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

Nora is currently not speaking to me.


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


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


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


I'd ignore me, too.


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


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


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


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


Okay. We'll be okay.


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


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


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


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


SO.


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


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


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

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


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


Happy Thursday.

Non-heathen baby? Check.

Nora Jane was baptized yesterday and she was kinda okay with it.

Kinda.

Actually she was superb during the processional (yep, she got to proCESS) and great through the readings and the homily.

And then she woke up.

To be fair, she couldn't have been the comfiest of gals. She wore the Schoeny family lace christening gown, complete with Puritanical eyelet bonnet (as my sister Rachel exclaimed- "I saw Goody Proctor with the devil!") and there were more than a few itchy, constricting layers. And turns out, she does NOT care to have water splashed on her head, nor oily crosses traced on her forehead. She expressed this displeasure by screeching and sobbing for the rest of mass. My mother said it was the Holy Spirit entering her. My mother is kind.

The service was nice and it was a delight to see everyone who came to watch. (I realize that 'delight' is rather a rather dusty term, but that's what it was. Delightful.) I had a good time watching my sister Kate (and Nora's godmother) pretend to be cool with a Catholic ceremony- my family's Protestant- and as she put it, "fake her way." God didn't strike anyone down, so I think everyone was easy like Sunday morning with it. (See what I did there?)

I did, however, express joy at seeing someone in the congregation by making the 'rock on' sign at them. You know, the ol' devil horns? (Again, nothing happened- we must be cool.)

Another moment etched into my memory will be the image of P.J.'s ol' roomie Nick (and former groomsman- it's pretty much the same cast of characters, like a Christopher Guest movie) taking photos on the altar after the ceremony. With the priest. Directing the priest. Repeatedly. ("Father, I need you to step down and go beside Keely. No, can you scoot over more?")

Again, no Heavenly displeasure was shown.

When we got home (you know, to the after party?) I changed Nora into her party gown- a silk kimono, of course. Why, what did YOU wear to celebrate your baptism? It was a hand-me-down, but still uber fancy. Basically we went from Kelly McGillis in 'Witness' straight to "Memoirs of a Geisha."

And Nora got some sweet loot from the party! (Had I but known what a cash cow the "christening" could be...) Among them were items of bling that I'm "keeping safe" for her, enough puffy bibles and children's stories to open our own Vatican library...and a mammoth-sized giraffe. Yes. Not exactly life-sized, but closer to an actual giraffe than any standard stuffed animal size. We've decided to keep it in the front window. That way, any crazies on our street (and oh, WILL THEY EVER be emerging from hibernation shortly) will think that a) someone is doing a spiffy neighborhood watch or b) the Loch Ness monster is alive and well and in the Midwest.

That was the second Loch Ness post I've ever made on this blog. This is at once funny and sad. We can do better.

And now, if I may, a little commentary on the Olympics' closing ceremony?

What the heck happened?

It was all well and good until Shatner decided to be all, well, Shatner about his speech- and I'm sorry, light comedy does NOT play well in ice arena. They might be laughing...but you'd never know it! (And they weren't laughing.)

And Michael Buble. Which, at first, we didn't realize WAS Michael Buble. Except for the voice. As Rachel said (she was highly quotable this weekend) "That's either a very talented Mountie, or Michael Buble is wearing a stupid outfit." The latter! Suddenly it was a stereotypical 1940's Canadian radio hour. You know, the kind that Canada made famous.

And then...then...a kind of poor man's Macy's parade/Chutes n' Ladders/acid trip where what may have been actual Mounties "performed." (Rachel- "If they start dancing, they're not real Mounties."/"No, they must be real Mounties- if they were performers they'd be dancing better.") And the giant moose and beaver! They had sweet faces, sure, but I did not get it. I think Canada just spent the entirety of their tourism revenue on this IceCapade rave.

We also decided that whatever the heck going on with the gigantic butterfly/Little Mermaid/pod people redheads suspended 400 feet above the ice were SCARY (and the one with the crazy close-ups was clearing dating a cameraman) and we all feared for the kid dressed as a giant hockey puck.

And whatever was supposed to happen with the end of Michael J. Fox's routine DID NOT happen. C'mon, A/V Club! Fail. Alex P. Keaton is being charming and Canadian! You let us ALL down.

And pretty much, that's what happened with the Olympics. I think. Although I don't believe that watching a half hour of the closing ceremony makes me an athletic expert. Or even an athletic supporter. (Ha- see what I did there?)

Now I'm off to shove all the glittery plastic flatware back into the dining room, wash n' dry a small mountain of infant party outfits, eat a second cheddar chive scone (my current raison de bread) that was leftover from the party...and nap with my holiest of holy daughters.

Happy four month birthday, Nora Janie! We love you to the moon and back...even without the slick duds and rockin' ragers.

That's what parents do.

Oh boy OH BOY!

After the psychotic terror of last week's escapade, I think I was due for some good luck. And what's luckier than someone else cleaning your house?

NOTHING!

I've always [since 1988] been excellent about keeping a room/ bed/ secret-detective-office, etc/ decently clean. I still do. But there's just something about that one area of the bathroom/kitchen/couch that always needs cleaning. And you always clean it. But every now and then (say, every five months or so) that you have an stark realization: if you must scrub that one terrible locale once more this week you will go frothingly mad.

And so you call in the experts. And they make your house look like the cover of Real Simple, Martha Stewart Living, even the Target circular. And things feel manageable again. For the next five months.

And Mom- I totally get it now. The pre-clean before the cleaning ladies arrive? I get it. When I was twelve I totally had a field day with this one- why should I have to clean if we're paying someone else to do it once a month? Maybe I should get paid!

No. I shoulda shut the heck up and moved my porcelain dolls. The idea of the person I hired not being able to clean every inch of dusty, spitty-uppied space is horrifying. I WILL MOVE THE SINK IF SHE NEEDS ME TO.

And my house is currently being cleaned. Which is why I am deliriously happy and incapable of the type of ire usually associated with Thursday posts. Okay, usually Monday is the bitter day. But I really really can't do it now.

Especially since Nora has recently started doing these gleeful belly-laughs accompanied by face-splitting grins. Really levels the playing field, mood-wise.

SO.

What do you wanna talk about?

How about the other night when I was putting Nora down for a nap? As I came back out into the hallway I smelled the unmistakable scent of men's aftershave. And not P.J.'s. (He occasionally wears Obsession, which I am not at all ashamed to admit- I am obsessed with. The irony is not lost on me.)

My FIRST thought- of course- is that we were haunted. (Why is that always my first thought? One of these days I'm actually gonna be haunted and then I'll be all like- this is NOTHING like what I was fearing. What a weirdo I've been!)

My SECOND thought- of course- was that P.J. would return home and think I had been cheating on him. (What is up with my linear thinking these days? Okay, fine. Years.) And I would certainly hope that P.J. would immediately know I could NEVER be with a man who smelled like dime-store eucalyptus. And, you know, that I loved him best.

I did what I usually do when things tweak me out: my mind plays possum with the idea and refuses to resurface until the following night.

I mentioned it. Casually.

"Oh," he said without blinking. "New AirWicks in the hall. Eucalyptus."

Ok, ONE) it never even crossed your MIND that it might be someone's signature scent/we're haunted? TWO) Why are you going and all changin' up the AirWicks? We're a strict lavender/apple cinnamon household! THREE) Thanks for refilling the AirWicks.

Also.

Children's programming- more dangerous than we had previously thought? Discuss.

