Little Gorilla Design, a.k.a. P.J. Write This Down.

When I was a little kid, my Mom and I used to pretend to "shop" various catalogs. We'd have cups of tea and wield big ol' pens, circling home goods, knickknacks, clothing, and the Wish Book. I circled and craved everything- not because I was greedy (pipe down, sisters) but because I could genuinely make room in my heart for every single item in completely different ways. When I love something, I really love something and it becomes part of my Things (or 'Fings', as the Little Littles say.) Due to this all-encompassing love [for awesomeness], it's been said that I'm exceptionally easy to shop for.

It just got easier.

Cindy Perkins at Little Gorilla Design has taken the guesswork outta what you can purchase for my Christmas, Valentine and birthday presents. Maybe even Saint Patrick's and Arbor Days as well. She has created wearable works of art- not to mention seriously sweet kiddo products- that are simply fabulous.

Sure Keely, you scoff. You're reviewing their product. You hafta like it!

To that I reply- Nope and yeah. No, I am not obligated to love anything...but yes, I am compelled to love these belt buckles. They are completely covet-worthy. Especially if you've only recently gotten back into pants that necessitate an actual belt buckle.

Let's start with this one.

Yep. I could easily begin and end with this one. I'm gonna go ahead and call it Pink FancerPants. (If I wore this, it would easily be the fanciest thing on my person. By a lot.) The inspiration and design behind these began with Cindy creating her own scrapbook papers and working from there, adding Swarovski crystals and other magic along the way. (Anyone who has ever received one of my handmade Valentines circa 1987-Present understands that I'm welling up at this point.)

But you know what? I'd happily take this glorious one as well.

I don't speak French- yet. Though I would sure as heck mangle my way through it for you if you purchased this Parisian beauty for me. You're welcome.

This was originally my first pick-

-But then an immediate list popped into my head of folks who would steal it from me [cough*Nat/Vicky/AtLeastFiveOthers*cough], perhaps even while I was learning French or donning fancier pants.

While I work off the self-induced hurt from hypothetical thievery, you all should seriously check out the rest of their catalog here (they even sell supra cute belts!) I could hyperlink and paste images all day, but I think you get the idea. I dig this line. You should, too.

I'd hate to be this fancy (pants or otherwise) on my own.

Keely Says Awkward Things On The Food Network...

...And Other Weekendy Things.

Compared to last weekend's glorious hibernation, I'm pretty sure this weekend has led Nora to believe that her car seat is her new nursery. (It is very nice.)

Saturday: P.J. had an audition. (Good little trick for all you actor pals out there- disregard all audition notices for one calendar year. Have a big ol' life event. Despair a little bit about your career. One year to the day later- you'll be batting auditions away with a stick. A soft stick. Because you'll still kinda want to go to them.)

During this time Nora and I were to have a chill session of floor-blankie-blocks-nappin'. But a call from the Food Network changed all of that. (Doesn't it always?) The segment I was going to help tape the following day now needed me- and a few awesome friends- Saturday afternoon.

Most of my artsy friends were either working or supplementing their work with more work. (Bears season opener, anyone?) One friend who was available had her dreams of glory shot down due- yet again- to vegetarianism. (It's the meanest!) Did I mention that the show centered around adventurous eating and random types of game? (More "pheasant" and less "Connect 4.") Another pal has pneumonia. (Come on!) Crazily enough, my friend with a two year old was able to attend. Go figure.

So, she and I- and, at the last minute not Nora because Peej made it home in time- jetted down to the taping. Only to find that they had cancelled "actors" for the day. And were shooting stills of that temperamental artist known as The Kitchen.

So Leah and I went to Lincoln Station and had a beer and a Reuben apiece and enjoyed our kid-free date by...comparing labor and delivery stories. (The irony is that our friends are always at Lincoln Station and send us texts to join and we're all like- We can't. We have kids.) Sigh.

That night P.J. and I enjoyed an Outta Money, Kinda Tired, No I'm Not Cooking Date Night. (Marriage is awesome.)

The next morning we all put on our Sunday best because The Schoeny family was to be on the telly. Hopefully. When the producers asked me to return the next day, they asked if I knew a guy who'd be good on a food challenge.

Yeah, I know a guy.

And we just decided to bring Nora because, let's face it. Who's the most camera-ready of us all? Exactly. Nora= meal ticket.

We wanted to stop by the German Fest in Lincoln Square first, as Nora is a quarter German via Alsace-Lorraine (via Chicago.) We got her a bratwurst, some German potato salad and some sauerkraut- actually, she and I "shared" a plate, but I didn't get more than three bites in before she was gnawing on the Chinet. So, yeah, she likes German food. The Oompah band was a little much for her, but that just shows that she's discerning.

Started to head downtown and got a call that the taping had been pushed back one hour.

So we got some gelato. (Nora is a citizen of the culinary world.)

Drove down by the lake to kill some time and got a call saying we needed to come half an hour later than that. This put us smack dab in the middle of Nora's second nap. "She'll sleep in the car," we told ourselves. She did not. Not until we were all the way downtown and in the noisiest of 'hoods. This was also, coincidentally, when we needed to park and remove the sleeping child from the car. Ah well. I read that power naps are sometimes even more rejuvenating.

Got to the restaurant where the shindig was being filmed and met up with Leah and Kat, two of my most camera-fabulous friends. (I don't know how Leah swung the childless thing two days in a row, but rock on.) We proceeded to wait for an hour and a half in the blazing sun. They eventually told us we could come inside out of the heat- for the baby (yay baby!)- as long as we were silent during the last bit of kitchen taping. (That kitchen was a diva!) That worked for- oh- about thirty seconds. Then Nora screeched a random, happy shriek of babyhood and about twelve pairs of death-glarey eyes turned on us. So we loitered in the CVS.

