd like. Twice a day (or more!) from separate computers or various handheld-y objects. But actually, if you have all this extra cash to throw around on multiple means of communication, I'm not above receiving monetary appreciation, either.

Totally your call.

Or you can say it with ponies.

I can't drive 55.

...But apparently, neither can the state of Michigan.

This past weekend Annie and I surprised our excellent pal, massage therapist extraordinaire and partner-in-crime since 2002 (Annie and Kat go further back, but we're gonna go by my timeline, here) with a superbly awesome girls' getaway trip to Harbor Country, Michigan.

I had never thought about Michigan in that way, before.

I have been a fool.


For starters, we sent Kat a text on Thursday afternoon, saying she'd receive instructions the following night. An actual reply text: "I get INSTRUCTIONS? Like, go to the graveyard. Bring pennies and string. Tell no one?"

I replied that apparently she no longer needed instructions.

But the following night we told her to pack a bag with a few different types of outfits and to be ready the next morning at 10ish. When we picked her up and she tossed her bag in the trunk, she seemly awfully surprised that WE had weekend bags in there, too. (I guess one of our closest friends thinks that a "birthday surprise weekend" entails us dropping her off somewhere, alone.)

We crossed into Indiana. She seemed even more surprised. But when we hit Michigan her responses turned supersonic. "Two state lines!" We wondered to ourselves if maybe we should've checked with her parole officer. Or Annie's. (I don't have a parole officer. I've never been caught.)

Ninety miles outside of Chicago proper is the town of Sawyer, Michigan, quite possibly the cutest place ever. As we pulled into the Rabbit Run Inn, we were greeted by three dogs peering out of the "office" half door. One was a greyhound. I love greyhounds. Our room was called The Seagrass Room and it was downright decadent. It had a private porch that overlooked the koi pond and the grounds. It was a short walk to the beach. (Also, to the neighbors' property where they seemed to be having a rip roaring time until- oh, two in the morning. There was a bonfire and a spirited game of what Annie errantly called 'bunghole.' "I knew it was wrong!") And now it is in print.

The vineyards- oh, the vineyards. I had mistakenly believed that nothing amazing could come from a Midwestern winery, when in fact I sampled what may be the BEST PINOT NOIR EVER at Domaine Berrien. Also, a Viognier. And a nice table red. Also- the Cabernet Franc. And something with a 'G.'

After enjoying the tasting room, we bought a bottle, some cheese, crackers and tapenade and stayed awhile on their lovely deck overlooking the vineyard and pond. (What is it with Michigan and ponds? Also- hanging plates on the wall. In the inn, the wineries, the diner- the gas station. Decorative plates.) This part of the day was especially  fabulous, as the weather was in the 70s and, well, we were sitting on a winery deck with wine and cheese and each other. Even better was when a huge gust of wind blew the napkins and plates off of the table, forcing Annie to jump up and 'rawr' after them like an impressive Velociraptor. She got them all! And I almost fell out of my chair.

Next was the Round Barn Winery, up the road in an actual Amish barn. There was a tasting bar that encircled the entire structure- and it was elbow to elbow with people when we arrived. It took a soft-spoken Brit (Annie) to get space at the bar for her friends who were content to sit on the ground (Keely and Kat.) The deal at the Barn was that for 7.50, one would buy their tasting glass- and they would FILL IT with no less than five types of wine, one dessert wine, a vodka sample or martini AND you'd get a beer token to take to the adjacent beer barn. (They had a beer barn, too!) My samples included a Blanc de Noir (we all decided this was an excellent New Year's Eve wine), a lovely Riesling (for some reason my tasting notes on this one stated that "Annie has a crisis"), a Gewurztraimer (excellent with Mexican cuisine, forcing me to exclaim rather loudly that I was looking for a good taco wine), a Cranberry wine ("Is this alcoholic?" "No, but I think we kinda are"), a sweet Redel Doux (Kat- "I feel like someone just shoved a grape straight up my nose." However, I bought a bottle), and the Apricot dessert wine ("This tastes great but smells like cleaning products." "It really does!"). Then they gave us a sample of their vodka- made from grapes!- mixed into a martini with their cranberry wine. I didn't know you could do that! It was really, really good. Kat said it was Darwinism in a glass. I don't remember why she said this, but it was really apt at the time. And we laughed. A lot.

