It's wick!

This past weekend we jaunted over to the Elston Farmer's Market Garden Center- don't let the "farmer's market" part fool you, it was more "garden center" than anything else. Although they had a really sweet selection of stone mushrooms to decorate one's yard- but I guess that's pretty "garden," too.

We walked away with, among other things, marigolds, a rose bush, a peony and a raspberry plant. The reasons (besides the fact that it's really fun to buy things) are as follows:

-My Nana actually used to have "prized marigolds." This makes me feel warm and fuzzers inside to [have P.J.] plant something that she used to "prize." Also- the yard rabbits (much like garden gnomes but more dangerous) cannot stand the smell of them. This way, we'll actually get to eat the stuff we [P.J.] plant[s]. We don't want to go more proactive against the rabbits, since, as everyone knows, rabbits have overtaken the rats in the city. This is true. And awesome.

-P.J. actually did promise me a rose garden. And I'm collecting on that.

-We believed that peony bush I received for "free" from the Arbor Day Foundation (card-carrying member, baby) perished over this past winter. As some of you may recall, this was the plant which beat our new house to the finish line in the race of Things We Actually Own. I illegally planted it in the yard well before any passing of any keys. (But, if you consider all the illegal things this house had been used for in the past handful of years- I feel that guerrilla gardening falls well under the radar of punishable offenses.) Anyway, while the peony flourished last summer and early fall, we [P.J.] may or may not have forgotten to winter it. (I don't even know what that means.) But to quote Dickon in The Secret Garden, one of my favorite books ever: "It's as wick as you or me!" I say this a lot. Even when something isn't necessarily "alive." Like I've mentioned before, P.J. is the gardener. (Also- we now have two peony bushes that are "wick.")

-The raspberries will join the strawberries which we- ahem- borrowed from our lovely garden on Oakley. My hope is to eventually have enough backyard fruit to open a jammerie. Jammery? A place for squashing berries. Kate and I used to pick raspberries and blackberries from the neighbor's yard (see? I come by this stealing naturally) and sell them in little Dixie cups in our lemonade stands. Also- I used to make leaf rubbings for which we had the gall to charge a dollar. It was a one-stop emporium. However, the extension of Hancock Road had very little traffic to speak of- although the occasional biker (motorcycle, mind you) would be convinced to slow down. I'm sure the chalk drawings and notifications of LEMONADE AND BERRIES AND LEAF RUBBINGS down the block helped. Kate would make the hard sell of fruit and beverage, and, like Jojo the Idiot Cirus Boy, I'd shill some rubbings. We cleaned up.


So I've done my part. Now it's up to P.J. to plant, to maintain, to seed some grass, to water, to mow, to weed, to mulch...you know, his part. He has a green thumb. Perhaps a whole hand. Since I over-love, my thumbs are, sadly, black.

Which sounds like a circulation issue.

And speaking of discolored appendages, I spent the better part of this week in excruciating pain. Since I'd recently been led to believe that my pain tolerance is decently high, I was concerned. Okay, not "concerned" so much as "whiny." (But let's be honest here: I was unaware of bursting ovarian cysts and my c-section recovery was kinda peachy. The last time I whined about pain was when Nora was wedged on my right lung. So that's where pregnancy fell on the scale of things.) Anyway, I couldn't lift my left shoulder any higher than my mid-section, it couldn't be touched- and, since I can't take anything stronger than Tylenol whilst nursing, nothing helped the pain.

Whine, whine, whine.

I finally got in to see my fabulous chiropractor and discovered that I had a) a pinched nerve in my neck, b) a popped shoulder, and c) a slightly dislocated rib. A couple of adjustments and one stellar wellness massage later-(Thanks Dr. Bouvin, Dr. Vargas and Kelly!)- I'm starting to feel better. So how did I get this way? No idea. I sling the baby girl a lot, plus I lift multiple children up multiple staircases, but you wouldn't think that would equivocate the loser in a bar fight. (I never lose bar fights.) It must've been one of those awesome, happenstance, increasing-strain injuries. The kind that happen rather often to me. Since my joints weren't amazingly well-formed by the time I was born.

As my Dad is fond of telling me, "You weren't fully cooked."

My Dad used to have to make emergency trips to my elementary school playground to pop my elbows back in their sockets. This is true. It is an art and a skill. I was so proud of my Dad's abilities that I'd brag to school nurses and ER doctors that "my Dad pops my elbows in and of out of their sockets all the time!" Which I'm sure indicates a troubled home and not a troubled musculoskeletal system.

Sorry, Dad.

This is also the Dad, however, who taught us to makes crepes (always separate the egg whites), the importance of a brilliantly timed key change, and why the Three Stooges are clutch. He's the guy whom I'll associate with the scents of sawdust in a house and chicken on a grill. A stellar guitarist. The ultimate handyman. The kind of Dad who would watch the X-Files every Friday night with his fourteen year-old daughter- and, later that year, take her to see Etta James to help her get over a particularly tragic break-up.

So, in honor of my Dad's impending birthday, here's a clip that he and I will always, always find funny. Because he's just that awesome. (And this clip is really, really funny.)



(Happy birthday, Dad!)

Sometimes we read books, too.

Let me start out by saying that, apparently, I cannot top last Thursday's post. I don't think I should even try- and I hope that's cool. It was certainly not my intention to make people weep (there's enough intentional weeping in the world), and the fact that it resonated with a) people with kids, b) people without kids, and c) maybe even kids, themselves, leads me to believe that I have reached the apex of my blogosomeness and should probably just rest on my laurels.

But, since 'blogosomeness' isn't a word (yet) and I have no laurels on which to do any sort of verb...I hope the minutiae of my Monday will suffice.

Presented for the consideration of the Midnight Society (Thanks, Chel!):

Last night, having done every ounce of cleaning that a home deserves, corresponded with everyone whom I ought, and completed the tasks for the upcoming week, P.J. and I opened the Netflix's Instant Queue. (Only one of those prior statements is true. I'll let you place your best guesses.) Since I am nearly caught up with the shows of my Boyfriend Trifecta (John Krasinski, Demetri Martin and James Roday)- and, since I am completely unable to start the darned series that friends have been raving about (due to utter laziness, not disinterest- yes, they're different), I decided to take Peej up on the offer of "adding some shows to the Queue."

I think he's gonna stop offering stuff like this.

There are so many good shows right now. And so many excellent cancelled ones. But my first suggestion? Highlander! (P.J. had no idea that there were so many seasons. He knows now.)