Once we got going, however, it flew by. Without giving too much away, Peej and I were in a competition of sorts for a different kind of game show. We had to introduce ourselves numerous times to get the right angle/audio/dialogue and some of the stuff they had me say was a little, uh, non-family friendly?

"Tell them how much you like meat."

"Say you'll eat ANYTHING. Any kind of meat!"

"Tell them that your husband thinks he's gonna beat you BUT HE'S WRONG."

I kept it simple. And smiled a lot. A nice, 'don't listen to my words' kinda smile.

Leah and Kat hung out with Nora while we taped the segment and all was good until I dinged a stupid bell as hard as I could- in the heat of competition- and remembered at the very last second how much my daughter hates sudden frantic sounds.

So, she cried. And by "cry" I mean "purple-faced Sicilian mourner keening." Leah and Kat took her outside. And I had to keep taping. Because we were still rolling. And I was facing the street so, through the picture window I could see my baby gal soundlessly giving herself an aneurysm. But we kept going. (Watch for the part in middle of the contest where I glaze over and stare off into space and well up and bite my lip and clench my fists. Oh, TV is magical.)

And I won't tell you how it ended, other than to say that Nora was just fine and I'm pretty sure my friends are still talking to me.

We got home in time to let Nora run around nudie in the backyard while P.J. gardened and I- well, I don't know what I did much beyond telling P.J. that He Thinks He's Gonna Beat Me But He's Wrong. (It takes me a long time to get out of character.)

And I promise to discuss the season enders of Psych and True Blood- as soon as I can process them/acknowledge that I am programme-less for a few months.

But tune in tomorrow for a bonus posting- a featurette of a fabulous company (go say hi to them in the upper right hand corner!) And remember, the more you like them, the more they'll like me, and the more they like me, the more other people will like me, and maybe- just maybe- all this likin' will equal a decent paycheck which will also equal more columns and postings and features and antics.

After all, I just got the Fall L.L. Bean catalogue- and it ain't gonna mock itself.

Maybe Haunted Posts need their own blog day.

How can she post again so soon, you ask yourselves? What could have POSSIBLY gone down since Tuesday that's worth blogging about?

Not much, really. But that's kinda the point- when one's main trifecta of posting involves bodily functions/petty grievances/insignificant minutiae, it's never a slow news day.

Update- 10pm bedtime month has been defiled. Disrespected. Nay- disregarded.

And by 10pm's strongest- and loudest- proponent, no less.

I'm talking to P.J., Mr. Falling Asleep On The Couch Until 11ish. Plus, PLUS, we had gotten completely ready for bed prior to the season finale of Psych at 9pm (saved by CST programming)...and he fell asleep during the first half hour anyway. He says it counts because at least he was resting, but I say J'ACCUSE.

I'm pretty well rested, for my part, though probably not as well as you'd expect. Rage is sapping.

Other things that keep me in a state of not-quite-restiness...How about the fact that, despite public opinion and lack of actual "evidence," I know that we are 1000% haunted? It's true.

The baby gates swing open when there is NO WIND. (And only when they're unlatched/Nora's asleep. That would just be downright unsafe, otherwise.)

Or when the doorbell went nuts the other day, chiming long and short and half-rings, only to find that NO ONE WAS AT THE DOOR. (Okay, so P.J.'s fairly certain this can be explained by my getting nails and screws from the storage drawer where the backup doorbell is also stored- but that seems TOO EASY.)

And there is NO explanation for the day the TV turned itself off multiple times. Not the cable box, DVD player or Wii- although, come to think of it, why were all of those things on?- but just the TV. And no one was even sitting on the remote.

And what about those eerie sounds and unintelligible babbling at every hour of the day and night?

...Oh, right. Those are our neighbors.

Every so often, it's nicer to be haunted.

Computer screens are kinda reflective, too...

Just so you're all aware- September is 10pm Bedtime Month. This isn't a national thing or even a local thing, overmuch. Okay, maybe really locally, like the third floor of my house.

This is why we've been colossal lame-os for- oh, the last week. We eventually got tired of being tired all the time. (Initially, the proposal was for 9pm Bedtime Month but, as was pointed out to us- Thanks, Mom- 9pm is an awfully ambitious bedtime for people who like to do things such as eat dinner and acknowledge the other party in their marriage. And it is a party.) It's been going well, insofar as we've actually conked out on the couch at 9:30 a couple of times and disregarded it entirely Saturday night. (12:30- woo! Take off the lampshade, P.J.!)

Also, are you aware of how much time is wasted in that hour after dinner/kiddo's bath/kiddo's bedtime/hosing down of the homestead? That's usually when we find ourselves flopping on furniture and whining about how TIRED we are and how much we have to DO. That usually kills about an hour. Ironically, this was the hour that we reserved for Getting Things Done. Most likely, we'll ultimately find that we really don't have anything that we need to be doing, ever. That would be great.

Here were our obstacles and strengths: I don't like to go to bed super early 'cause I don't want to miss anything...but I'm quite good at writing something down and sticking to it. P.J. doesn't believe in "bedtime" if there's stuff to do like rewiring the downstairs or cleaning the gutters...but if there's any type of media present and a couch or two, he can be out like a light in ten seconds. So we've started watching movies in our bedroom around 9pm, knowing full well that I'll feel like it's a special occasion and P.J. will be lulled to sleep by the end of the opening sequence. Especially if it's subtitled.

This past weekend was one of enforced hibernation, which we thought would go hand in hand with the early bedtime thing. (I can see our list of pals slooooowly dropping away. Sigh.)