I'll start. Now, some of you may know that I have a very real and very visceral reaction to the KidzBop(!) compilations. The commercial for the newest one, I believe it's number 17 (Good God), is currently airing. The track listing is INCREDIBLE. "Use Somebody" by Kings of Leon? Really? How about "Say Hey (I Love You) by Michael Franti? I adore this song. But there is definitely a line in there about 'druggies on the corner' and how they're 'calling [his] name.' And something a little unclear about 'ghetto games.' And how about Paparazzi? There is seriously some adult content going on around here. Singing them in high-pitched tones does not make them Disney. (Although, admit it- who among you played around with audio speed to make your favorite songs sound all Chipmunky as a kid? No?)

Also.

Have you watched the Noggin channel lately? The kiddos for whom I nanny dig a bunch of the shows, but I must ask- why the show disclaimers? I guess 'disclaimers' might be the wrong word, but there is definitely a thing before each show that says what each one provides, i.e. "Go, Diego, Go" teaches kids Spanish, problem-solving skills and educates them about the rainforest. Have they always done this? To whom are they preaching? You've clearly already DVR-ed that thing and have pressed play. It was gonna be watched. Maybe it's meant to be a "You're a great nanny and parent, go ahead, let them watch 25 minutes of TV. It's fine." Which is all well and good...except then I start to wonder why they're trying to allay my guilt. And then I get all defensive. Who are they to tell me what to do with my guilt? Maybe the kids shouldn't be watching a show right now, don't tell ME it's fine, this is the second show they've watched today and they're crabby to begin with! Great, fine, kids, turn off the TV, we're gonna papier-mache. THANK YOU, DIEGO PROGRAMMERS.

And then I weep and then the kids turn on a show for me.

Maybe Nora and I should unplug for the rest of the day. Maybe go all Laura Ingalls Wilder and read aloud by candlelight. Sure, it's the middle of the day and bright as anything...maybe just a blanket tent.

Can't touch the furniture, after all. I'm afraid to mess anything up.

Best. Fear. Ever.

Not for the faint of heart.

Remember that hilarious post about the rats in the wall? And how they'd soon "take care of themselves?"

Optimistic homeowners are completely blitzed on stupidity.

Lemme paint another picture:

Friday night= fabulous! Had a good friend over for some tacos and baby-snuggling. Mario Kart Wii was involved, as was The Soup, a lovely Zinfandel and a minimum of scratching in the walls and floors.

Saturday= just as grand. Breakfast, home renovations, more baby-snuggling, some quality television and again, an absence of scratching.

HOWEVER. I jetted out to Target for some [at the time] super-important supplies. Was gone less than an hour. Stopped at Walgreens on my way home and called to check in with Peej and the Little. P.J., thinking I was in the garage, walked into the kitchen to peek out the back window. Turned around.

SAW A RAT BUTT SCURRYING UNDER THE OVEN.

Was quiet on the phone.

I asked what was the matter.

Still quiet. Then...

"Keel? I think I saw something."

Silence.

"A...thing?"

"A butt go under the oven."

"A rat butt?"

Silence.

After a cartoonish frozen moment in the middle of the Walgreens photo department, I alternated between insurmountable horror at the idea of facing my biggest ever fear AND the throat-gripping panic at the notion of my baby being IN THAT HOUSE. And, you know, Peej.

I dropped my purchases and ran. Upon entering the house I saw P.J. holding the baby waaaay up high and brandishing multiple household weapons with the other. He was also on the phone with the exterminator and pacing the kitchen with his eyes never leaving the oven.

"Should I-"

"I'm on it," he said with that edge in his voice. You know that edge. The one that justifies the use of all-caps in his name? That one. ("Get in the house" and "These are two-for-one in the circular" are also indicative phrases.)

I took the baby and acted like one myself for a good half hour. P.J. wanted to head out immediately to Home Depot and get enough traps to fell a bear- but I didn't want him to go yet. And since it was so close to Nora's bedtime (and since she'd been sick) I didn't want her to spend the next hour or so in the car- I was ready to CAMP OUT in the car, but we must think of the child.

And then we got the mail.

And Nora's social security card came finally, and P.J. wanted to add her info to our tax return...and then we realized we'd get an extra 1k back just for having a kid!

But back to the rat.

P.J. was about to head out to the store when I ventured back into the kitchen for- something. My mind was promptly erased.

Because.

The rat, the one who hated the light, wouldn't be around people, who certainly wouldn't make an appearance twice in one night...was standing in front of the dishwasher.

I am not ashamed to admit that I shrieked like the woman in the Tom & Jerry cartoons. Except louder and with more counter-jumping.

THING WAS HUGE.

P.J. found me in record time.

"I knew exactly what it was when you screamed," he told me. (I can't imagine what other kind of catastrophic house event would have happened in the same hourlong span- but then again, maybe I shouldn't venture there with this house.) He stuffed a beach towel underneath the oven- this should either deter the thing or keep it cozy.

So THEN P.J. left for Home Depot, leaving me with Nora. I got her pajama-ed and fed (with a broom, steak knife and hammer within arms' reach- not TOO close, mind you, I am always aware of my child's safety.)

He made it back in record time. He also stopped for a pizza. We hadn't eaten in ages and CERTAINLY were not about to cook. It was half pineapple, half pepperoni and black olives. Exceptional. But who had time to enjoy it? We had a sting operation to prepare.

By this time Nora was asleep in her bed (God knows how with her stressed, amped-up parents emitting vibes that could power a small town) and I was free to, you know, "assist."

P.J. began laying out glue traps in the perimeter of the kitchen (while I stood on a stool and wielded a hammer- helpfully)...and then we began to hear a familiar scratching sound under the kitchen sink. (Is this house made of swiss cheese? Discuss.) Our crackerjack team of kittens were suddenly on the job. However, they had to sit this one out- locked in a bathroom. After all, glue traps are not a cat's friend...and any rat that makes three appearances in two hours is most certainly damaged in some capacity. Bean has enough constitution problems.

So, after making sure that the child and the animals were protected at all costs, P.J. began the fun task of pulling items out of the cabinet one by one. (I think our original "plan" was that the rat would kinda jump out onto the glue traps by himself. This did not happen.) Once the cabinet was cleared of anything, including rat, P.J. lined even MORE glue traps near the hole around the pipe fitting. (Oh, so holes "let in" rats? Gotcha. Also- by this point the rat could've done a sweet art project with all the glue. Or maybe re-tiled the under-sink area.

Peej closed the glue-trappy cabinet. We sat back to wait.

Not five minutes later the scratching at the door began again, this time accompanied by a thud that sounded an awful lot like a gluetrap stilt. This when it got interesting.

P.J. instructed me to leave the room (I love him so much) so he could sweep the critter into a bag and carry him outside.

Except.

The cabinet has a wooden lip that prevents glue traps from being swept anywhere. P.J. was gonna hafta lift the thing up.

Except.

It was hissing. (Wouldn't you?) After various attempts at thwacking the corner of the trap to get it to do...something...P.J. realized that the rat was actually freeing itself.

"I have to kill it," P.J. told me with a level of angry panic I've never heard in ANYONE'S voice. I couldn't even reply, though I imagined an exclamation point was actually visible above my head. And apparently his extra surge of adrenaline kick-started P.J.'s Can Do attitude. He somehow distracted the rat from the front and GRABBED the tray from the back, flipping this beast into a Williams Sonoma bag. (Do you know what the term "bobo" means? Look it up. Sigh.)

Back to the rat. P.J., grasping the squirming bag o' rodent, walked it into the alley and Took Care Of The Situation.

I love him. In fact, I've never loved him more. I thought I was above blatant shows of machismo. False.