And then we worked backwards.

The first season of Sesame Street. The Care Bears movie. ("We care! We...care! I...care!") The original Strawberry Shortcake and, of course, My Little Ponies. (For Nora.) Then we got a little crazy and began Googling shows that we vaguely remembered (Shirt Tales! Getalong Gang! Mapletown!) And seriously? The animation on these things leave a little bit to be desired. Faces are made up of like, four pixels. They are still greatness incarnate, however.

(Question to my Mom and/or Kate: Remember when I used to carry that panda bear trading card around with me, circa '84? Was that 'Getalong Gang' or 'Shirt Tales?' I can't recall. Perhaps because I was four. Or maybe because they're essentially the same show. Also- did you know that 'Mapletown' was anime? I sure as heck didn't. Was I a particularly dense seven year-old?)

We then found a YouTube copy of  The Felix the Cat movie- a flick that, until last night, I half wondered if I had imagined. It is so great. ("Anairo mines...Anairo! Oriana!") Yes, I realize that will resonate with, oh, one of you. And it's Kate, again. Peej and I have started watching it- like we do with most things- way too late at night, rendering it a four part miniseries.

We've done this before; some of you may remember that during our engagement we enjoyed a seven part series called "Far and Away." At 1am. Each part was roughly ten minutes long. (Boy, I thought I was tired then!)

And this morning I introduced Nora to the glory of both YouTube and Strawberry Shortcake.

A confession: my nearly-six month old has seen TV. She loves it. Also? I feel no shame in this. During our late night feedings she developed a Pavlovian response to hearing The Office's opening theme, and I'm pretty sure she caught some Law & Order interrogation out of the corner of her eye. In our work week she's the youngest of three children, all of whom have a very special relationship with the Boob Tube. (NJ digs anything with the word 'boob.' See what I did there?) And I'm certainly not gonna hide her in the kitchen when Dora or Max & Ruby appear. Thirty minutes here and there is not going to fry her neurons. Plus, I would like to pose the question- how are the spinny fish on the aquarium bouncer not just a less-awesome version of a TV show? I'm not gonna plop her down unattended in front of either, but if you had your choice: learning how crayons are made OR a watching a starfish who only knows three songs? Crayon factory, all the way.

Please do not report me.

And, to firmly plant us in the here and now- This Week's Commercial That Bugs the Bejeebers Outta Me: The International Delights Coffeehouse Inspirations ad (I realize that's a lot of words). It features a guy, clad in an apron, pouring a mug for an attractive woman.

"Here's your caramel blahdiblah," he says. (Liberties with dialogue have been taken. I was too irate for accuracy.) Said woman takes the mug, smiles, and replies "Thanks, hon!" Get it? It was her husband the whole time!'s

Except.

If Mr. Man has time to don an apron and be all shenanigan-y, couldn't he just as easily have made dinner? For example? Maybe scrubbed a toilet or two? Also- that's his idea of pampering his wife? Dumping [admittedly delicious] flavoring into straight-up java? Step it up, pal. And, worth a mention- Guy wants to play dress-up and the best he came up with is barista? COME ON.

Perhaps I should turn off the TV for today. Too many hard-hitting issues really get the blood pressure goin'. Time for a nap. Or a coffee break.

I do have an apron.

Just wait...

Today is stunningly gorgeous in the fair(ish) city of Chi. Like, running barefoot across the adjacent blanket in Millennium Park gorgeous. And then apologizing, for you were just trying to get a free bag of ComEd popcorn before the movie started. Which won't happen this year because the city hates my personal view of fun.

But I think you get the picture.

Sometimes days this lovely have the unexpected effect of making me sad. The 'early Sunday evening' or 'end of summer' kinda sad. And forget about an early summer evening at the end of August. My birthdays were always a major holiday in any house in which I've lived. The day itself caused jubilant explosions of awesome in my little mind- from the hour I would wake up [5am] to the last consciousness-fighting moment [2am]. Between wearing my purple and white striped skirt/top combo (which I wore every year until it went from "outfit" to "halter and "something trying to pass as a skirt"- awesome on a nine year old), and having my big sis Kate read the tale on the inside of the Super Mario Bros. Nintendo game (This is so true. I have no idea why but I flippin' loved that story), it was a truly terrific day. But somewhere in the midst of the strawberry cupcakes, NKOTB and Def Leppard dance parties, and parade of troll dolls, I'd get inexplicably sad. For a brief second I'd become all too aware that this day- my favorite- was here, it was almost over, and I'd never be farther away from it than I currently was. Silly, sure. But that's how I rolled. I was a silly roller.

This awareness has intensified over the years. But it's downright ridiculous these days. The other night as I was holding Nora and staring off into space, Peej snapped me back to attention by asking "You're sad because you love her too much, aren't you?" Which was embarrassing. Because it was true. And it had the effect of making me think harder about that, which just made me sadder. And then I teared up. And then P.J. laughed sympathetically and I laughed too, which made me cry a little harder- but now it was extremely embarrassing to be laughing and crying. So I rubbed my eyes on Nora's belly and she let out this fabulous laugh combo of "Oh, you" and utter glee.

Which started me up again.

Is it possible to be seeing lightyears into a person's future and to be unquestionably in the moment? I think it is. I cannot believe that Nora is almost six months old- and, at the same time, she's only an infant. The stuff she's doing, seemingly overnight, is kinda astounding- I'm sure not to the world at large, but as the person who carried her and sees expressions and mannerisms of myself, my husband, my loved ones...it's sometimes a bit much, that reminder of Oh my God, we actually made a person, she's totally cool, and she can hold a fork like a human being!


Just wait, I can hear people thinking. Just wait until she starts to run/swim/do cartwheels/goes to college/moves away/has a baby/wins a Pulitzer/becomes President...but I don't need to wait. I can totally see it. I look at her and see a knowing look in her eyes- and then I wonder where that came from. I can call up- with total clarity- the moment that P.J. put her in my arms and I felt that soft skin against my cheek, nuzzled that stretchy pink hat against my nose. I have not forgotten the last night of my pregnancy, feeling her kick somewhere between my ribcage and my esophagus as I lay in bed and promised that I'd try to forgive her for this kinda stuff. Or the day that we first saw "her" in an ultrasound, this wide and gaping mouth singing an aria for her hands. It's been both an eternity and over in the time it takes a baby spoon to thwack to the floor.