We organized all of our vinyl albums- no small task, as we've probably acquired a few hundred by this point- into stuff we need to have in the living room with the record player (Boston, Frank Sinatra, Burns & Allen Radio Hour, etc.) and stuff that could hang out in the newly available rec room off of the family room/Nora's Zone O' Toys (Christmas stuff, a positively alarming amount of Julie London records, etc). Shelves were hung- finally- and yet more mirrors now grace our walls, nooks, hallways, etc. Little known fact: Schoenys cannot walk by a mirror without turning and peeking at their reflection. True story. They can carry on convos and even be surreptitious about it- but no reflective surface can be passed without even a cursory glance.  This includes storefront windows and stainless steel fridges. The little one now winks at herself.

She gets that from her Dad, like everything else on her face.

The only time we left our property was when we had definite outdoorsy destination in mind- no more than ten minutes away, walking. Turns out we didn't need to venture all that far. Over Labor Day weekend other holidays were celebrated: The 100th anniversary of Our Lady of Mercy, the gold domed church up the block that celebrates each mass afterwards with amazing Mexican and Filipino food on its stoop, and the Central American parade that went by our block- not to be confused with last month's Ecuadorian parade nor next week's Mexican Independence Day parade. Seriously, it's been a nonstop march of crepe paper and mariachis all summer. It is THE BEST.

We took Nora over to the church's street fest for a lunch of flautas and arroz con pollo- and to allow yet more people to say hello to our "little boy." (Actual question- is pink a traditional boy color in Hispanic cultures? I would truly be unsurprised to find out that this is so.) Some teenagers performed a nifty Filipino bamboo dance...followed up by six year-olds dancing to that traditional tune, 'Pokerface' by Lady Gaga.

And a really nice gal approached me with an obvious case of mistaken identity (at least I think so- my pregnancy brain should all but be dissipated by now, yes?) and asked about my life, and so-and-so, and was I still doing whatnot? So, another burning question: is it more polite to vaguely play along in these situations, or to bluntly admit that I don't know her from Joe- or José - but that the other gal sounded really great? It's true. This Other Me apparently works with children in theatre- both things that I have done, sure- but she somehow seemed more altruistic and giving.

Because I totally went along with it. And when she told me that my son was lovely...

...I thanked her.

Labor Day, a.k.a. Nappin' Day.

            
              Take a rest, you deserve it.

              Back tomorrow.

I mock because I envy.

The single best thing that has ever been randomly sent through the U.S. Mail- ever- is something that I'm about to share with you.

It is a catalog. And it has changed my life.

Not only that, but I am also able to show you each individual item that has made me a better American- nay, human being. For- their online catalog is gonna allow me some visual aides.

Ready? (Of course you aren't. How do you prepare for something of this magnitude? As for me, I usually take a little power nap.)

Let's begin with an item I like to call- My Back Is On Fire. This gem, a.k.a. the Rock Music Men's Hoodie, features a guy who's too cool for any school (except, inexplicably, he seems to be in some sort of establishment with lovely wood paneling, so I guess he did all right for himself anyhow)- with a gigantic electric guitar on his back. And it is aflame. In blue! The color of rock! On the front you've got a nice little pick. Aflame as well, obviously. The axe not your thing? My apologies, Mr. Rick Allen, how about the flaming drums? On the front is...well, another picture of a drum. I guess a random stick would be weird. My favorite part that was weirdly omitted from the online version? "Rockin' hoodies let him show a little attitude." Key word- "little." Now get back inside and sort your socks.

Up next we've got some Laughing Crazy Critters. And yes, they've actually copyrighted that phrase- so back off. There's a dog and a monkey...and they are CRAZY. Ha Ha Ha, they are shown as saying. "You can't help but join in with these merry animals." Really? I don't need any more compulsion in my life, thanks. Also- "A great pick-me-up-gift for anyone who could use a laugh." While it's nice to help friends who are down in the dumps, if I ever approach you with a wiggling stuffed animal that will force you to laugh (Ha Ha Ha), I give you full permission to hit me with it. "But Keely," you implore. "Some people like animals that bring a chuckle." Check out the product video. See if it brings anything but confusion, crazy or otherwise.

Then we've got the 40" Lighted Stars. Innocuous enough, if you can get over the fact that you've got three mammoth glowy stars on your front porch. Which, nicely enough, I can. What really sells this one for me is the non-pictured phrase (why are they making me do all the work?)- "Holiday cheer no one can overlook." ACKNOWLEDGE MY FESTIVITY.

On to the Plush Turtle Ball Pit. This is a stuffed turtle with a gaping hole in its back.
Crinkle, crinkle, it says happily, or so they'd have you believe. It's for babies and toddlers, obviously, and I adore the fact that the instructions tell you to "sit your baby inside the Turtle Activity Bag's soft shell and fill it with...25 play balls." Yeah, when I was little that was called being buried alive. Bonus feature= the balls can be "pushed through a special hole in the turtle's shell." Nope! No thank you! No special hole playing, here! Also, despite your claim that my infant will love to throw the balls and/or "roll around in them," I highly doubt that this will bring "hours of fun." Maybe a good twenty seconds before she realizes she can roll out of it. Unless I've covered her with balls.

Next is the 10 Piece Cleaning Trolly with Working Vacuum. Now, aside from the fact that you're essentially paying for cleaning supplies for your kid (Rags and a pail? Really?), the kicker is that the working vacuum comes with polyfoam pellets for your child to suction up. Let's be clear here: if and when Nora gets her own vacuum, it will be called a DustBuster and we won't have to invent messes of which she shall clean. And while I'm all for playing house n' babies' and laundry...this is downright janitorial. You can almost see the weariness in her eyes, the long nights, the no-good bum who skipped town and left her in this sitch...

I bet she wishes she had owned a Guard Your I.D. Stamp, back in those days when she was flush with cash. This handy tool allows you to- instead of troublesome shredding- simply stamp and ink and do mini art projects over any worthwhile information. Now this kinda seems akin to the workload of pushing paper through a machine, but it could be rather fun. Plus- and this is where it trumps a shredder- I'm able to "carry it in [my] purse while traveling." Phew. That would have saved me literally a minute of bothersome paper-dealin' this past week. But you know what else fits in a purse? A Sharpie.