My hero then came back into the house and cleaned the kitchen, removing all traces of awfulness. Apologies were made to the cats, assuring them that we never doubted their mouser prowess. Side note- (this whole blog should be called 'side note')- Ender, the tabby, had been waking us in the middle of the night for about week, yowling and knocking things over in a very un-Enderlike manner. We, of course, yelled at him and hurled epithets like "bad" and "sleep-hater," not realizing that our long-suffering Good Cat was trying to tell us of the Chihuahua-sized beastie in the kitchen. We'll believe him from now on. Last night was the first night in weeks where he slept on our bed. We took that as a good sign.

Oh, and the stove towel? P.J. picked it up, post-Benny Hill episode, to find a HOLE THE SIZE OF LAKE ERIE. Yep, eaten through in an hour.

Crisis averted, we checked on the baby (still asleep), checked on the cats (pride wounded but blood disease-free) and settled in for some Mario Kart. Nothing soothes the nerves like Toad n' Yoshi.

I guess all's well that ends well- the lower level bathroom is really pretty AND rat-tunnel-free. Plus, if rodents talk- and we KNOW that they do- then we've just secured our place as THE home with which not to mess on Troy Street.

Actually, scratch that.

With our neighbors? We'd probably come in fourth.

I didn't even mention all the poosplosions.

Oh my stars, 10,000 hits on the ol' Bob Loblaw's Law Blog! (Or, you know, this one.) Let's see who the lucky reader is! Okie doke, someone from Wells, Maine. Hello! So happy to meetcha! And you got here via a search for...the top 10 songs about narcissism.

Welcome.

This morning upon waking I discovered that all of the feeling in my arms, hands and fingers was missing. There's a distinct possibility that this was because I slept on my side with my arms extended fully behind me, fingers and thumbs and palms stretched upwards like some sort of reverse Spiderman webbing action.

And THIS could be due to the fact that, moments before bed, P.J. informed me that there was a "symphony" of scratching and beating behind the walls.

Let me back up a little.

Remember the "Hey, what's that smell?" game we've been playing since July? (That game is SO fun in July.) Well, we've gotten better at it, and have [sorta] determined that the smell is definitely coming from the lower level bathroom. Our exterminator (yep, ours) told us that when he removed a boarded up section of the linen closet (of course) he could see that the bottom of the tub had rusted through and that the tub itself was sitting on a dirt floor. No foundation. Why not? He went on to tell us that while rodents could EASILY get in, there was no evidence of living anything and the smell was probably a dead rat trapped in the wall. The good news? The horsefly apocalypse would most likely finish it off.

Fabulous, terrifying news. If not for the fact that everyone involved in the renovation of this house IS A LIAR.

This is becoming an exorbitantly expensive game of Whack-A-Mole.

So, we decided to go ahead and rip out the rusty-bottomed tub and re-tile the bathroom. (Of course, the bathroom we use the least? Let's make it downright Martha Stewart Living. After all, the "Master Bathroom" washtub I use up on the third floor doesn't need to be pretty, just big enough for one person turned sideways.) Our bathroom contractors- veeery different from our plumbing, electrical and roofing contractors, mind you- started this past Monday. They are terrific! Excepting, of course, the minor detail that the new tub didn't fit. It doesn't matter WHO dropped the ball on this one (when I find out, heads will roll) because the important thing is- the new tub is 20 3/4 inches deep. I could happily drown in this new tub. And not even face-down, like in the old poor-excuse-for-a-water-vessel-careful-you-don't-trip-over-the-ledge-stepping-into-the-shower tubbie. So this is good.

However.

The exterminator was working side by side with the bathroom contractors to make sure, you know, that rats didn't jump out and start swinging from the ceiling fans. The bad news? There was a veritable Autobahn of rat roadways under the tub. The good news? Concrete rainstorm, pals. I was slightly concerned about anyone we might be keeping inside the perimeter, but was quickly assured that (again) there's no evidence of live rats and, of course, rats would be out of doors during the day. Of course.

Except that night we kinda thought we heard something.

No matter, the smell's gone, right? Mostly!

The next night there was a pitter patter of...something.

And then last night? A "symphony." Right before I fell asleep P.J. confirmed that he and the cats definitely heard SOMETHING in the walls. Perhaps by the stairs. Maybe in the under-stairwell closet.

"Don't open the under-stairwell closet tomorrow, ok?" (Ok!)

And THEN, moments before I drifted off to dreamland I remembered what a few people said about trapped rats. They'll either a) die and smell and bring back Horsefly Apocalypse 2k10 OR...b) they'll eat their way through the drywall.

OH MY GOD.

And, as we all know, rats are my number one, wretched, terrifying, poke-my-eyes-out biggest fear ever EVER ever (forEVA eva?- you're welcome, Nat) I can't imagine a creepier scenario. Because now that I am a mother, I have this stupid need to protect at all costs, making it an obvious possibility that a rat WILL break through the wall in the presence of Nora, forcing me to battle it TO THE DEATH.

Dammit.

This is why I slept in a bizarro defensive pose. Owie.

Update: The bathroom contractor just informed me that the the tub faucet I'd asked him to fix (it started at hot and went to cold at full blast) couldn't be reversed. For the faucet had been installed UPSIDE DOWN and they'd have to remove part of the wall to fix it. Did I want that?

Oh my, I want so many things. This is not one of those things.

First on the list would be a new decorative lock.

Lemme 'splain: The other night, Nora and I came home from work utterly exhausted. She hasn't been feeling so hot ('cause the kids for whom I nanny haven't been feeling so hot) and taking care of five "not feeling so hot" kids- six or seven, if they have friends over- is exhausting. It makes you dumb. Or, at the very least, me.

I never get the mail. Ever. P.J. grabs it on his way to the garage with his bike. I usually have started dinner and- whatever. I never grab it. I was feeling jaunty on Tuesday night, however, and thought it would be fun to "surprise" P.J. with a stack of mail. After changing Nora and letting her rest in the Pack n' Play downstairs, I put on boots and ran outside to get the mail- a mere ten feet away.

I did not lock the door.

I did not grab my cell phone.

It was ten feet away.

When I came back to the side door twenty seconds later, it was locked. And I did not have a key- in fact, NO ONE has a key to this lock- it is, sadly, decorative. (And one of the only things not stripped from this house the previous year. "Keep it," people urged us. "It's so PRETTY!") The contractors must have thought it was wonderful, too, as they turned it before leaving for the day. And- haha- when you twist the knob from the inside, it doesn't even APPEAR to be locked. Isn't that amazing?

This took a bit to figure out. My first thought, alarmingly for my dementia, was that we were haunted. That's right, the only way that this could have happened was if a malevolent spirit had decided to separate me from my baby. And then I remembered the baby. Inside. Alone. And starting to cry.

Five minutes earlier I had been g-chatting with P.J.- meaning that he was still at work. He had promised to be home by 5:45...but what if he was tied up at work? What if the trains were wonky? Also, five minutes earlier was 5:10pm. I would have to be outside for AT LEAST half an hour.

That's when I remembered I was wearing yoga pants and a long-sleeved shirt. And it was getting dark. And coooold. And now Nora was definitely starting to scream.

So, I panicked. And stood in the doorway for a good few minutes, stupidly trying to knob (still locked!?) and wondering what the heck to do. We have no hidden key. (Didn't wanna take the chance that someone in this neighborhood would figure it out.) No neighbors had a spare key. (Choosing between the autistic 17-year old on one side and the aging drunk who speaks NO English on the other? That's a toughie.) I also didn't want to leave Nora alone and screaming in order to warm myself up somewhere. (Bad mother penance?)