Heck, I can see my wedding day. The yearlong engagement and making pivotal decisions over Mario Kart. The day we moved in together- with the strawberry patch and crabapple blossoms and the giddy decision to never move from that apartment ever ever ever. Or my 25th birthday, where an extremely intimidated Peej took me to a ritzy Armenian restaurant- where he felt out-classed and out-ethnicitied- but did it because a) he loved me and b) wanted to share my "culture." (And now, subsequently, can order lamajoon and kufta like a native.) Or the day I met a sweetheart of a 23 year old, with ears for listenin' and a wide smile. I can see my boyfriend. I can. And it jives in an instant with the cereal-feedin', trash totin', lawn tendin', drill carryin' guy I married, the one who sleeps best in complete solitude- but has fully accepted that his bed will always house two cats and two ladies who sleep like starfishes.

"And just wait," Peej told me last night as I was sorrowfully mashing my pillow (why are beds the primo locales for feelin' sad?) "Just wait," he said as he indicated Nora's room across the hall, "There are others we haven't even met."

Which was, at once, sad and wonderful and exhilarating and terrifying and romantic and cool.

Kinda like my birthdays. And my twenties. And this clean-slate of a day with my fabulously teensy and wonderfully growing wee babe.

So I'll go and enjoy it. Fully. I'll dress her up in something a little ridiculous and take her into the sunshine that she fears so much. I will quite possibly nap with her on a bed that has not been made- and might not be made any time in the near future. And later, when she falls asleep and I begin to mourn the ending of a day that promises to abut a rainy Friday- I'll try to keep it in check. There's nothing that keeps me in the moment quite like the aftermath of a baby's day.

At least 'til she hits 13.

Oh my God.

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.)

Forget the SwaddleMe- swaddle ME.

I am tired.

I haven't been this tired since- well, never, I guess. Which is a horribly constructed sentence. As was that one.

Here's a bit of a confession: I never, not even once, pulled an all-nighter in college. Nope. Never needed to. Most of my classes were tailored towards subjects and habits in which I already excelled; crazy amounts of reading each night, papers about my feelings (like a blog!), projects and presentations wherein I basically got to make 'em laugh, show some shiny objects, and make it home in time for my afternoon nap. Not that I glided, but...I certainly wasn't pushing myself towards the Accelerated Sciences. Which we did have. I've heard.

Sure, I stayed up waaay too late working on shows, a fabulous TV series or two, the occasional layout meeting for one of the school's papers (the awesome one)- but those were fun. And I could sleep in until dinner the next day.

But this- this is new. This kinda eyelids-propped-up-by-toothpicks, accidentally-drooling-on-someone-ELSE's-shirt type of sleepy? Unheard of. It's so outside the realm of my imagination that, for the past few days, I've been absolutely certain I'm coming down with something horrific.

Sure, having a new kid is exhausting. Work also makes one tired. Owning a home? Absolutely. But- as our baby has slept through the night since one month of age (sorry), the kiddos at work have been Super Helpers, AND nothing has fallen apart on the house recently...I was sure that something else was up.

So I Googled my symptoms.

As it turns out, a combination of fatigue, slight queasiness, tiredness (apparently different than fatigue- I was surprised) and body aches could be indicators of the following:
-Pregnancy (I am not. I promise this. Although, cosmically, I do have it coming for joking about it.)
-Juvenile Diabetes (Or Diabeetus, as Wilford Brimley says. This is most likely not the case, however.)
-Apricot seed poisoning (Hmm.)
-Cherry seed poisoning (!!)
-Clubbed toes (I think I would have put "clubbing of my toes" as a symptom, thankyouverymuch)
-Sudden death (This is a disease? Apparently, a warning sign for this is- I am so serious- "truck accident.")

P.J. suggested that perhaps I was just really tired. I responded with a Fatality from Mortal Kombat. (Okay, not really. I keep forgetting to hold down 'B'.)  I then proceeded to microwave ABSOLUTELY NOTHING- for two minutes- and look around the kitchen for where I put a nonexistent bowl for the next ten. I followed that up by demanding that P.J. make some brownies and, when he awesomely did, I forgot that he wanted to have some of the batter bowl, too. Yep, I ate the whole thing. Didn't even realize that I had any until he asked me where it went. At this point, so overcome with guilt, exhaustion and, let's be honest, confusion, I began to cry like my arm was broken AND had just found out that there was no Tooth Fairy. 


I've never seen a guy's jaw drop so fast.


Since then, the past couple of days have been pretty cool. Sure, I'm still totally wiped, but now I have a husband who treats me extraordinarily delicately, kinda like a mental patient. This is not [entirely] necessary, but it has yielded some great dinners- one of which is something we've dubbed "engagement pasta" (nice try, buddy, I'm not falling for that one again)- and some special Jewel trips for yums which contain no nutritional value whatsoever. But make the soul feel good.

Also, when our daughter decided to wake up and say hello waaay earlier than was kind, P.J. went and hung out with her for a bit. This is a) really sweet and b) probably the safer option, as I was swatting at the baby monitor like a wayward alarm clock.

"What is that," I asked, looking for all the world like a stunned, trapped opossum.
"Nora," P.J. said, already holding our diapered and swaddled baby.

Have I mentioned how great he is? He's great.

So today I will make him dinner, pack him a sandwich for tomorrow, do some of his laundry, bathe the child (okay, that last one isn't really for HIM, per se, but she is kinda stinky) and try my darndest to not harm the homestead in any way. It's the little things that make a marriage work.

OH! And before I forget- hahahahaha- it's recently come to my attention that some fans o' the blog (people I'm not even RELATED to!) weren't aware that there's both a Monday and a Thursday posting. It's true. All this- twice a week! My goodness. That's a lot of minutiae and ramblings from a gal who- let's be honest- should really be doing about eighty other things.

Like the dishes.

Or writing something for which she could get paid.

Or- wait a sec- why is the fridge open?

No babies were harmed during this posting. I'm pretty sure.

If this jinxes it then I am sorry, but...it seems to be Spring. Real Spring. Like, average of 50 degrees (sometimes 85! Sometimes...40), at times darned rainy, but always with that smell of fresh(ish) air. And perhaps that scent coming from the neighbor's yard. But whatever. I'll take it.

This past week alone I took Nora outside in no less than five baby-totin' contraptions: the Maya sling, the hip carrier (as in, on my hip- I have lost all hopes of being "hip." Which may not even be a word anymore), the Snap n' go stroller with the carseat, the Maclaren strolly...and straight up carrying her. Wild, I know.