Oh, it's time to get creepy. Thank you, La Newborn Real Life Doll Set, for filling that niche in this catalog. Not only will "little girls love playing Mommy" (not even touching that one today), but this little beastie features "soft skin," a "baby nursery scent" (I guarantee that a real nursery scent would dissuade even the most motherly of little girls) and has been "designed to capture the experience of a newborn's first few days of life." Again, really? Because- and I loved becoming a mother- the first few days are the scariest, most overwhelming and rather painful for all involved. Does the baby need to eat every fifteen minutes? Are the nurses checking your milk output with military precision? Are they weighing her and threatening to bring her to the nursery if her latch doesn't improve? No..? So by "first few days of life," you mean...she feels soft? I cry False.

And- though I could go on for each page of this epic catalog- I'll leave you with the Knit Novelty Lounge Pants. For 9.95 you can have sweatpants featuring "realistic designs." Instead of relaxing with your favorite (yet constricting!) pair of faded jeans, these products allow you to wear sweats that look like "fun pairs of pants[!]" in such styles as denim and CHAPS. You know, when you're home on a Saturday and can't find your COMFY CHAPS? Fake belt buckle and pretend back pockets aside, we're one or two accessories away from being a Village Person.




Enough of this. I have real work to do. After I put on my loungiest of outfits and fish Nora out from her ball pit, it's time to start decorating for the holidays. After we protect our I.D.s, invent messes and smell her nursery.

Ha Ha Ha.

Brefft.

That's like 'bereft,' but with less syllables and more f's. Which makes it more powerful, obviously.

Also- the iPhone and I are having words about things that are not actually words. ("Beets? Beef?" "No- brefft." "But that's not real!" "I know." "IT HAS TO BE A REAL WORD.")

Anyway, back to brefft. 'Cause I am. Last night, in the swelty Chicago heat, as I showered off the near 12 hours of planes, trains and automobiles- and then stepped into a pile of cat yuke- I wondered where my cool ocean breeze went. Or my sun-kissed skin. (Sun-kissed. Not attic-fried.) Where were the hordes of adults to watch my baby as I wrote/swam/napped on the couch?

Pretty sure breakfast is supposed to be included here as well. Where are my parents? Where is the food parade? Where is my bacon?!

And what about this view? Quite certain I signed up for three separate windows facing low tide. There are no car alarms in low tide. Nor are there pumpkin vines threatening the very foundation of the house in low tide. This is the worst ocean ever!

My daughter is thrilled to be back in her cozy bed- as opposed to a pack n' play closet wonderland- but she's only ten months old. Her sense of j'accusity is not as fully refined as mine.

Speaking of NJ, her tenth month was celebrated in a variety of towns- while she was mostly facing the wrong way. Those seatbelt laws are the meanest. This trip also coincided with the day that she decided to sleep the least sleep, ever. Ever ever. She had a decent chance of falling asleep on the flight back to Chicago- until the onboard computer decided to die. Then we had to swap planes- or, rather, sit in a new boarding gate until something happened.

Some said a plane was coming from Baltimore. Other attendants said nothing at all. My favorite of the bunch waited until we were back on a plane and Nora had dozed off on Peej's shoulder- and that's when they decided to have a loud convo over Nora's head. For a good fifteen minutes. Three of them. Loudly. About how FUN their gay coworker was. (Isn't he FUN? He always makes me laugh. SO MUCH FUN.) They had the whole plane on which to not work. The only way they could have been closer to her eardrum is if they had been braiding P.J.'s hair. And not that having a baby means that everyone has to be quiet- which, uh, it does- but you know that if Nora had stayed awake and was a cranky hot mess, they'd be the first to Evil Eye us and apologize to other passengers.

And we couldn't say anything. 'Cause, you know, Jet Blue and all.

That said, we're home. Safe n' sound. Nora's beside herself with recognition/joy at all of her possessions. And now  we're off to work.

The dust bunnies (cat bunnies?) will have to wait. As will the unpacking. And foodstuffs. Also- the nap. And the floaties in the ocean.

And my Pimm's shandy.

Although, with one trip to the corner store and a well-placed travel mug...Mama can keep this vacay going until at least Thanksgiving.

Then we switch to cider.

Total amount of sun= two hours. So far.

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

Except.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For at least an hour.

And Peej may or may not have sunken a dinghy.

It is currently a balmy 63 degrees in Cape Cod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which is good. And bad.

And very bad.

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

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

At least outfit-wise.

Time for smaller jorts!

I was all set this morning. Yep, I knew what issues were going to be blown to smithereens and how pointedly- and yet self-deprecatingly- I was gonna lay it down.

And then Nora needed breakfast. Again. (Just like yesterday!) And then while she was playing so happily with a mixture of kitchen utensils and bath books, I decided it was a good time to work out; i.e. thwack at the Wii Fit with a half-dead Wiimote. 

And after the usual guff from the console- ("Oh, hello, P.J. Wait, is that Keely? It's been SO LONG." =actual 'tude.)- I did the body test where, most mornings, it tells me that I'm overweight, am on a fast track to hunchbackville and limp like a pirate with a peg leg. 

But today- the day where I had been utterly prepared to rip into the notion of losing the "last five pounds" (bones become heavier after babies, I was gonna say) and magazines and self worth and fitness and the fact that the ice cream cartons in our freezer seem to be multiplying and making delicious offspring- on THIS day...the Wii Fit informed me that I'd met my goal.

My pre-baby weight. 