After twenty minutes of watching my extremities turn from red to white, from numb back to extreme pain (it was about twenty degrees, mind you) and hearing Nora wail in frustration and sadness (a new level of hell,) I ran to La Brasa Roja up at the corner. It smelled delicious, but there was no time for chicken or lamb! I asked in Spanish if I could use the phone. The guy seemed awfully confused. Did I want a carryout menu? Finally he pointed me in the direction of the manager, who was apparently authorized on All Things Phone. He let me use his cell. (I guess the restaurant is terribly strict on phone usage.)

I called P.J.

Three times.

Left a voicemail.

Tried to sound brave.

Failed.

Ran back to Nora to hear her scream for the next half an hour.

At this point I actually felt a little dizzy and EXTREMELY sorry for myself. Plus, since I hadn't checked the time at the restaurant, I didn't really know what time it was, how long I had been outside or how long it would be until P.J. came home. If he came home. If he was even coming home. If the trains were working.

By now Nora was wailing that completely horrible mix of genuine tears and panicked heaving gasps. My skin was on fire with stabbing pain. I even cried for about two minutes until I realized that my tears were actually freezing in my eyes.

Finally, FINALLY P.J. arrived and threw his bike onto the lawn.

"How is she?"

He hurriedly unlocked the front door (for which we DO have all the keys) and ran to pick up Nora, who craned her neck unbelievably far to the left SO AS NOT TO LOOK AT ME.

I went upstairs and showered for thirty minutes on full blast hot. I looked like a lobster. A sad lobster. Finished cooking dinner. (Did I mention I had started making spicy coconut shrimp? It truly had the makings of a great evening. Then I had to go and abandon my daughter and ruin my immune system.)

But in the end it all jived. Nora forgave me- I AM her sole source of food, after all. Funny how that works. Dinner was quite good. P.J. enjoyed an episode of Lost and I began a few chapters of my book (that's right.) Passed out slightly thereafter from the bone-wearying sojourn of GETTING THE MAIL. (Never again, pal. The gravy train ends here.)

I am confident, now that it's Thursday (the happiest day of the week), that my luck will change. Maybe I'll get to take a rat-free soak in a gloriously deep tub tonight! And John Krasinski and Demetri Martin will allow Nora and I to have a good ol' mother/daughter crush fest.

And they all lived happily ever after.

So long as they ignored the scratching sounds inches from their faces.

***

Confidential to "Mom" and "Dad:" Congrats on 36 years! You make it look easy! (Actually, that's not true. But sometimes "hilarious" and "crazy" is better than "easy.")

Oh, fine, THIS makes me uncool?

I love Valentine's Day.

I LOVE Valentine's Day. Back in grade school, I used to love the holiday so much that it physically made me sick from excitement. I'd pick out my fanciest, sparkliest, flounciest skirt and/or whimsical animal top and spend possibly too much time choosing necklaces, bracelets and earrings (after second grade) that screamed hearts.

Okay, I still do.

Back then, I'd painstakingly craft Valentines for every member of my class, every teacher, librarian and Room Girl. (Did you guys ever have Room Girls or Boys? They were the fifth graders responsible for marching the younger kids down to the cafetorium every day at lunchtime. I later become one. It was an awesome and heady responsibility.)

I also spent the equivalent of a part-time job making my desk envelope AS WELL AS a bedroom door envelope. You know, for all of the Valentine overflow? My "workshop" was my bedroom closet, a narrow, 70s-style sliding plywood door number- I'd periodically remove everything from the floor (mainly on heavy work days- it was also a detective office when necessary) and pull on the chain light for optimum crafting conditions.

I signed every card with a personal message and a bold, glittery "Love, Keely," delivered them with seizure-inducing excitement and waited for the magic to happen. (In third grade, a kid I'll refer to simply as "Chris" brandished his in front of my face with a defiant wave. "Love? Love, Keely? You love me?" Buffoon.)

And the party? Oh, God, the party. The last hour of the school day was when we pushed our desks into, you know, party formation and got to open envelopes, deliver any last minute Valentines (I always tried to look extra deserving) and eat baked goods that have forever defined my image of the holiday. (Susen Andrews' Mom, Janet? God bless you and God bless those mammoth pink frosted heart cookies.)

Except here was the problem.

I'd get so crazy excited the night (heck, month) before, that I'd usually be running a low-grade temp the morning of the class party. My Mom, savvy to my enthusiastic and potentially self-damaging glee, would sometimes allow me to go to school for the morning and "See how you feel." (It wasn't the plague, after all, it was a self-induced pre-sugar high.)

I usually didn't make it to noon. Sometimes I even puked.

The car ride home always, always involved tears.

The teacher would have packaged my Valentine envelope and a few treats for me to take home- but it wasn't the same. Valentine's Day usually involved a late afternoon nap and dinner in my jammies.

BUT THE DINNER!

My parents were always darned festive, too, and Valentine's Day dinner was a shiny affair, complete with a "fancy" table, red cellophane-wrapped wondrousness and trinkets waiting at our place settings. (They probably only cost a few dollars, but red beads and velvet bows are the stuff from which memories are made- clearly.) We'd have a dinner of "favorites" complete with dessert- dessert was not always present for Flynn family dinners, but when it was it could be counted on to be epic- and, of course, opening of the bedroom door envelopes. I sometimes helped the twins open theirs. Heck, I usually helped them MAKE their envelopes. (They were allowed in the secret office- they were quite smallish and didn't take up much room.)

Now, I'm sure my folks had different ideas of what a "perfect" Valentine's Day would be- a quiet dinner, a non-animated flick, a full night's sleep without their secondborn ending up in bed with them- but for me? The memories of this one day have permanently shaped how I feel about the holiday.

This is why I do not get when people oppose a "Hallmark holiday". It's based on an actual saint who helped marry persecuted Christians- nothing Hallmark about that! But sure, now it's a Corporate Scheme and we're all inundated with ads for precious gifts and expensive bling.

You know what else is a Corporate, Spendy Holiday? July the 4th. You could choke on the ads for beer and grills and boats- BUT YOU DON'T SEE PEOPLE PICKETING THAT ONE, do you?

I spent the weekend with Peej and Nora, watching a trifecta of Batman Begins, Blade: Trinity ("Use it...") and Down With Love (which, crazily enough, ends happily IN love!), and they all strangely jived. Naps were taken with various, pink corduroy-clad gals and pajama pants-clad, coupon-happy men. Okay, one of each.

I cooked ZERO meals (while, funnily enough, P.J. prepared a handful of my favorite recipes on the face of the planet) and we exchanged gifts that totaled twenty bucks. Not exactly DeBeers, but you should totally ask P.J. to show you his travel mug with Nora's, well, mug on it. Awesome.

Spent the past few days calling, texting, emailing and Skyping loved ones to say just that, and received more than a few glittery cards in the mail. Which will be visible on my dining room table for a month. I love Valentine's Day.

And when Peej asked if I wanted to get a sitter and go out for a "grownup dinner" on the town? I passed on that one.

I have my own little gal now who gets unbelievably stoked with anticipation for a fancy holiday and for whom February 14th will always be an epic day.

I can just tell.

Reluctant parrots, Double bears & Nekkie wombats

Nora and I are currently on Day 4 of a four day work week. Granted, compared to my past schedules that used to total 50+ hours a week, it's positively relaxing- but we're used to the One Day On One Day Off workaday life. This kinda feels like bootcamp. (However, as I type this, 2-year old Lil is stirring in her bed for the day and Nora Jane is snoozing in her car seat, clutching Otto the otter like a flotation device. So, uh, wah wah, right? Yes.