Once at the beer barn, I got a cocoa stout, I think Annie got an IPA and Kat ordered the mother-pucker (oh, you guys) which was a sourish beer that Kat could not drink, as she's allergic to hops. So we drank it! Happy birthday, Kat!

Back to the Inn to sit on our porch and stare at the koi pond. I took a break to pump (sorry, but this was a big ol' subplot of the weekend- Kat and Annie frequently acknowledged the rhythmic sounds and compared it to various animals having little animal issues.) THEN we got all dressed up and went to Tabor Hill Vineyard for dinner. Since we had missed a tasting at this winery, we each got two separate glasses with dinner and shared them about. I started with the Cab Franc rose with our incredible appetizers of polenta fries with white truffle oil dipping sauces AND a smoked salmon flatbread, and moved on to a Classic Demi Sec (Bob Hope's favorite! That sure is why I ordered it!) with my rad dinner of tempura lobster in nori. We also got this really cool side dish of "potato salad" that was anything but- sliced and friend potatoes, slivers of green beans, blue cheese, a vinagrette...and some other awesome stuff. (I actually brought that back to the room and ate it for breakfast with a spiced muffin.)

Perhaps the best part of the dinner, though? The 17 year-old busboy who simply could not stop hitting on us. I say this with all modesty. Really. I think he would've hit on the chairs had we vacated them. It started with pouring glasses of water and telling us "what a treat it was to see three beautiful smiles" that night. Aw, we thought. Aren't you cute. Next go-round was a comment that we seemed like a lot of fun. Yes, yes we do. And then he casually dropped the fact that he got off at ten! I almost offered to drop him off at the sitter's house.

However. Incredible meal. We capped off the evening by taking two bottles back to the Inn for our "evening." Okay- proof that we are no longer 24? We only got through one of the bottles, decided that the porch was "too chilly" and passed out in our beds, tucked in and with jammies by 1am. Sure, there was some concern regarding a lamp "we'd hafta keep an eye on" and at one point I laughed until I almost peed (it really wouldn't be one of my stories without it), but for the most part it was pretty tame.

And I slept! Sure, I woke up around 4:45am just to look at the clock (apparently Nora woke up in Chicago around then, too) and then every half hour, just to peer at the clock and acknowledge that it was, in fact, okay to be sleeping. Still counted as a great night's sleep- on an insanely comfy bed. I may or may not have starfished out into Annie's territory (I was snuggling!) but she's too polite to mind.

The next morning we went to the Blue Plate Cafe for brunch- I ordered the smoked salmon and bagel (it was whole wheat- "That's all we have, I think") and it came scrambled up in eggs. Which was not previously mentioned. But it was fine. (I'll admit it- I'm a breakfast snob. My parents and their restaurant have ruined me with awesomeness.) We had a very earnest waiter that I nicknamed 'Earnest.' He was all about being a waiter. It was appreciated.

And then antiquing! Which truly gives a new meaning to the term Adult Weekend. I bought Peej a squirrel doorstop (for our bedroom door that slams whenever an upstairs window is open) and an antique brass door knocker with various keys on the ring. Quite cool- and not a little bit Jacob Marley. Annie started a teacup collection. With one teacup. But it's an excellent start. I had Antiques Regret as we pulled away from the second shop- there had been this vintage green "lizard skin" handbag with a funky handle that I coveted (the tag read Genuine Reptile(!!)- but at 65 bucks, we had to love from afar.