Kinda. 'Cause- and this is a huge Schoeny family secret- we lie to the Wii Fit. When it asks what kind of clothing we're wearing to work out...we tell it "parkas." No joke. Our console thinks we're doing yoga in the Arctic Circle. (They shouldn't give you the OPTION if they don't want you to take it.) So, I guess I'm pre-baby weight plus some winter gear. But- and this is the truly confusing part- I'd been lying to the Wii Fit for so long now that I can't remember if I had told it my true pre-kid weight or if I'd been adding "parka" since well before Nora came to play.

Serves me right. That said, I guess my bones lost weight. I am of some indeterminate poundage floating around my "ideal" weight. (Which is a riot anyhow- what am I gonna do now? Wear an evening gown? A bikini? A Spandex unitard? Nope- still yoga pants and an earnest tee-shirt.) 

I'll be wearing an earnest shirt tonight, by the by, at the premiere of Snapshots 2010. My play, Right On Cue, starts the evening off! Care to join? It runs through Sunday with a two performances on Saturday night (one's late, for all those folks with other shows to perform, watch, write, whatever) and it will be a grand ol' time.

And speaking of grand 'ol (but youngish, too) times- fare thee well to one of my bestest pals, Miss Annie Gloyn, soon to be Martzell, moving to L.A., gettin' outta Dodge, leaving me fabulous furniture, also terrific memories for which the photos have long been destroyed....The kind of pal that doesn't need an event- hanging out is the event. When travesties or joyfulnesses occur, she's the one to bring a baked good, a scented candle and a hand-written note- she's also the kind to write a thank-you for a thank-you (and one time, even, for a thank-you.) She'll have a drink waiting for you at the bar and a spare toothbrush in the apartment. Yet, while all of these things are nice, they don't make a best friend.

Nearly eight years of trips, randomsauce sleepovers and impromptu dinner parties make a friend. But remembering and celebrating important, whimsical, trivial and teensy tiny things (like caring for an ice chip in the eye- with an ice pack/ how ferrets get fursty/ why certain napkins are for display and display ONLY)...those make a best friend.

One that I'm already missing dreadfully.

So, smooches, sugar- seeya in a couple of short months. I'll be the one in a divine bridesmaid's gown, drinking the best that Napa has to offer, and celebrating a happy couple.

If you're free, we should try to meet up.

That whole "noon" thing was really ambitious.

     This past weekend was a doozy.

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

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

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

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

     If I learned how to really do my hair.

     And wear better clothes.

     And acquire a completely different metabolism.

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

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

     Find a building and lean upside down against it.

     Mood-enhancer optional.

     Nora prefers grits.

But who's gonna meter my rage?

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


******
      

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

            They’ve been here three times.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            I am only one woman.

            Regardless of what they might have in their file.

Nora's well-rested, if that counts.

This past week and weekend proved, without a doubt, that I am in very real danger of early onset dementia. The crosswords and brain teasers no longer stave them off. It's official- I'm demented.

Sure, we've been skipping all over the country, city, and state. And absolutely, sleep has been the first thing to be sacrificed. But seriously, I'm forgetting my middle name[s] at this point.

It began when I confused this coming week of work with next week's. To my various employers. Loudly. I usually work Monday for one family and Wednesday and Friday for my other one. If something comes up, the other two days are always gimmes. Except- one fam has been on vacation for the past three weeks and the second took a day at the end of this past week to make up for the time I'd been away. No big deal, I kept track of that. But this week, I'm working four back to back days. And next week the same. But with reversed families. And I knew this- really, I did. Wrote it down on my computer, the calendar, the BlackBerry and my hand. 

And promptly forgot it. Until one family needed a reminder for this week's schedule and I gave her next week's schedule- ha hah- much to the chagrin of the other family. And so I sent out no less than five emails and eventually got it right. (Please leave me with your children, I know CPR.) 

Additionally, I was wholly convinced that this past weekend was next weekend, and no amount of lookin' at the correct date could tell me otherwise. So much so, that I rsvp'd to two different events before I realized my folly. And forgot. And had to be reminded by P.J. Twice. (See? Dementia!) The junky part is- I'll be outta town next weekend. Happily, it's for a wedding I'm stoked to attend. Sadly, I'll be missing the going away party of a lovely pal and the fly-by into Chicago of two gorgeous friends. 

I am only popular in the summer. In March, no one returns my calls.

My favorite mess-up, though? Saturday morning around 8ish I was lounging with Nora, Peej and a cup of coffee. Had an hour 'til my dentist appointment. Enjoyed the free time. Then it hit me- I don't HAVE free time. What was going on? Checked all four methods of appointmentude. My cleaning was NOT at 9am, it was at 8am. (I even saw an email from the dentist the day before that politely reminded me of the time. And I REPLIED to it!) 

And I gotta say, there's nothing like the combo of being late (I abhor being late. It gives me hives) and the knowledge that you are speeding to the dentist. 

But it's also a little sad that, once there, I enjoyed the "down time." I watched the news and read the back of a package of floss. It was nice.

The rest of the weekend progressed swimmingly well, due in no small part to the addition of my sister Chelly (that's right, this month I'm on a world tour of seeing every family member.) 

I think she's had a good time, what with us dragging her to Market Days and not letting her linger, to us heading to bed at positively daylight hours. Plus, she's had to watch all of my shows. And my kid. 

And this week she gets to be a nanny-in-training- or a tanni. At downright criminally early hours. (Welcome.) 

But what about P.J., you ask? Isn't he in the picture any more? What antics has he been up to? Well, I'll tell you:

-The other night, after we (P.J, Nora, Annie, Chelly and myself) locked ourselves out of the side screen door, my gallant husband scaled the first (and a half, technically) floor to the back picture window. Hung out on the ledge. Shoved the side window open. Almost fell. Got a boost. Yelled the requisite 'I GOT THIS' back to the swooning gals. Scraped the heck out of his hands, knees and arms. I'm pretty sure he fell on one of the cats on his way off the kitchen table. Opened the screen door. (Me, I would've punched a hole in the screen door and unlocked it, but I also have a healthier sense of fear and desire to not make P.J. a single parent. But, you know, diff'rent strokes.) 