I love my jobs. I love my families. My work options are so much cooler than I'd even hoped they'd be when I got pregnant. That said, yesterday I ran after a screaming miniature person WHILE breastfeeding Nora. (Is this a lot of info?) Turns out, she's extraordinarily portable and is kinda okay with meals-to-go. (Like a milkshake! Ew.)

It's been pretty exceptional to have every other morning with just Nora and have her smile peacefully at me- as opposed to the terrified wince toward flying objects, shrieking pitches and sudden immersion into the frigid Chicago air. Plus, whenever we go outside, I'm forced to layer the fleece car seat cover over her head for the quick trip into the car; 6:30am air in February feels like daggers on one's eyeballs. I'd like to give her eyeballs a chance. She doesn't care for the fleece-over-face action. I don't blame her. She's like a reluctant parrot, refusing to acknowledge the onset of dark. (Plus, I shove extra blankies, lovies, mittens and burp cloths into the car seat under her toes. So make that a reluctant CROWDED parrot.)

And it's been so cold and snowy that even when she doesn't have to endure the indignity of a blanket wrapped around her head, she does have to put up with the layering of hats under hoodies. Most articles of her clothing possess ears, leading us to dub such bundlings a Double Bear. She does not enjoy the Double Bear, either.

Thankfully, tomorrow morning she can be a Nekkie Wombat.

But because of the rushed mornings and crazytown days, I've acquired a list of Burning Questions that I can neither answer nor find time to Google. Help me, will you?

1) Why does a cut on your [my] pointer finger hurt worse than recovery from a c-section? And why does a bandaid refuse to stay put on such a wound? It's like a flap of skin that exposes the bone at this point. Do you know what gets in there and makes it even worse? EVERYTHING.

2) Why do Pampers have diaper stripes on them to indicate wetness? (Thanks, Michelle- I'd been wondering about this one, too!) I mean, it's kinda cute to be all, "Look, the stripe is BLUE, she must have PEED," but seriously. do you know how I tell when Nora needs to be changed? It's the trifecta called She's Very Heavy/What's That Smell/Why Is She Screaming? If all else fails, poke her bum. Sure, sure, babies' bums are squishy by nature, but they shouldn't feel like those Victoria's Secret water bras. (THAT is ANOTHER question...)

3) Why do I turn into Law Abiding Citizen whenever I pass a police cruiser in traffic? I'm no Johnny Rebel to begin with, but I find that I become extra "good," more attentive and polite, heck, even my posture improves. This is embarrassing. And on the topic of driving around town, have you ever noticed that the cars with the pro-Armed Forces bumper stickers also have flags that seem to defiantly wave in a frantic, patriotic manner? (Patrioticpatrioticpatriotic, they seem to yell.) Also- when one happens to speed through a yellow light, why is the customary reaction a high-pitched, singsongy "Soooooory!" Others outside of the car cannot hear your humorously self-effacing tone of acknowledgment, they just think you're a jerk.

4) Why is the hard Jello skin the worst feeling to ever feel in one's mouth? And why won't anyone eat the Jigglers in the fridge? (True story- the Chicago Dramatists' Network Playwright meeting was a couple of weeks ago and it was potluck. Outta luck- everything in the house had gone to pot. Except for two boxes of Jello. One was orange, the least-favored flavor ever. For anything. I actually failed to make Jello Jigglers. Yep, couldn't even get that done in time. So, I bought a bag of cookies and left the Jigglers in the fridge to, um, congeal. At press time, the congealed orange Jigglers were in no actual danger of being eaten.)

5) Do jeans *sometimes* go in the dark laundry load and *sometimes* in the light? I've really never been able to wrap my head around this one. What about stonewash jeans? And are those actually washed with stones? And why haven't I seen them in awhile? Ripped jeans never went out of fashion, why the wash o' stone?

6) Why does 70 degrees out of doors feel like summer and make you wanna plant a tree or, I don't know, set up a profitable lemonade stand that also sells classy leaf rubbings...when 70 degrees INSIDE drafty old house feels like the Arctic Circle itself and make you want to yell at your [or anyone's] husband?

These are questions needing prompt answers. If I MUST wait until after work to deal with these, I'll probably search online. Or call my sisters so THEY can search online. Ooh, or maybe I'll wait and write in to Parade Magazine!

I feel a 'steak dinner' bet coming on.

Sigh.

Sundays are fabulous. Sunday mornings at my house are a study in perfection. Seriously. A glimpse, if you will:

7:45am: Nora rolls to her side and pokes me in the face until I wake up. (Yes, DCFS, she still sleeps with us in the mornings. Please do not remove her from our home- she has tons of things here.) When I do wake up, she gives me an appreciative grin that makes me wonder why I didn't wake up hours ago to anticipate this moment. It's that good. And I used to HATE waking up.

8am: Changed, cleaned up and semi-dressed (one of us, anyhow), Nora and I head into the living room with a cup of [cinnamon hazelnut] coffee and prepare to read The Paper. P.J. has already separated it into the most helpful of piles. His= the Target circular, the Jewel circular, the Cermak circular, Real Estate, and World stuff...and then he grabs from my pile. MY lofty pile= Parade Magazine (pronounced Pa-RAHD, the funners, the Trib Magazine and the Arts section. You must MUST must start with Parade as you're waking up. There is nothing better to get the neurons firing than inane celebrity questions and "health" articles. ("Secret weapon for 2010? Flu shots and leafy greens!" Thanks, Parade!) Don't even get me started on Ask Marilyn: "If I have eight friends and we want to divide a bill equally by fives and only pay in PENNIES, which way should we be facing?" Shut up. Also, I've wondered for YEARS who these morons are that actually take the time to mail in a question in the hopes that it'll be published- someday- on the inside cover. And why do they always have a 'steak dinner' riding on the answer? People make a bet, write to some "expert" in Parade...and then wait! My sister Kate called to inform me of a similar Dear Abby recently; "Dear Abby, My husband and I are having a dispute. He says you screw in a lightbulb clockwise. I disagree and say it's counter-clockwise. Which of us is correct?" Kate had two problems with this letter- a) Erica in Alabama decided to write to Abby instead of testing out an actual light bulb, and b) "Abby" decided to publish this burning question. (The answer is clockwise, by the way, the same as turning a lid on a jar. All part of the service here, folks.) And an actual question this week from Parade- "Do the 2010 Winter Olympics really have a sasquatch as a mascot?" One word. GOOGLE. Do not waste a steak dinner on this bet. Google this question on your BlackBerry and pretend you knew the answer the whole time. And pick up some Del Monico steaks at Jewel- P.J. can give you a coupon. (And the mascot's name is Quatchi.)

8:15am: P.J. hands me a breakfast sandwich on a heart-shaped plate. He makes exceptional weekend brekkies, with maple bacon the star of the show. He then turns on the stereo and we listen to one of three things: the classical station (Nora likes it), NPR, or Survivor's "Vital Signs" on vinyl. These are the only options. The third is still in constant rotation (and by 'rotation,' I mean it stays on the turntable for months at a time. We have a collection of hundreds. It doesn't matter. This album is SO good. And earnest!)And, if I may, I'd like to quickly piggyback (whee!) on the Embarrassing Music post: Enya. Why must I feel shame? I LOVE Enya. Sure, sometimes she takes liberties with rhymes that are positively Kanye West-ian, but good God can that woman EVOKE.