She loves every single one of these ways of being held. Really. In the sling: "I love grabbing your hair and chewing on your collarbone!" The carrier: "I'm going to happily kick you in the belly and back simultaneously!" The Snap n' go: "Look at you looking at me in the garage!" The Maclaren: "These big girl straps are fabulous- as long as we stay in the dining room!" And carrying: "Do not let my wild noodle/starfish amalgamation dance convince you that I am not THRILLED to be in your arms!"

Until...we go outside.

Then it's the same pose, regardless of contraption: face against mine (if applicable), hands acting as blinders against the awful onslaught that is Fresh(ish) Air. If she's in her stroller, she takes a blanket, animal, extra fabric from the suncover- whatever- and holds it to her face.

And this prompts some well-meaning person to "suggest" that Nora probably can't breathe.

To which I reply that I'll promise to keep an eye on her!

And on the topic of advice...in my short time as a mother and my lengthy time as one being unable to receive constructive criticism, I've realized that there are two types of acceptable advice. They are as follows:

Timely: "Oh my goodness, your child is floating away!" This is especially helpful if you didn't know that your child was floating away.

and...

Jovial relating: "I remember that my son used to love floating away! Sometimes I tie him to the dock, though. Have you ever thought of that? Isn't having children fun?" This is okay because it a) makes you feel like you're not an awful parent and b) makes you feel like you're in a secret club. Secret clubs are fun.

The type that is not okay is Talking At Someone And Refusing To Stop Until You Agree To Rear Your Child Identically To Theirs. For example, "My kid hated the water. I wouldn't put yours in the water. Have you thought of having her tested for water allergies?" These people have Experience and they need to be stopped. This type of advice-giver Means Well and belongs to the club of That's Not How We Did It In My Day.

Which is quite possibly true.

But a long time ago people used iodine as suntan oil and sold women as property. These were not the same two time periods, but I think I've made my point.

I think it's safe to assume that if the mother-like person is nearish to the small, babylike person and- (and this is a big 'and')- the child is not aflame, submerged or has something poking in or out of them, we can all rest assured that the semi-competent adult is On It.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to make sure that my stomach-sleepin', binky-mashin' infant hasn't wrapped her blanket around her head.

But not before I eat three more of the Easter cheoreg biscuits- the recipe for which has been passed down from my Armenian nana...and tastes more like my Irish nana's soda bread. I am not the world's best baker- I admit this. However, they are tasty, they are sweet, they are portable.

Victory.

And maybe perhaps I'll snag some more of Nora's Easter candy. She loves the coconut Hershey's kisses and Reese's mini cups. She does.

But not as much as her parents love playing Easter Bunny. Just as good as playing Santa, in my opinion. Cannot wait to try out "Tooth Fairy."

But, I really can. I'm enjoying the heck out of my five month-old daughter's daily routine and am not gonna rush this aging process AT ALL. Although, it'll be nice when she can hold the beer bottle on her own.

My arms get tired by the end of the day.

Too nice of a day...

...to play each other for a fool.

But I did, anyhow.

I spent a goodly bit of the morning trying to convince my immediate family that I was expecting our second kid before the end of the year. Oh, the hilarity of mass emails. Here's how it went down:

-Kate, the savviest and quickest on the email draw of all of 'em, thought it was hilarious.
-Kate's second email reminded me of the time I put ice cubes in shoes and forgot the "baggie" part. (Look- this kind of awesome wit takes a few years to hone.)
-Tom was stoked at the beginning of the email...and then a little disappointed by the "April Fool's" line. I regret this.
-My mother, with a point for snappy comeback, pretended she was unable to read to the end- but would later- and was SO EXCITED for us. (I responded with a 'p.p.s.' saying that, with futuristic technology, I already knew that they'd be twins. Mazel tov!)
-Emily, apparently unable to read to the end of the email because she was on the commuter line (It's not a trial subscription of the NY Times, E, you can read beyond the headline), was genuinely excited. She even convinced our nephew Cole to call me up and scream 'Congratulations!' That part was fabulous, even if Em is no longer speaking to me.
-Rachel, my father, and- most notably- P.J., have yet to check their email. (That last one is the most troubling. Maybe he did read the email and is now drinking away the morning. He's a busy guy. Maybe he didn't read to the end, either? He could have been on a commuter line.)

And now, for the real news.

Or something I like to call All Of These Thoughts Occurred During Twenty Minutes In The Car With The Radio On:

-There is a band called Rock Sugar. The track I heard was a mashup of "Don't Stop Believing" and "Enter Sandman," called "Don't Stop The Sandman." It's like they knew I'd be listening and wanted me to cry tears of gratitude. Unfortunately, the closet they're coming to Chicago is Elgin, IL. We'll probably miss the tour, this go-round. But now I am aware.

-Different station said they'd be playing "all Vans, all the time." Off the top of my head I listed Van Morrison, Van Halen (Van Hagar, potentially?), maybe Ludwig van Beethoven? Throw in a showing of Van Helsing and I will not leave the car.

-New station: new question. When did Cher become Cher? If you listen carefully- or actually not that carefully- there's a big difference between "I've Got You, Babe" and "Believe." Okay, there's a lot of differences. But specifically, vocal quality and mouth shape. When did Cher's mouth shape become a parody of a drag queen's impersonation of a Cher song? Think about it. And discuss.

-And finally, there's a Telemundo ad for a new show called Donde' Esta Elisa(?) that I am absolutely going to watch. They got me- and I hated them for this- by plastering 'missing' posters all over my neighborhood (95% Hispanic, so it very well could have been legit) with a picture of a smiling mid-twenties girl named ELISA. The ad yesterday clarified it (slightly) by admitting it was a show, it's airing on Telemundo, and Elisa is missing. There is absolutely no room on my TV docket- let alone for a show that is 1000% in another language- but I think it'll be a cross between Lost (which I hate) and Twin Peaks (which I love.)

So I will watch.

By the way, I know what killed Laura Palmer.

It was ADD whilst driving.

Friends: 0. (Sigh.)

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

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


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


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


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


And let's not forget...


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


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


Let's take it back down a notch to-


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


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


These things annoy a ton of people. I understand.


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


Just sayin'.


*****


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


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


Hugs (with arms, not quotes),
Keely

Vodka tonic, stirred with a binky.

Today is rainy and, as my youngest sister used to be fond of saying, dank.