-Last night I found my husband mangling a defenseless tube of Crest. Now again, I would have deemed the tube empty and forgotten all about it, but not him. He squeezed the last bit- and perhaps some plastic- out onto his toothbrush and a goodly bit of his arms. ("That's the end of that," he stated in the most menacing and authoritative voice I'd ever heard outta anyone.) When I suggested that perhaps he was going to a lot of trouble, he asked if I'd seen his thing of Razor Defense face wash. Apparently, the cap didn't twist off to allow him to salvage the last eighth of an ounce so HE CHOPPED THE TUBE IN HALF. He's part thrifty housewife and a bigger part The Hulk. The fully green version. 

-And finally, the other morning when I was pretending to do my Wii Fit yoga, the console character asked me if I'd "seen P.J. lately." I told him/her yes. "How would you say that P.J.'s physique is these days? It's been over a month since I've seen him." He looks awesome, I told her. [Back off.] It then went on to inform me that I should be a better workout buddy to my husband and stated that "dogs become more motivated when their humans pay attention to them. Hmmm..." It actually hmm'd at me! And compared my husband to a pet! I was equal parts amused, insulted and shocked. 

But I showed it. 

I turned off the Wii. 

You're welcome, baby. 

Don't trust that smile.

Nora and I just returned from her nine month checkup and I'm happy to report that she is indeed growing. And moving. And hitting milestones- in fact, she's knocking 'em over like a sprinter catching his track shoes on a series of hurdles. Which, you know, isn't usually a positive metaphor, but one that kept popping into my head. Kick, thwack, karate chop. Milestones.

She's still in the 10-25th percentile for height and head size (yay, consistent brains!) and solidly in the 5-10th for weight. But someone has to be, right? Or there wouldn't be a "percentile" based on "100." And, as my doctor asked incredulously, "she's a mover, isn't she?" And she has close to five teeth. And says Mama, Da, Bean, Dis, Dat, Hidere (hi there), Yeah, Yay...and she meows. The doctor also said that she'd begin standing and cruising soon (you know, like her Dad does) and would tentatively begin to let go of surfaces. Which she's been doing for a month.

My daughter= surpassing my personal record of walking at 17 months and actually doing non-bloblike things before then. (Go forth, my child...)

And then the doc said he'd see us in three months. For her one year checkup. And I- inexplicably but kinda predictably- began to well up. A YEAR?? Look, Buster, I carried her for close to four years and I know for a fact that her three day checkup was last week...so I don't know what this "one year" business is. I demand a recount.

Of course, before I get too schmaltzy and sentimental, I need to remind myself that just two days ago I was crying for a completely different reason.

It involved our return flight from Boston, a.k.a. the inevitable cosmic backlash from the hubris of the previous flight. Of course, I didn't see this coming at all. She napped exceptionally well that day. Ate dinner in the airport food court. Smiled and waved at random people. Crawled around and got all tuckered out. Then we got on the plane.

Here's how it went down:
-Random businessman told me how cute she was. I preened and admitted that she was the easiest baby, ever.
-His colleague stated that he'd never seen a baby this young with brown eyes already. I kept it in.
-Getting to our window seat, we played happily. (Nora and myself. Not the businessmen.) For ten minutes.
-She started to get fussy so I tried to nurse her.
-She dozed off for five minutes right after takeoff and I- stupidly- took out a book to read.
-Waking in a panicked and psychotic rage, she ripped the blanket from my shoulder, exposing my entire chestal areas for the first time on this particular flight.
-I tried- stupidly- to calm her down. She noted her displeasure at my attempts.
-I tried to walk her to the bathroom and bounce her a little.
-We got stuck behind the beverage cart. The. Whole. Way. Back.
-I used the bathroom. (Impressed? I know.) Nora was not. In fact, this is when she filed her formal complaint and checked out for the evening.
-Screeeeeeaaaaaamed the whole walk back. Got stuck behind attendants picking up the trash.
-Finished my drink. (Gingerale, sadly. I had a stomachache. Can you imagine why?)
-Nora helped this along by upending it on my book...and the woman in the middle seat. (She was kind. Also, she spoke no English. I don't know if this made it any better.)
-Tried to clean. With a magazine and what was left of my book. Apologized.
-Nora chewed on the soaked magazine and raged like a velociraptor when I pried the gummy pieces from her mouth.
-Took the Cheerios I had been carefully feeding her one at a time...and showered our entire row (and two rows back) with them. With big arms.
-She rubbed her eyes, so I- stupidly- assumed that she was tired. Tried to nurse her.
-She dozed off for five minutes. I closed my eyes.
-Opened them when she exposed me yet again in a freaked out angerfest, the likes of which have rarely been seen in such a contained space.
-I tried to distract with books, toys, a seemingly endless supply of snacks, and soggy reading materials on which to chomp. (I gave up- eat the paper, Nora. Go ahead.)
-She spent the rest of the three hour flight (and this was only 40 minutes in, mind you) shoving against me, shrieking with a purple face and wild eyes, and making the non-English-speaking couple next to me clutch hands and rethink their future.
-Watched as the woman sitting in front of me pushed the attendant button, only to shrug helplessly and gesture at me when the attendant showed up. Really? Really?
-Decided my apologetic and embarrassed (and super stressed) attitude had run its course, thanks to the passive aggressive behavior in row 10.
-Wished her ill.
-Wished myself ill.
-Debated putting Nora out on the wing.
-Tried to nurse once more. It worked. Briefly. Remained unconcerned when I was- yet again- exposed.
-Left my boob like that for a few minutes. Because really, in terms of being viewed as an attractive being on this flight...well, I think that's safely in the past.
-Landed. Eventually. Somehow. Waited on the tarmac for twenty minutes for a completely random and as still unknown reason.
-Apologized and thanked my way off the plane. Heard the slightest bit of subtle applause.
-Handed a completely smiling and stoked baby to her father.
-Watched, bemused, as she conked out for a solid twelve hours.