8:30am: (Or thereabouts- I rarely have time to check the clock in the mornings because a) I don't want to, and b) Nora will let us know when it's time to do things.) Nora, for her part, has been chatting away in her bouncy seat with her pals Jacques the Peacock (from Auntie Annie!) and Starfish, the droll Starfish. Occasionally she will demand couch-time, only to squirm her way back to the bouncy seat. We read aloud from Mutts, Frazz, Non Sequitur, and, inexplicably, Pickles. We make a point of snubbing Dick Tracy, Brenda Starr and Raising Hector. (Ever wanna hear P.J. go on a tirade? Talk about this week's panel of Raising Hector. We haaaate Raising Hector.) Nothing, however, will ever top the despising of Zippy the Pinhead. Thankfully they do not publish such garbage in Chicago. But they have, errantly, discontinued Scary Gary. Why? It is the reason why the medium was invented. Bring it back, please.

8...45ish...: The Tribune Magazine is great. Excellent interviews, snapshots of far-flung Chicago neighborhoods, recipes I may actually use (not like that Parade drivel suggesting I cook eggs in the shape of a heart for Valentine's Day) and interior design stuff that inspires me to move the furniture around. Except THIS week, some over-eager guy on the printing team decided to slice the margins a full inch into the side of each paragraph. For shame, Trib Mag. Now I will have to GUESS how many teaspoons, cups or bunches of sage to put into my dish. I'll probably just go with a handful and that will most likely be WRONG.

Sometime around the vicinity of 9: A shower! An alone shower! My my, how the lofty goals have changed!

And then later on the morning (or the evening, if I take that class) brings Pilates at Flow Yoga (Natalie has saved my physique from becoming a sad warning and Janine is like a hug in yoga form) and I get to enjoy a solitary drive followed by an hour workout where no one needs ANYTHING that comes from or around my body followed by another drive. Sundays are boss!

The rest of the day can be filled with a rotating cast of pleasant activities: a nap with Nora starfished out on one's chest, Important Projects (P.J. finished the first floor bathroom and I made Valentines by hand- serious stuff) a movie or two (yesterday's was The Invention of Lying- cute, and a good choice for multiple pauses due to laundry, diaper-fails, etc.,) and meals that are chosen under the guidelines of I Don't Wish To Cook. Yesterday was Chinese food!

Last night's plans included the Super Bowl- not usually a big night on my calendar, but I do love a good party and new commercials are always pretty fun. We headed out to Niles to see some TUTA company members at the Artistic Director's house (side note- their current show, Bertolt Brecht's The Wedding, is getting ridiculously good reviews. You probably couldn't even get in to see it if you tried. But you SHOULD try.) Nora was a little on the exhausted side (we all went to a glorious dinner party the night before- Nora wore tights and held court) and decided to show her displeasure by yelling at us. Apologies to Jackie, Helen and Alice who held a crying baby and said she was cute anyhow. We didn't stay long, sadly. We DID, however, get to see some Super Bowl highlights. Namely, the commercials.

And I'll be among the first to say it. WHY, in the new Alice in Wonderland movie, does Johnny Depp look like Madonna? I've never cast her as the Mad Hatter in my mind before, but there she is! Wide, eye-shadowed lids and gap-toothed smile! I'm gonna put money on the idea that this was done purposefully.

Also- the Halftime extravaganza. What a light show! And that hot new group...The Who.

Our third quarter consisted of bundling an angry little cub into her car seat, then into a sleepsack (with cap and mittens), then singing her to sleep in our room with the cats helpfully laying on our feet, then half an hour of Mario Kart.

But for now, it's somehow Monday again. Nora and I must zip up our hoodies, grab our safari blankies and about thirty diapers...and head to work. Kids ain't gonna nanny themselves.

Even if I AM having a case of The Sundays.

And The Springtimes.

And The Wealthys. (Hey, it's MY fantasy.)

And The Leggy, Lithe, Size 2s.

Happy Chicago Winter Monday Sweatpants, everyone!

I suppose putting something like "Lost" spoilers...

...in the title would drive up page views as well. But that would be unethical.

I also draw the line at "Jersey Shore." Everyone should.

So, apparently there's a plethora of incredible shows currently on the air. Despite all of that, I have my own line-up. (Or 'My Programmes,' as they are referred to in our house.)

I don't know how this happened. I've always loved TV, sure, but I've never had a weekly schedule. Other than TV Guide. But I'm assuming everyone has access to that.

When we were little, we had shows we'd watch here and there (Sesame Street, random stuff on Nickelodeon- WELL before the days of "Nick Jr." Even before 'SNICK.' Tell me you remember 'SNICK.') Later on we had Kids Incorporated (you know, at the 'Place?' 'Cause the 'a' had burned out of 'Palace?' Clever) and The New Mickey Mouse Club a.k.a. MMC (I had my letter read on the air, no big deal, just kinda made me a minor local celebrity. The letter was about liverwurst. I won a tee shirt) and anything, anything that's a Disney Sunday movie. But I'm fairly certain that, had I told my mother I had a show for every night of week, this would not have flown. (Does that phrase still hold power when used in the past tense? 'This will not fly.' 'Will not have flown.' No, I guess not. Sorry.)

And I don't even know how this happened. Apart from certain obvious television series that will alwaysalwaysalways be allowed to play on my screen (Quantum Leap, Law & Order- any of them- I know some of you have a problem with Vincent D'Onofrio's rather autistic Detective Goren, but I find him simply brilliant) I've never really had weekly "shows" that "aired." I have the misfortune of being the kiss of death for any series I truly love. The latest casualty is Pushing Daisies. No. I cannot discuss it. It is too soon.

SO.

Here is my line-up.

Monday- Men Of a Certain Age. Sure, I'm not their "target demographic." I'm neither male nor of a specific age range. No matter. Scott Bakula plays a studmuffin in this one, and as we all know, I'd tune in to watch him file his taxes.

Tuesday- Lost. Okay, technically, I don't watch this one. In fact, I kinda hate it. HOWEVER. P.J. is obsessed with it, which cuts into my after-work Ghost Whisperer reruns. It deserves a mention. (And before everyone starts harping about the brilliance, the Others, the disappearing island, the morphing character faces and panicked females gasping "Jack!"- I've seen enough promos- I'm just going to go ahead and say there was never any chance of me liking this one. I have a Lord of the Flies phobia. A big one. And sure, it's not the same thing AT ALL, but it's an island after a plane crash. Close. Enough.)

Wednesday- Psych. I may be the only person watching this one! Doesn't matter in the least! A psychic detective agency with exceptional banter and incredibly witty references? This show is my reward for Wednesdays being Wednesdays.

Thursday- The Office. AND- Important Things with Demetri Martin. That's right, a full hour of TV on Thursdays. Or, rather, a half hour followed by a snack followed by a half hour. As most of you know, I became a wee bit too obsessed with Jim & Pam and Dwight& the beet farm while Nora was brand new and eating every 12 minutes. I'm pretty sure she still has a Pavlovian response whenever she hears the opening theme. She may be sick of The Office by now. ("False.") And Demetri Martin? Waaay back in February, about a month before Nora was even a glimmer on the horizon, I watched this show. And one sickly afternoon, fevered outta my gourd and praying for the plague to end, I fell asleep while viewing this show On Demand. The wacky dream and hallucinations that ensued not only starred Demetri Martin, but guaranteed that I would develop a near-psychotic loyalty to his show. (And I'm pretty sure we're dating in a dream universe somewhere.)

Friday- Ghost Whisperer and The Soup. Fear not, there's an hour in between in which to care for the baby. I found the first on accident one Friday night (you mean they make new ones, too?) and the second has been a long-standing Date Night show for Peej and I. We do not WATCH any of the reality TV skewered by The Soup. This does not affect our viewing in the least. If nothing else, it's given us inside jokes about a show that makes fun of actual shows. Post-post-modernity? We giggle.