It's hard to get moving on days like today. I've found it's made harder when one is woken up- not by one's newborn- but by one's humongo tabby at 5am. To be fair, the cat had important business to deal with at 5am. Atop the armoire. Whining over our heads. And then shrieking as he rode the pivoting standing mirror to the floor. And by "rode" I mean "fell onto."

He may or may not have taken frames and a vase with him.

(Nora, in bed between us, slept through this! She was, however, woken up when an email on my Bberry vibrated my bedside table.)

6am: The kitchen trashcan (and thusly the kitchen) smelled like coffee and onions, not exactly one of those invigorating 'get up and go' scents.

Although, to be fair, that's probably what I smell like, too.

Thankfully, PJ took the garbage out.

I wish someone would take me out. (See what I did there?)

I vaguely remember telling PJ at 4am that I was happy the glass of water next to the bed was lime seltzer. 'Cause that's really fancy.

This joint [lifestyle] is really jumpin'  [tucked in at 8pm].

Nora, bedecked in a squirrel (sqwo) tee and yoga pants, is looking at me like "TGIT.' The mini nanny (nani?) workaday life is really taking it's toll on her. If it's possible for an almost-5 month old to adapt the facial expression of a sullen 14 year old whenever she's in the car...well, then I spend over an hour a day in the Passat with my teenage self. (Pleasant and thankful.)

I feel like Nora starts out the day with a jar of goodwill towards us all- and, without fail, I spend my day squandering it. Transit! Interrupted naps! Incorrect bath friend choices! (Always the starfish. Do not pull that orca junk.)

And it's a big jar with which to begin.  Epcot big.  (I originally felt the need to elaborate with "Spaceship Earth," but I have a feeling you were on it with 'Epcot.')

Back to Thursday.

Nora just sneezed and Lil asked if that was Nora or her. Presumably she'd  know if she had sneezed, but the plastic big band set she's rockin' IS awfully distracting.

Awfully.

And when I sang You Are My Sunshine upon request, Lily asked who it was for.

You, I told her.

"You're not thinking about Nora?"

Nope.

"Please don't look at her for my song."

Sometimes I think being almost 3 would be marvy.

9am: Seven year old J asked for colder water. I suggested ice. She rebutted that adding cubes takes too long to cool water. I begged to differ and proceeded to take her water bottle, added ice, shook it up all fancy-like (lots of extraneous elbow action) and gave her the COLDEST WATER SHE'D EVER HAD. (Her words.)


I felt awesome, until I realized that I had inadvertently shown a first-grader how to chill a martini.


And in Aneurysm Watch 2010 News: I've broken two more things from other people's fridges this week. One was a container of Greek yogurt (the only honey one, of course- there were loads of blueberry yogurts just waiting to be annihilated, but NO) and a hand-crafted root beer.


Two more signs that these situations did not occur anywhere near my fridge: those are awesome things to have in one's fridge.


And since I have a habit of not wasting food (except perhaps a fudgesicle in the freezer that I do believe we moved with as well as a tupperware of cabbage that may well have fermented) I had to finish these two items off.


The families for which I nanny would have no problem with me tossing these items- in fact, they'd probably be concerned otherwise- but it's not in my nature. Sadly.


The yogurt was fabulous. Sure, there were a couple of plastic shards that I narrowly avoided (nice try, shards) but the honey on the bottom [top] was truly delicious. Sadly.


The root beer was an exercise in stealth, for if anyone under the age of ten had seen me downing it, they. Would. Have. Wanted. Some. And I try not to push root beer for brekkie. As soon as it hit the floor and started fizzing, I rushed it to the sink and saved as much as I could- as covertly as I could- as quickly as I could. Sadly.


I think I got the one with extra carbonation. (And bourbon vanilla extract!)


There's only so much you can expect on days like today. So, you put on your Hampshire College hoodie (motto: Try To Come To Class, Okay?), make a blanket tunnel for wombats and curl up until the sun comes back out.


Maybe even let the children join you.

Gonna need a bigger Mama Bear mug.

Okay, the weather was amazing on Thursday. And Friday. Like, 70 degree amazing. Open the windows, happily spring-clean (when it's so gorgeous out, it doesn't feel like cleaning. More like moving stuff around so the breeze can hit everything) and force my child out of doors- that kind of amazing weather.

I took Nora to our neighborhood park and met a woman who had perhaps just been handed her baby. She was incredibly impressed with everything I was doing for Nora ("What's that on her HEAD!?" "Uh, a hat?") and straight-up told me that she didn't know how to do anything for her kid. Oh boy!

Seriously. The gal was asking me about feedings, bedding, sleeping...and, contrary to how I may appear on the streets, I am not Dr. Spock. Or Mr. Spock, either. My knowledge of All Things Child is only so-so (and I am excellent at showing and feeling emotions.) I was like- Look, lady. I put my sweatpants on one leg at a time. Motherhood, insofar as five months has shown, is about intuition of your child. But maybe pull the sun cover over his eyes? He's on fire.

Later, while Nora napped, I took the opportunity to change all of the sheets in the house. The windows were open, sun was streaming in, a gentle breeze was billowing the curtains...I felt downright Donna Reed. I love feeling like Donna Reed. Of course, it was right around then that I realized the sheets were NOT fitting. I had started with the wrong corner and didn't have enough length to fit it to the bottom. Ha HAH! So I rotated. Now, there are four corners on a bedsheet, right? Two are for the top and two are for the bottom. Usually. You have a fifty-fifty chance of getting the correct corner. Unless you are me and over-zealously rotate, skipping the corner you desire and instead leading you (me) to believe that you have somehow ended up with a miniature perfect square. Maybe a wall hanging?

Don't pretend you've never done this.

However, it was during this sheet kerfuffle that I noticed Bean, the smaller of the two cats (and the one that a friend has deemed as having fur inside of his head as well) staring, frightened, out of the bedroom window. He's a bit of an 'indoor kid' as well. The sudden sounds and gusts of wind from the street were a little much for him after a winter of hiding underneath blankets and piles of laundry. Seriously, every passing car and child running by elicited the same deer (cat?) in headlights look. I know that look.

Maybe I should sign them both up for chess.

The next morning, of course, we awoke to blustery flurries, grey skies and chilly temps. I staved off a temper tantrum by hibernating with Nora and Peej- I think we watched about five hours of TV and movies, including but by no means limited to The Wizard, Jeopardy and at least three episodes of Clean House. At one point P.J. was sent to the Middle Eastern bakery down the road for spinach and cheese pies, string cheese, and honey balls. The honey balls were an impulse buy- and an exceptional one at that.