...And marveled at my ability to be completely in love with this little beastie by 7am the next morning. Biology's a funny, funny thing.

I'm certain the rest of Flight 2281 would disagree.

But you can't beat that kinda free birth control.

I also call people "Baby" a lot. This bugs certain Big Kids.

Due to the fact that I am still in Massachusetts, still surrounded by genetically terrific children, and still not convinced that it isn't Thursday...

...May I present a smallish sampling of things I've learned about myself?

On Speech: Turns out, I abbreviate and nickname a LOT. When my sister asked if something needed to happen and I responded with "potenstsh," a vehement "IALLY" came from the 4 year-old in the other room. The little guys have also started referring to Nora solely as "Noodle," "Silly Sally" and "BugBug." Cole may believe, in fact, that he has multiple female cousins. (There's certainly enough people touching his stuff.)

On How My Writing Is Being Perceived: Quinn was peeking up at his Mom's laptop and saw my blog's site open. He asked "Is this Auntie Kiki's blog?" When  he was assured that it was, he pitched his voice a little higher and began to speak- "I was walking down the street and blahderlilalalila..." (That is NOT my process, Q-Dog.)

On Things I Should've Been Saying Already: Tom and I were having a beer with our Mexican fiesta the other night when 2 year-old Cole, leaning over to stare at my bottle, asked if he could Look in [Your] Beerhole. Bumper sticker...go.

On How Easily Disturbed I Am: Kate and I have been watching a ton of late night TV. Okay, 8:30pm TV. But there's a new Hamburger Helper commercial that takes place at- get this- a yard sale.  You know, dirty Fisher-Price toys, clothing from the '80s...and a plate of ground beef mixed with pasta. BEING PASSED AROUND ON A PLATE. "Best deal of the day," a mother joyfully exclaims to her two children. Really? Is the "best deal" the plate, the meal, or the heat-induced food poisoning? I asked Kate if she'd ever eat someone else's communal Hamburger Helper at a yard sale.  "Depends on how much it was."

And finally, Why Those Old-Peopley Pill Containers Are A Good Idea: For this week's trip, I put all of my vitamins and pills into one drawstring baggie (because, you know, it's SO hard to pack for a week at a sibling's house) and was feeling good about remembering to take them each night before bed. In the room I've been sharing with Nora. In the dark. Going on feel alone, I've proudly been popping pills sight unseen, a fact that became a little too obvious the other night. Tasting something a tad minty, I realized too late that a) I'd mixed painkillers- and forgotten about them- in with the vitamins, b) Target's version of Tylenol is delicious, and c) I may have scurvy but I FEEL NO PAIN.

And that's all we have time for today, folks. Because eventually, someone's gonna come for these four children. Hopefully their real parents.

And Kate and I need to be ready for that.

With cocktails. (And beerholes.)

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

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

Let's backtrack a tad.

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

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

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

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

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

We missed her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or at least soured his drink slightly.

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

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

...Just wait.

He did put a ring on it.

See this girl on the right? That's Annie. And she's getting married. She also happens to be one of my very favorite people in the whole world. On top of that, she's moving shortly to the land of Angeles and will no longer reside in the windiest of Midwestern towns. All of these facts combined explain why I threw her a bridal shower and bachelorette this past weekend. And tried to make them the best ones ever. (Also, why does spell check not acknowledge the word 'bachelorette?' Sexism. Or some ism that would get me equally fired up, were my head not about to explode.) So yes, this weekend.

There were a ton of little details of the shower that threatened to drive me insane, due to the fact that I am, quite possibly, the least capable person for this type of event. I put together two types of invites and mailed them out a month ago...and got a handful of responses. Some got lost in the mail, some gals thought they only had to reply if they could come, and there were those for whom I had to Drag. Out. An. Answer.

I decided on teensy potted herbs with recipe cards for party favors/centerpieces. Basil and mint, simple enough. I'd attach pesto and mojito recipes and everyone would look at me like I was a genius. Except. When Brea and I went to the store to get the supplies, there was no mint. Anywhere. So, we decided on dill. Yogurt cucumber soup, awesome. Except. The dill tried to end its life in the backseat of the car (in the convertible carseat, no less) and was almost finished off by the staggering early evening heat. So, we potted them in mini containers, watered them well in the utility sink and prepared for a bedside vigil, fearing the worst. (I made all the recipe cards...but added a few more pesto ones to be safe.) The dill made it through the night (kinda) and I rejoiced. Until. The ribbons with which we attached the cards to the pots...refused to stay on. Resulting in a grouping of tired-looking plants with flopped ribbons adorning a heap of random recipes.

And since the numbers for the two events kept changing, I bugged the heck out of the caterer. To the point where, when I gave a "final" count on the 21st, there was no reply. Nor the next day. Not even when I emailed, called and harassed her high school counter workers. No convo at all until early on Saturday, when she confirmed we were all good for Sunday at 1pm. Except. The shower was Saturday at 1pm. Ha HAH! They said it'd be fine. (Awesome!)

The blazing temps served two purposes; they invited a swarm of flies- the likes of which have rarely been acknowledged outside of biblical retellings- to the food table, and it also caused all the clothing to immediately fuse to the woman who was wearing it. As for the first problem- I took Nora's Pack n' Play netting and draped it over the table, telling Annie that this was her safari bridal shower. Except for the rest of the English garden kinda thing. (Also- why does my Pack n' Play come with netting? In what scenario am I placing my sleeping child in an infested outdoor environment?) As to the second problem- after one pitcher of mimosas, we took the whole party inside. Ah well.