Saturday...is movie night. Sorry. (We used to go out, really we did. But these days, having to justify a sitter, the transit, the meal, the drinks- God, were drinks always eighty bucks at "nice" places?- and the utter, bone-crushing exhaustion the next morning...well, 'Nick & Nora' is always free. And P.J. makes the best popcorn in town.)

And Sunday? Well, everything we do on Sunday is merely a placeholder for the return of True Blood. June? Seriously?

But by then it'll be nice outside and perhaps we'll have finished the backyard and the patio area. I can just see it now: the flowering pear tree in bloom, the strawberries popping up along the faded brick, Nora and I playing on a blanket and P.J. flipping burgers on the grill...

...Our laptops logged into Netflix's Watch Instantly queue...

***

Confidential to CSG: Happy 2nd birthday to my favorite blond nephew! You can watch any show you want today- tell your Mom I said so.

Clearly, I need a hobby.

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

AT LEAST FOR THIS WEEK!

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

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

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

I'll wait.

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

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

Totally weird.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think we should just agree to disagree.

Thanks for nothing, Evanescence.

As I was driving to work the other morning, iPod Touch hooked up to the cassette deck and wee baby asleep in the back, I found myself enjoying a nice mix of light tunes with which to lull Nora and keep her soundly sleeping. Suddenly, a track by Evanescence blared on (no, it does NOT matter which one, they are all loud)at about 800 decibels higher than the previous songs. What's with your modulation, Amy Lee?

Yes, this IS a sign that I'm getting old: ire towards goth-lite bands.

And then it hit me, I was more concerned about the volume of an embarrassing song than the actual playing of an embarrassing song. Maybe being dangerously close to the end of my late twenties (ahem- four more months) is freeing me up to admit that I love bad songs!

Don't get me wrong, I have a great, obsessive love for many exceptional artists and bands (Etta James, Lyle Lovett, B.B. King, et. al): I collect them on vinyl, see them in overpriced arenas and dissect their lyrics with reverence. But for every James Taylor there is a Kip Winger. For every "She's no lady/ she's my wife" there's a "(Baby)/ Don't forget my number."

And I love them all. All of them.

I will now come out of the soundproof closet and admit that I love Michael Bolton. Love might be too flimsy a term for the feelings I have whenever Michael Bolton hits a key change. His song Said I Loved You (But I lied)- amazing. ('Cause this is more than love I feel inside.) I KNOW!

I've spent too many years turning the volume down in paper-thin studio apartments every time Savage Garden or Rob Zombie pops up on iTunes. No longer! Is it MY fault that bad music (read- terminally unhip) is clearly the most singalongable? Okay, maybe not so much Rob Zombie, but he IS fun to clean to.

And to clarify- by "bad" music, I mean music that was once hugely popular by a demographic with which you yourself would never in a million years identify. And that was a million years ago. Rendering it...prehistorically "bad."

But if it's so "bad," why does Warrant still make me cry? Why does Def Leppard's "Gods Of War" make me wanna wave a flag? And why won't P.J. sing either part of the Aaron Neville/Linda Ronstandt duets with me? (Okay, that last one doesn't really help my case, but still. Why?)

It's not such a stance to play the newest Lady Gaga track at full blast. But it does take a certain type of person to proclaim your preference for Van Hagar over Van Halen. Or, in the case of the Guthries, Arlo over Woody.

Yes, I said it. I prefer Arlo Guthrie.

And, for the first time in my life, I feel no shame.

(Well, maybe a little. But it gets easier, I promise you.)

Thursday is the new Saturday. No, really, it is.

A brand-new graffitiesque mural has gone up in my neighborhood; it's on the side of a building near the intersection of Kedzie and Montrose, to be exact. It is great. The word "diversity" is written (scrawled?) in about ten different languages. You know, the languages that represent Albany Park. A multitude of beautiful, happy, diverse faces are looking in different directions, quite artful, and are layered willy-nilly to show the many different colors and ethnicities of our lovely 'hood. Fabulous. One problem.

I AM NOT INCLUDED.

No one even remotely white-ish is featured. Sure, sure, I hear you telling me about centuries of oppression and the White Man and underrepresented cultures. Fine. However. I'm Irish and Armenian and a smidge of Italian and have oppressed NO ONE so perhaps you could STICK ME DOWN IN THE CORNER SOMEWHERE. I do not take up much room. (Unless I bring my shoes and hoodies.)

I may have to resort to graffiti on graffiti. Extremely post-modern. Are you listening, Hampshire College? (Yeah, I took film. And strangely, pre-law. And one bizarre semester about our FEELINGS regarding science.)

Other media that concerns me:

Have you seen the new commercial for Hi-Def Vision Ultra sunglasses? Take a minute to really chew on that one. These sunglasses. Make. Things. Hi Definition. They're practically making objects 3-D. Almost like real life! Actual quote: "Other sunglasses just make things darker." (Darn sunglasses!) And now, according to a special offer, you can get TWO for TEN DOLLARS (if you call now.) So basically, I'll get a five dollar pair of sunglasses that make objects look like real life? Where do I sign?!

Also.

The new ad for Aciphex: a pill for acid reflux that takes care of 'burning, bad taste & belching.' And please say the name aloud. Everything about this commercial is gross. An entire ad featuring closeups of people's mouths while they writhe in pain, dislike the taste of their own tongues and attempt to cover up burps. Poorly. "...So nasty!" And all from a product whose first syllable is 'ass.'

And finally: those Cash 4 Gold people are starting to make me really suspicious. Why do they want my gold so badly? *I* want my gold! Why doesn't it matter what condition my gold is in? Do they know something I don't? Does my gold have new healing powers? Is all the gold disappearing? They're sending me a BOX in which to ship all my gold? Why not a company car? I think I'll hang on to my gold until I get some more answers.

***

Confidential to PJS: Thank you for not letting that scenario with the middle-of-the-night-car-honker-layin'-on-the-horn-for-what-seemed-like-hours go all 'Gran Turino.' As we both know, I've never seen 'Gran Turino,' but I'm fairly certain from the previews that it involves an angry Clint Eastwood and a wielded shotgun and the phrase "Get the hell off my property" or somesuch. I know how you get during these moments. Kinda like The Hulk, if The Hulk had an infant daughter sleeping in a room facing the street.

So, thanks.

Housewivery, unfortunate pants & inconsequential rage.

Things that bother me this week (settle in, we could be here a spell):

Pants.

I tried to buy my first post-preggo pants this past weekend. It was an epic fail on all fronts, mostly the posterior. Silly me, I'd thought it was high time to ditch the elastic-waisted maternity jeans. It is clearly not time. It may never BE time. (Sure, some of you keep telling me that it'll HAPPEN, you just HAD the baby! This is false. She is two and a half months old. Do not give me these kind of excuses- it just paves the way for stretchy pants and oversized 'Hang in there, Kitten!' sweatshirts until she's of school age.)

Anyway. I tried on seven pairs of jeans. Two were the next size up from what I usually wear, two were the size up from that, and two were even the size up from that. One was this shapeless pair of what I derisively labeled 'Mom jeans.'

The first two came up to my knees (PLEASE tell me that the width of my knees has changed- that would be perfection) the next two fit over my hips but wouldn't button (I wanted to take the extra material from the wide legs and add it to the laughably tiny waistband), the two after that buttoned just fine but left a cavernous amount of room in the behind and were somehow too short. Even the 'Mom jeans' left me cold. (Not from lack of fabric, mind you. There was plenty of that.) Apparently, to wear 'Mom jeans' one must be shaped roughly like an onion. Bulbous, pointy, sassy writing on the butt. You know, an onion.