The rest of the weekend was an embarrassingly domestic and dull (read: perfect) time. I emptied medicine cabinets. Threw out expired makeup and products (quite possibly for the first time since my YM subscription ran out.)  Started a Facebook group extolling the virtues of proper grammar and punctuation- but, oh, HAHA, went overboard on the punctuation. (My name is Keely and I love to hyphenate.) Some people had a field day with that one, which reminded me of the time I errantly mispronounced 'Linux' in a room full of Dungeon Masters.

I still think I came out ahead that day. When all was said and done, they were still Dungeon Masters.

But now, apparently, it's Monday. And as Jay-Z says, 'We on to the next one.'

I think he was talking about oil changes and packages o' pampers, don't you?

Hoodies, hoodies, everywhere.

Okay.

This weather.

It's been pseudo-springtime here for a couple of weeks and it's been fantastic. Sure, it gets chilly again at night, but it's been quite the welcome reminder that spring is coming.

Earlier this week, however, the weather people told me that it was gonna be close to 70 degrees today (noaa.gov- that's right, I use NASA's weather people). I have been so excited for this day to get here that I [mentally] planned out three or four different hoodie/yoga pants combos. Last night I checked once more before bed- to find out that it would be mid-fifties at best.

A fine temperature for March. Heck, tropical for March in Chicago.

I [mentally] added another layer for the day's outfit.

Woke up, checked again- back to 70.

Stop playing me like a lute, noaa.gov. I live here all year 'round, and the changing of the seasons is really all that keeps me going at the beginning of the year. Unless you count the Irish parade stuff. Which, clearly, I don't.

Look, meteorologists, I have an infant daughter who thinks 5am is a spiffy time to talk about our feelings, enough active and activity-laden children to fill a minivan, and, ridiculously enough, some writing I plan on finishing before Nora gets braces. I need to know that if you tell me crazy amounts of sun are coming, then CRAZY AMOUNTS OF SUN ARE COMING. My Vitamin-D intake is getting to be a desperate situation, here.

Maybe I'll start checking accuweather. They're awfully optimistic.

I'm currently wearing my mustard-yellow vintage Converse- which I love- but I'm getting the "first real sneaker of spring" callous on the back of my heels- which I do not love. After a season of winter boots followed by a few weeks of rain boots, my feet have gone soft. Kinda. It's weird to try to re-train your feet to accept athletic footwear...but if it means I'm actually out of doors wearing my shoes (and not crying because of it) we'll sally forth.

Also- Sally Forth. Not an exceptional comic strip.

SO.

I took Lily and Baby NorNor (as Lil has begun emphatically calling her- sounds vaguely Martian, but trying to get a two year old to unnickname someone is pretty darned impossible) to the library in our spring sneakers. Have you ever gone to a public library with a biggie and a little-little? I highly recommend it, as long as you like loud noises to go with your daily helping of guilt. Also- modulated observations about patrons from the Division/Clybourn neighborhood and checkouts with everyone helping with every.little.book.and.card.and.scan. Which, thankfully, I do.

And on the walk home we saw this sign in a store window: Boxers Draws (Underwear!)...which is extremely specific, if not marginally incorrect.

That's right. Draws.

I am so tired that, when I just yawned, my eyelid flipped up. (Gettin' too 'real' for you? Like all MTV 'real.') This is probably because Nora (and thusly, her parents) cannot adjust to the time change. Sure, it's an hour. Sure, infants can't tell the difference of an hour, especially when her nap schedules aren't carved into any sort of nonporous rock.

Still, she knows something has changed. And it angers her.

A lot.

She shows her displeasure by refusing to nap for longer than twenty minutes, which is, oh- the amount of time it takes to actually close the door and take the stairs. Maybe pee, if one is ambitious and extraordinarily fortunate.

I hope today's that kind of day. I feel lucky enough to pee.

And- just so you don't think I live in some sort of idyllic parenting-magazine-cover-sitting-with-a-cup-of-tea-watching-the-children-play-beautifully-typing-on-a-laptop-for-hours-and-hours kind of world- I'm gonna come clean. I start my blogs the night before.

And type before I wake her for work. Usually on my Blackberry while I'm brushing my hair. (And tossing out miniature wigs from the pileup on the brush- I will be bald by May.)

And then again in the car if Peej is driving. (I am law-abiding, thankyouverymuch.)

And during the first nap- if I don't hafta pee.

Perhaps again during Lily or Scout's naps...as long as Nora isn't awake and sweetly yelling directly into my nostril.

And try to finish it up before "lunch." (I don't think it can be considered a real meal if you're hovering over the sink and choking on a grape.)

Oops, I think I've gone too far from Don't Think My Life Is Plush directly into the territory of Please Don't Pity Me.  It all evens out by the weekends. Nora gets to chomp on P.J.'s chin, I eat lovely meals while sitting on all types of furniture...and I get to pee. A lot.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to read a chapter of Encyclopedia Brown and The Case of The Secret Pitch.

To Nora. We got it for Julia from the library.

Neither are here right now...but I'll just have it out and ready. Maybe open.

Oh! Good! Nora's up.

Storytime...

I much prefer The Pogues.

The Ides of March. Wow. This is kinda serious, as far as days go. I suppose. Also, it's my cats' sixth birthday, so for me it's not so much a bad luck day as it is an awesome celebratory pet day. Happy birthday, Ender and Beanie! Tuna in smallish dishes for days! (Or for exactly one meal!)

Yesterday was Pi Day, you know, 3.14- blahdiblahblahnumbers. But as I am married to a man with the symbol for pi tattooed on his shoulder blade, this is a big deal. (We celebrate allll the holidays at Chez Schoeny.) And yes, that's right,  I still count on my fingers, but happened to find and fall in love with a math..."guy". "Nerd" is harsh..."geek" is a little too techie. Aficionado? Lover o' numbers? Drunk at Mardi Gradi, forty bucks burning a hole in the ol' pocket, way too close to a tattoo parlor?

I like that one.

The day before that (does the fun ever stop?) was the day when I decided to corn beeves and steam cabbage...and dress my infant daughter in a shamrock dress and lime green tights. (I would like to see you try to convince me that Nora is NOT one of my collectible porcelain dolls. It cannot be done.) This is how I celebrate St. Patrick's Day lately. Staying in, curing meat, watching G-rated flicks. Way before I even had a kid I had tired of the pub crawling rainy day (somehow it ALWAYS rains on St. Pat's weekend) face-painty drunken revelry/stupidity. It kinda seems like the same crowd that would be out there anyhow on a weekend- just [scantily] dressed in green.