And then homeward bound. It was a fabulous weekend- but I was superbly excited to see my li'l miss, home with her Dad. I had been extremely nervous about leaving her, even for 28 hours, but they were fine, I was fine, the pump was fine, the bottles of wine in the trunk were fine...

...and somehow, turning 30 seems fine. I think the three of us are ready.

(In two months.)

Y2k10! That seems more like a 'captcha' than a 'year.'

In honor of the impending new year- and in consideration of the wee babe in an aquarium bouncer by my knee- I shall jam out a brief review of the year that was '09:

January- We failed to buy a house. This was sad. I began taking Pilates lessons to combat the "extra ten pounds"- ha HA. (I would KILL for an extra ten pounds right now. Well, not exactly. Rather, I'd kill to only have ten pounds to lose. If I had to lose the baby weight on top of an extra ten pounds, I might actually kill someone BECAUSE of it. Maybe we should forget the ten pounds altogether.)

February- I became pregnant! Although, since I didn't find out until it was almost MARCH, maybe we should place this sentence in next month's blurb. (This could explain why it was really, really difficult to lose the aforementioned never-to-be-mentioned again ten pounds.) Traveled to Boston for my nephew Cole's first birthday and came back to a week where the temp surged to 70 degrees, only to be immediately followed by -30. Thanks, Chi.

March- Realized I was pregnant. Had fun with that for awhile. Immediately changed plans from "Napa trip" to "San Francisco trip." (Less vineyard-pressure.) Threw the annual St. Patrick's Day Party O' Corned Beeves. Also may have let slip the fact that I was pregnant to fifteen of my closest friends. Here's a fun way to see if you've got a "social drinking" problem: if you fail to pour yourself a drink at your own party and people ask you every ten minutes WHY you're not drinking, you may have a social drinking problem.

April- Spent a goodly bit of this month gripping the couch, housing Italian ice, lemonade, tacos and onions, marathoning Law & Order and Harper's Island. But the beginning of the month? Oh my- I hugged Scott Bakula. Hi-fived Donald Bellisario. Won an international novella competition. Rode a bike across the Golden Gate Bridge and almost yuked over the side of the Alcatraz ferry. Best month of '09 (so far.)

May- Jaunted back to Massachusetts for a weekend of pretending I attended Harvard/Williams with Rachel/Emily (and Kate- woo, college!) Nothing like pretending to be an undergrad with two little dudes in tow and one obviously preggo twenty-something. Then, upon my return, P.J. and I purchased a house that may or may not have been haunted. Also celebrated our first anniversary! And they thought we'd never make it...(Who's been saying that?! Stop it.)

June- Turns out, it wasn't haunted. Just falling apart. But once we made the decision to replace the boiler, water heater, roof, appliances, light fixtures and five of the windows, WE WERE REALLY IN BUSINESS. Also, this was my birthday month. And the month where we saw the 20-week ultrasound of OUR CHILD kicking, flipping and opening a terribly wide mouth. We also went to Myrtle Beach with P.J.'s family, where I had the distinct pleasure of scaring a group of hoodlum teens into permanent celibacy. (What the heck was I thinking? A red-checkered tankini, while sweetly "country" on a toddler, looks positively "picnic table" on a pregnant adult.)

July- Bought a car! Signed the papers on the house! Had my parents come for a week to fix...everything...in the new house. Moved into the house with the help of Peej's dad. Realized that the new master bedroom had neither mastery nor a bed. (Or a window that would allow "air" to "circulate.") Cried.

August- Had a superbly fun baby shower in Pittsfield, MA, thrown by my Mom & sibs. Enjoyed floating in the pool like a beached whale and eating about thirty of my favorite dishes that my Mom kept placing in front of me. Back in Chi, built a bed in the sweltering heat of my "master" bedroom. Later that night went to the premiere of my one-act at 20% Theatre's 'Snapshots' Festival. (Yes, I HAVE been writing, thankyouverymuch. Practically every month at Chicago Dramatist's Instant Theatre, where I am allowed the exquisite joy of being the most pregnant woman in the room and thusly the recipient of the most "pity clapping." I care not.) Also, this was the month where a man FINALLY came and removed our wedged sectional sofa from the stairwell. With a saw! It took its rightful place in the living room, freeing up the stairwell for such important tasks as "allowing passage up the stairs."