I ended up buying two pairs of yoga pants from Old Navy- because nothing says 'my body is not yet a real size' like stretchy pants. (Hang in there!)

And, ok, I am angered at Tupperware.

WHY does Tupperware never dry? It never does. You can leave it in the dishrack or the washer for days and STILL there will be a few stubborn droplets firmly attached to the lip or ridge or whatever the heck that place is called that makes the lid go sqoosh. You can't even reach it by dishtowel- oh no- I think the only thing that could reach it would be a Q-tip, and I AM NOT ABOUT TO Q-TIP MY TUPPERWARE, thankyouverymuch. I barely manage to clean the dryer's lint trap (do NOT get me started on the lint trap.) But why does it retain water so well? (Or, rather, so badly?) Is Tupperware actually part water? Does it biodegrade? I'm a terrible housewife- I do not have these answers.

P.J. would tell me that this is because I am NOT a housewife, despite my best efforts to not work outside of the home. Do you know how many salami sandwiches I make for him each week? Regardless of whether or not he even LIKES salami? Or how many socks I match up in evenly folded pairs? (No balling-up of socks here, lady!) I do not vacuum- but I DO start the Roomba with my foot. I rearrange furniture under the pretense of Feng Shui- (I'm Irish, what do I know from Asian arts?) and light appropriately scented candles to mask that...whatever it is...that wafts from the downstairs bathroom's pipes. I watch copious amounts of 'The Ghost Whisperer' which, admittedly, has little to do with housewivery but is something I'd commit even further to, were I allowed to remain in the actual house. AND, most importantly, I rear his child (which makes it sound like I lead her backwards throughout our home. I do not. That is how I sprained my ankle in eighth grade. Solo. Not with Nora.)

And peeing. Why must I use the bathroom throughout the day, especially during working hours?

It's made especially tough when trying to use the facilities if a newborn baby, say, is slung across your chest, fast asleep. Put her down, you say? Certainly! The two options available on Wednesdays and Fridays are a) on the floor of the pocket bathroom or b) in the living room with the two year old who deals with any sound Nora makes by trying to shove a rattle directly up her nostril. ("She LIKES this, Kiki!!")

Thusly, sling-peeing. It should be an Olympic event. The precision, the tension, the crowd-pleasing humor. (The back story, the interview, the killer soundtrack- I love the Olympics.) One false move and it's all over. The Russian judge scores harshly. (I could make a European In the Bathroom joke here, but I won't.)

Another reason to leave the baby strapped against me today? The two-year old gal chose to test the deepness of Nora's sleep (result- not very) by screaming "Are you sleeping, Baby Nora?!) into an electronic voice-changing bullhorn. Set to Darth Vader. Inches from Nora's head. After being informed that little-littles need quiet tones AND that yelling near the baby earns a time-out, I was told that Nora LIKES voices. (I fear that before long the babe will be hearing voices.)

Mom. Of. The. Year.

To cement my Mom-ness? (Momity? Mom-ocity? Momitude? Ok, momitude.) I actually just uttered the phrase, "We don't lick napkins." ("Why, Kiki?") I actually don't know. It just sounded like the thing to say. So go ahead, everyone. Have a happy Thursday.

Lick the napkin.

A new year, a new pack o' Pampers.

Week ten, back to work!

Armed with a diaper bag the size (and shape) of Guam, Nora and I set out to see what needs doin' in the world of two to seven year olds. Apparently, a lot lot. Eggs need scrambling! Hair needs to be braided- evenly- and/or clipped back with appropriate bows (but not too matchy-matchy.) The stegosaurus' tail needs to be found...on a puzzle piece the width of pencil eraser. Stories need to be performed with the correct accents and correlating hand motions. Tents need to be blanketed, boats need to be shored up with cushions, lunch needs to be CRUST-FREE, and naptime needs to become a one-strike-you're-out-offense-yes-laying-there-with-your-eyes-closed-counts endeavor.

Not to mention the poops. You wouldn't believe me if I did. I think everyone within a five mile radius of me has pooped their diaper or potty seat off in the past four days. AT THE SAME TIME.

I do, however, think Nora's getting the hang of this nanny business. She's strict but fair. And veeeeery cute. (Believe it or not, this helps. To get one kiddo to brush her teeth I simply turned Nora around in her sling so her chubby cheeks were facing outwards. The 'aw' that it elicited was perfect for reaching molars.)

The hours for a couple of the days are superbly early- I'm getting ready at 5:45am and WAKING my daughter (something the books say you should nevernevernever do) at 6:20. The first morning when I put her in her carseat, fully jammied and sleepsacked, she actually laughed at me like I was insane.

Maybe I am. So far this week she's taken the business end of a hard juggling ball directly in the face and made that startled newborn OMHMYGODOHMYGOD wince at least three times. She may also be part possum, as her favorite new sleep position is facing my sternum while in the sling, hands gripping the sides of her head.

On the plus side, I've never held her more!

On a more negative side, I've never held her more. The left side of my body where the sling places the most pressure may just give out one of these days, rendering my arm eternally noodle-like and reducing my authority to ineffective flopping about.

Thankfully, Tuesday was my day off.

That is, until the upstairs furnace broke Monday night, turning our bedrooms into an Artic tundra. (Thanks, negative-degree Chicago!) At least we had the first floor bedrooms, which were on their own, oddly-zoned boiler system! The boiler, of course, being stuck on SAHARAN temperatures! Nora slept in a diaper, sadly not for the last time, given her parents' obvious ineptitude at adulthood.

So, Tuesday was the day that our heating and cooling guy came and quoted us 600 bucks (to fix a part) or 2.2k (to replace the since-discontinued furnace.) Oh yeah, and they'd have to rip the wall apart to get it out- apparently the wall was built AROUND the furnace. Of course it was! We chose the 600 buck option, telling ourselves we'd upgrade to an A/C and furnace unit soonish. (Of course we would!) Then the guy left, saying he'd try to replace it soon, maybe by that night, maybe by Thursday.

WELL. Knowing I couldn't face another night on the surface of the sun downstairs, I started to move my main floor office around to accommodate the bed in P.J.'s office. Two hours later, I had just finished hooking up all the computer plugs, lighting and anything else needing an outlet...when the heating guy came back with the repaired part. Rendering the afternoon spent swapping things about needless, ha hah!

But at least my office looks fabulous.

And, sadly, Nora is now in the thick of her first real cold. It is tragic. For those of you who have never experienced the magnitude of an infant's first real sickness- it's a treat. I highly recommend sitting on a bathroom floor in the middle of the night, shower-steaming a baby into a miniature wonton and alternating between suctioning each impossibly long boogie with a bulb aspirator and cleaning up the diaper blowout as a direct result of the ensuing freakout. (Apparently, they do NOT care for this action!)

And somehow, hours later, she still smiles happily at me. Making me feel like even more of a jerk for bundling her into the dark, frigid, Chicago mornings.

There was more I had planned on noting about the previous week...but my darling baby gal, the angelic infant in the aquarium bouncer on the floor beside me, has just chosen to have another poo-splosion in the carefully selected outfit for today's workload. Sometimes I think she plans these. Maybe she's taking orders from a higher baby authority. Like an evil cartoon villain, clad in a diaper and clutching a cigar. I'm slightly tempted to poke a finger into her chubby cheeks and demand WHO ARE YOU WORKING FOR, a la Jack Bauer.

But then she'd just smile that famous Schoeny smile.

You know, the one that got me here in the first place?