Seriously. I bet I can tell you what happened:

a) At the dyeing of the Chicago River, someone fell in.
b) Wanting to look good/hot/Irish, someone wore inappropriate shoes/outerwear and fell/got cold.
c) Dropkick Murphys played somewhere, and someone got pumped full of pride.
d) Outside of a bar, a girl cried to her friends.
e) In a packed ladies' room, a girl cried to her friends.
f) Someone met their soulmate. Temporarily.
g) More Jameson  was consumed in Lakeview than by the entirety of Cork County. For the year.

Also, why the green beer? Real Irish beer should be...brownish. Or a dark reddish. Or a light tannish. The 'ish' does not include green.

But we digress. Back to the weekend.

Last night Pi Day was celebrated even further with warm pumpkin pie that Neil brought over (see what I did there?) and  ice-cold Chelada beer from Nate (see: pregnancy posts. I love this stuff) so that the guys could watch The Pacific miniseries and bond over talk of war. To the best of my knowledge, none of them have ever been in the service- excepting perhaps Boy Scouts of America- but apparently nothing bonds them better. You should have seen the Band of Brothers days. Or, rather, I didn't see P.J. on Band of Brothers days. (But hey, if they give me a slice of pie and a beer while I'm writing- game on.)

And now- two products that thoroughly, completely bother me.

QUIETUS. For tinnitus. I heard about this on the radio. It, you know, "quiets" that ringing, buzzing, terrible sound in your ears. The website actually has sound clips of what types of noise can be heard in the overworked inner ear. Thanks, Quietus, I couldn't really picture what "shriek buzzing" would sound like. Does it work? Maybe. And that's fabulous. However, the product comes in a dual action eardrop and TABLET? I  can't- and don't want to- imagine how if the eardrops fail, chewing on something might work to tamp out the aftereffects of "rock music." Sure, sure, chewing gum helps your ears stop popping on an airplane...but I think we [they] should go directly to the source and make the eardrop stronger. I am no student of medicine. Could someone explain this better to me?

And LATISSE. To grow eyelashes. I have definitely mentioned this before, but it still bothers me. Everyone loves long eyelashes- especially the advertising industry- but the side effect? Darkening of irises. That's right, your gorgeous baby blues? Now a muddy brown. But your lashes are...slightly longer! Not worth it, I think. And I already have brown eyes! Look, falsies are still being made for a reason, ladies.

Lashes. False lashes.

I've left you with enough to ponder for a Monday morning.

I think you should all go do the "things" you do between blog postings.

I'll wait.

Through-line free since 2008!

Sometimes I make notes on my phone, stuff I want to remember and randomly insert into a blog post. I use my version of shorthand- which is really not shorthand at ALL, nor is it terribly short- which proves confusing, occasionally.

Today's note- vmpre bathroom. (See? That second word wasn't even any different!) I was pretty sure I meant "vampire" bathroom, which made me feel good to figure out. Then I felt badly again, realizing that I still had no idea what a vampire bathroom was.

I was thoroughly, utterly confused for perhaps way too long. Was this a True Blood reference? Blade? A bathroom in my house? (No longer scary, but perhaps this was an old jot?)

Then it hit me. The night that we saw Avatar at Webster, I ran into the bathroom pre-3 hour long viewing. Have any of you ever been in this ladies' room? I thought that there were only about five or six stalls with opposing sinks and mirrors. When I went to check myself out in the full-length mirror on the far wall- I saw nothing. No reflection. My first thought- obviously- was that I was a vampire. Yep. (Apparently at any given time I am one step away from believing something supernatural is occurring. Please do not ever 'punk' me.) So what really happened?

I was looking into a doorway. That's right. What I thought was framing for a mirror was actually a pass-through for another identical set of five or six stalls and opposing sinks. And what's amazing...is that this is not the first time I'd been to this bathroom. Or had this thought.

I've probably jotted it down before and been unable to decipher. Aren't you glad we figured it out?

And now onto- pesticides.

I have never cared much about food additives, chemicals in beauty products- although I've always been staunchly against animal testing, unless it's voluntary, or unless the animal looks REALLY pretty afterwards- or harsh things in household cleaners. Heck [one of ] my middle names is 'Splenda.'

However, my mother sent me this article yesterday. It will haunt me forever. Basically, it concerns a number of household products that are slowly killing you dead. Like the rubber duck.

I've always thought mothers and fathers who were strictly organic and chemical-free were a little a)crazy hippie, probably a holdover from my Hampshire days, or b)able to throw around their copious piles of cash on the trendy new "green" product. (I put "green" in parenthesis, for most of these families do not recycle. Just spend money on expensive "green" cleansers. See? I did it again.)

I swore I would never be one of those But What About The Children parents, nor one of those who only bought free-range piles of meat to go with my macrobiotic side dishes. I guess I always felt that stating the only types of food my child could eat would kinda go hand in hand with PickyEaterdom, which- as everyone knows- is a one way ticket to anorexia. (I had a LOT of ideas before I had a child.)

So what happened? I had a child.

Suddenly, every rash is a chemical burn, every projectile vomit is a direct response to the second cup of coffee I ingested that morning (that one's probably true) and the Clorox which, months before, was okey-dokie for (in theory) scrubbing the bathroom, was now slowly poisoning my kid's lungs, brains and toenails.

I'll admit it. Having a baby has made me certifiably insane about Products and Food. And not because I want to keep up with the Joneses nor turn up my nose at People Who Hate The Planet.

It's because I'm madly in love with Nora. I get it now. I don't want things around her that will stunt her growth (she's already pretty short) or halt her brain development or give her a moments pain for even a second of her long, wonderful life. I get it. As it turns out, we are responsible for everything that happens to her up to and including the age of eighteen. This is in the booklet you get at the hospital. You nod and smile. Because she's just a person- a wonderful person, mind you, but no more deserving of a clean planet or Egyptian cotton than anyone else you know. Right?

Oh, hah ha. How we are now laughing.

Okay, too heavy for a Thursday morning.

The other day on Facebook I feel like I really keyed into a portion of the general populace's brain. Specifically, I mentioned that Mayor McCheese made me laugh until I pee. This is true. Something about that random figure with a sash (why the sash?) and ginormous burger-head gets me going every time. Especially when I think of the Hamburglar chasing after him and trying to steal his big ol' head of meat.

That paragraph took me way too long to type.