September- Had a terrific Chicago baby shower, thrown by my Mom-in-law and attended by my Midwestern besties, my Mom and my big sis. Less awesomely, sat through four of the scariest childbirth classes known to [wo]man, due in no small part to the extremely graphic videos depicting the majesty of labor and delivery. And the entirely unnecessary bit on c-sections? NO, THANK YOU.

October- Had a c-section. Turned out to be a small price to pay to get to KEEP this glorious little gal, Nora Jane Schoeny. The wily, wedged-one was born in the same month as her Daddy (two days apart!), which will forever go down in history as the Best. Month. Of. My. Life.

November- Began considering this month for nomination as Best Month as well. Took more naps and watched more episodes of "The Office" than ever before. Kissed my child perhaps too much. Enjoyed visits from my folks, Peej's folks, my big sis, and a slew of fabulous friends bearing meals, Starbucks, books & toys. (And some were for Nora.) Attended a reading of one of my plays, produced by 20% Theatre...and gave the least intelligible "talk back" afterwards. My mind was NOT on star-crossed lovers and bantery humor, but instead on a pint-sized ball of grins and snuggles that I left at home with her Dad, LESS THAN A MILE AWAY. (So what if I cried? It's the hormones. I will rock this excuse until her wedding.) Held a real Thanksgiving. Cooked a turkey. Panicked. Succeeded in not burning the house down nor tweaking out my child. Subsequently amended my standards of "success."

December- Prided myself on successful car trips and flights with my infant, not to mention exceptional visits with both sides of the fam for Christmas gloriousness. Ate more than was wise, slept more than was expected. P.J. and I enjoyed the heck out of our first holiday season in Chicago with the gal (who are we kidding? We enjoy EVERYTHING with her now.) And to all the folks who paraded the pre-baby "enjoy it now" mantra around like a...parade, I can honestly say that I don't remember having this much fun when I was left to my own singular devices. (Except for maybe that one time. But this is a family blog.)

And to the year that brought me a successful first year of marriage, house, trips around the country, car, kiddo and a few writing acknowledgements- thanks.

Hopefully 2010 will bring glorious things as well: an end to that SMELL in the downstairs pipes? A cease-and-desist for the neighbors- the puking on the stoop one with the slight drinking problem and/or the seventeen-year old autistic dude who is simply IN LOVE with Peej? A bit o' cash for the writing ventures?

Dream big.

(Happy New Year!)

Eight weeks! Also, Christmas Eve! Also, naptime.

Being home is fun.

Take, for instance, the bonding, the "face time" that you get when sitting next to your big sister, also updating her blog. On warring laptops. It's this kind of togetherness that warms the cockles of my heart. So does her blog. [ www.grant-wishes.com ] Also, what's a cockle? Is it like a ventricle? Do those need warming? Discuss.

So. New England. The holidays. The holiday TRAVEL. The holiday travel over-packing. Why does Nora need her own full size suitcase? She barely has hands, does she really need multiple mittens? Let alone four different blankets? (Nap, bedtime, travel and play? Okay, fine. Yes.) I was worried about taking her through the airport and the crazy amount of time it would take to prove that she was under the age of two (an actual airline concern) and that she wasn't concealing anything under her pointy elf hat.