However, the comments, emails and texts that started rolling in made me realize- the majority of us have a shared response to McDonalds and their cast of lovable, wacky characters.

We all think they're flipping insane.

Apparently, everyone wanted a party at the Playland, no one gets why most of the characters run around trying to steal your milkshake/fries/burger face, and no less than two of my friends have gotten stuck in the throat of a metal burger head.

Seriously. Typing is hard when you're Ugly Cry-laughing.

This is not the first time I've posted about Mayor McCheese. (Nor will it be the last. I could write forever about this.) Also- nothin' organic in THAT last segment, eh?

I think we'll all be okay.

As long as we size up the metal burger head accordingly and wait our turns.

In like a lion, out like a...nope, still a lion.

Can we talk about Avatar?


That's right, I'm the gal who posts about a movie the day AFTER the Oscars. But, as I'm not invested in the Oscars at all- weird for a writer n' actor, no?- I feel no shame. Heck, I rarely even see movies in the theater. As stated before, we [P.J.] are [is] a strictly Netflix home. 


That said- Avatar. We saw it in 3-D over at Webster Place. Peej really wanted to see it in 3-D, and since Alice In Wonderland was going to replace it in a matter of days...of we went. Nora had a party with her favorite [only] sitter Teeny. Whom I was in the Vivian Girls' show with in 2008 when I understudied every female part, including those of people just walking in front of the theater. AND for whom I got a nanny gig a couple of years ago. Thusly priming her for the occasional Nora (or whomever)-watchin'. (Alllllways thinking.) 


Anyway. Avatar. It was...long. Fun, but long. I still possess a child-sized bladder and pregnancy has done nothing to help this condition. (Plus, we had just downed a humongous soda to "split" with our quick burgers at Five Guys- I wanted a Diet Coke and P.J. wanted something decidedly full-sugar. He compromised by doing half and half. I'm gonna go ahead and say that the irony was intentional.) Of course, once we got to the theater he raced through the line to buy a popcorn, a gargantuan Cherry Coke and an industrial-sized box of Raisinets. I am married to a fourteen year old boy.


So. THE MOVIE. Here's what I came away with: humans are bad. Very bad. Also, for all its talk of saving energy and worlds and such...I couldn't help but be overly aware of the mammoth carbon footprint being all stomped by the production, the tour circuit, the trailers, the craft service table, etc, etc. This was no indie shoestring budget jobber. Ohhh, Hollywood. Also, as Teeny put it, "I've already seen Pocahontas and Fern Gully." Although that did inspire her to Netflix Fern Gully for a repeat viewing. A venture for which Nora and I totally want in on. And yes, the movie was gorgeous. And now I want a dragon-like being. Again.


Friday brought a very exciting milestone to the Schoeny household- food! Nora tried her very first bowl of beyond-bland rice cereal mixed into just the right kinda mushy consistency. Mmm MMM! She didn't care so much for the cereal as food, exactly, but in terms of a new toy or activity? Game on. 


Friday night is also, as everyone knows, when P.J. and I watch The Soup. That's right, this half hour program at 9pm Central Time is something I look forward to all week. It means: Nora will be asleep, work is done for the week, I won't be starting any new projects before 7am and a beer/lemonade/embarrassingly herbal tea will be in my hand. <---lame, I know. However, as we got Nora ready for bed (jammies, sleepsack, sleep cap, sleep mittens- it is chilly in her bedroom- two books, five songs, sponging of her gums under the guise of toothbrushing, monitors on, humidifier elephant on, mini spaceheater on- it is COLD!- and noise machine on- her room faces the Kedzie alley, woot woot!) I noticed that Peej was extremely tired. His rendition of Corduroy was, shall we say, sleepy. By the time Nora fell asleep in her crib (I think the bedtime routine wears her out, frankly), P.J. had also faceplanted on a giraffe blanket, a copy of Goodnight Moon and one of the cats. 


Boy, was I peeved. 


So peeved that I downed a Newcastle and half a box of Girl Scout samoas (no court in the land would convict me) and watched the show By. Myself.


Peeved.


And faceplanted into a pile of folded towels, a monkey blanket and a fleece with ears before the show ended.


The next day was ungodly warm for March in Chicago. We celebrated by going outside and walking around the various neighborhoods that are SO close to being on the Albany/Irving Park line and yet so much nicer. So so much nicer. Nora had her first stroller walk not bundled to the eyeballs and celebrated by...falling asleep and shoving a giraffe blanket into her face to block out all the fresh air and sunlight. We kept removing it and exclaiming things like "Nora, look! Birdhouses that haven't been vandalized! Breezes that don't smell like [delicious but NON-STOP] Columbian grills!" She responded by squawking like a howler monkey and holding the blanket even tighter to her face, thankyouverymuch. Ah well, at least we aired her out.


On Sunday night we went to the Harris Theater and saw The Magnetic Fields in concert. (Two dates in one week, you ask? It's true. We are very much in love. And Teeny is making bank on our impulsive decisions.) The show was superbly awesome and our seats were kinda incredible. However, the crowd, as indie crowds are wont to be, was dressed so much better than I was. Not nicer, mind you, just better. The Old Town School of Folk Music crowd, as Peej so aptly calls them, has a knack of out-whatevering me. Dressy event? I wear a dress. They wear a 1950s housedress from their grandmother and a perfectly ironic bob. Casual event? I wear jeans. They wear jeans that, while not marketed as "skinny" jeans, come off looking rather skinny anyhow. And while I try to shove my unruly falling-out mane into something resembling the ol' I Took A Shower Today look, THEY get to tie their hair up with a rubber band and look like a trillion bucks. 


But the show was still terrific. 


And on our way home? Realizing that we never ate dinner- it happens more often than you'd think- we stopped by the grandest of restaurants on Clark Street...the Weiner's Circle. Friends here will tell you that my love for the Weiner's Circle has only gotten stronger over the years, even though I can no longer wait outside at 3am to get my fix of a char-cheddar red hot with everything except sport peppers as well as an absolutely horrific talking-to by the underage and sassy as heck counter girls. (An actual overheard tidbit- "Nice pleather." "As nice as your weave.")


It was delicious. Obviously.


But now it's Monday, and before Nora and I head off to work we must attempt to destroy this pile of laundry (I swear that people are stopping by and adding their laundry to my machine- I can't possibly own this many towels) and bat at surfaces in an attempt to say that I cleaned. 


Maybe I'll shower. Once again, let's all dream big this week.