However, from the moment we stepped outta the car for curbside check-in to the moment we got to the gate: 25 minutes. And for all of the hilarious moments I was PLANNING to blog about concerning a traveling infant? They never occurred. Smooth sailing. (Damn you, Midway efficiency!) When we got to the airport, I expected a madcap scramble to check the bags. Nope. There were five people in line ahead of me and they oohed over Nora's Santa hat (as planned- never underestimate the benevolence that holiday-esque newborns evoke.) P.J. had to park the car, leaving me with Nora in a sling, a carry-on bag, and a piece of luggage in each hand. Something hilarious HAS to happen here, right? A skycap took my bags and wished Nora a happy and safe flight. Hmm.

Tickets in hand, we got into the Family & Medical security line (this hurt my soul, personally. I have been an Expert Traveler for as long as the term has existed.) I planned on hanging out, screaming child stuck to me, for at least three hours. Five minutes later, I removed my boots and carried a sleeping baby through security. (I DID have to remove her from her sling and they DID have to squeeze the tip of her hat- I removed the baby sized derringer moments before.)

Carried her to the gate, preparing for a crushing crowd of irate travelers. I was guided to a comfy seat and was soon regaled by VICTORIAN CAROLERS. They called Nora "darling" and "so Christmassy." They were correct.

The flight was delayed, due to the lateness of our flight crew. Okay, NOW it was gonna get ugly, right? An hour later, Nora was still sleeping and the arriving flight crew was APPLAUDED. We boarded in the family section (Group A and half, baby!) and settled into the easiest, quietest flight in the history of Southwest Airlines.

That'll teach me to travel during the holidays.

And now, a slice of Christmas Eve afternoon in the Flynn household of Pittsfield, Massachusetts:

Emily and P.J. walk back into the house from running errands in my mother's car. Emily informs my mother that Peej filled the tank on the way home.

"He didn't have to do that," my mother exclaims, full of Christmas spirit towards her second son-in-law.

"The light was on," Emily says.

"Oh. I guess maybe he did."

Laughter abounds in the living room, and a few chuckles are heard in the kitchen as well.

"Don't put that in the blog," my mother scolds me.

Rachel dances into the room, singing 'Police Navidad.' P.J. hands me a Ritter Sport candy bar, under the guise of getting me a treat at Target. He's just biding his time until he can gracefully steal it back. Emily is eating something unidentifiable and commenting harshly on reality television. I think my Mom just asked if something was Rachel's "personal seltzer." It may have been seltzer. There's a very good chance that "Chasing Liberty" will be played for the second time in 24 hours. Nope. It's "White House Christmas." Much more holiday-appropriate. Kate is still blogging her "daily updates." She's up to December 21st. My daughter is sleeping in my mother's arms- my mother asked if kissing Nora would wake her. Yes. She kisses her anyhow. (The baby has recently been bathed. This is powerfully magnetic.) Tom has walked through twice in his runner's tights. He doesn't like when we call them tights. Em just said something unrepeatable about a Christmas tree on TV. Quinn and Cole are still sleeping upstairs, after an hour long battle with their beds, each other, and Auntie Rachel (the turning point- "Auntie Rachel, I like your nose.")

"Don't put the thing about gas in there. I mean it."

And tonight we put out our first presents from Santa Claus, ever. Does this mean that I'm officially an adult? Or just Santa?

Nora has been so good and we can't wait to spoil her with presents.

Hint- One's a large stuffed otter.

As three-year old Jack tells me- "Sleep in heavenly peas. Like the kind in your macaroni."

(Merry Christmas!)

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

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

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

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

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

"She's lonely."

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

I will let that sink in.

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

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

Yep.

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

No one laughed.

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

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

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

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

At least she's not Slimey.

Wanna come see my MacLaren?

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

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

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

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

"Nope."

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

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

Bored gave way to irate.

"4330 N. Troy?"

"4338."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least not that day.

Anyone have a Tums?

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

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

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

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

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

"That sounds fun. Go nuts."

"I'm not going to work anymore."

"Yes you are."

"I won't sign."

"You already did, Mrs. Schoey."

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

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

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

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

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

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