Pesky details aside, the day was fabulous. Annie's sister and out-of-town friends were beyond wonderful. The local gals did me proud. We played trivia games (her maid- I don't say 'matron'- of honor did a bangarang job with games, and we all agreed to be lazy and do "sitting-down" ones) and only occasionally got rowdy. There was a child present, after all. And a slightly shell-shocked husband.

That evening we traipsed up to Andersonville, a 'hood of Chicago delightfully suited to these types of events. Wine and cheese at In Fine Spirits. Dinner at Tapas Las Ramblas [three blocks away- no cabbin' it here. I did NOT want to take the chance that the party would be separated. Trust me. It's ridiculously easy to spend a good third of the night muttering- where IS everyone?] and we ordered a potentially embarrassing amount of food. Was impressed at how divinely well each gal split the tab, regardless of individual items ordered or food preferences. Seriously. It kinda brings a tear to the eye to not have to beg people for two or three more dollars. Also impressive- Annie's best friend Koren and her magical bag that possessed any item we could possibly need for the evening. ("Are you kidding? I'm a Mom. I even have Gas-X in here.")

Then on to Mary's Attic (atop Hamburger Mary's). Little known fact/obviously known fact: Annie has been in a ton of shows in this venue, all of them fabulous. Her most recent one, Lady X, broke me with its terrificitude. So, it was an obvious choice to come and play here. Plus, all the free shots didn't hurt. (Okay, that's a lie. The free shots always hurt.) A DJ was alternately spinning great and questionable music. And we even got him to play ABBA for Annie after threatening him with bodily harm after the first two requests went unheeded. (Come on, it's a gay bar. ABBA. Play some ABBA.) Also, there were multiple women wearing bizarre animal hats. And there was glow-sticking. (Annie won.) I danced the salsa. A mammoth drag queen called me "cute." There were more free shots. I irked the bejeebers outta Annie by forcing bottled water down her throat all night. ("You'll thaaaaank  me.")

We intended to stay for a bit before perhaps moving on. But we stayed 'til 2am. And Neil- my husband's best friend- showed up. (I think it was to say hi to the group, not because he frequents Mary's Attic. But whatever. It's a fun place.) Peej, home with a snoozin' Nora, had to settle for frequent text updates hinting at the increasing level of debauchery.

But no one went to prison, all clothing stayed on, and every single person was put into a cab and made it safely home. Annie, clad in her tiara, sash, glowing necklace and small army of glowy bracelets, was bridily showered and 'etted with the best of them.

I consider that a success.

Now to find my dark glasses and a body pillow. Heck, I may even crawl into Nora's crib with her, fists full of leftover tea sandwiches and a sprig of wilty dill, wearing my glow sticks like a badge.

This kinda fun is really best for the youth[ful.]

To my younger sisters: hurry it up, pals. Each passing year feels like twenty every time I "go out." By the time your weddings roll around, I'll decorate my walker with glowy paraphernalia and actually need assistance getting up on the bar.

They'll play ABBA and it'll be charming.

Sounds like all we do is watch TV and fail to sleep.

I looked at the clock this a.m. with a sense of pride. 7:30. It wasn't even eight o'clock yet and I had already: woken up (a big deal), fed the baby, bathed the baby, re-rinsed the baby (she had some Cheerios in ear-like places...and one right square on her cheek- my bad), decided against rinsing myself (yep, that took time), cleaned the first floor bathroom and half-heartedly done the dishes.

As I got Nora ready for her first nap of the day, I truly felt proud. Like, quite possibly too proud. Then I thought about it. And got sad. Quite possibly too sad.

I used to have dreams, people.

Okay, I lied. It was always this. I played the game of 'House' for potentially way too long- the pretending to be a grownup one, not the surly identification of crazy maladies one.

But at least now I get to write about it, which is cool. Never imagined that one, back when I was sharing the Commodore 64 and blowing on a floppy disk to play Speed Buggy.

Nor did I ever imagine that I'd be married to a guy who dresses himself with a complete and utter disregard for the weather outside his door. Truly. P.J. wears corduroys [side note- do you have any idea how hard that word is to spell?!] twelve months out of the year. Because he likes them. And long-sleeved shirts in August- because he needed something blue, for example. Red socks with his green sneakers. 'Cause they were at the top of the drawer. (And he is not, to the best of my knowledge, afflicted with any combo of color blindness.) Christmas boxers and undershirts from camp. His camp. Because they were on top.

And the guy has clothes. Like, a small fortune in perfectly tailored suits and Italian boots. Cowboy hats, fedoras and scarves. And he wears them equally, alongside the ripped jeans and Sea World tee shirts. I have a couple of theories as to why he doesn't discriminate:

1. He's usually running about five minutes late.
2. He is EXHAUSTED.

Just as I used to dream about babies and houses and impressive operating systems, he used to imagine himself as a grownup. And a Dad. But perhaps not one who argues with the neighbors in Spanish, attends CAPS meetings and prices cat litter online. And now that Nora's here, she is Constantly. On. His. Mind. Not just because he loves her, which obviously he does. But he thinks of his daughter in terms of food and growing and sleep cycles and random fevers and nice words and college funds. And dating. And he thinks about me, not just about how much he adores me and how rad a wife I am, but also my Roth IRA and stuff I tell him I want to do and the next baby we might have and my penchant for rearranging furniture as soon as he leaves the room. And all of that Thought, that near-constant Thinking and Providing...it's tiring.

Which is why I excused the fallin' asleep during last night's episode of Psych.

And the [backwards] head nods during True Blood.

And especially the pairing of cords n' mandals.

Back to my day of incredibly high productivity. And not a moment too soon- Nora and I had been viewing the very first episode of Sesame Street and a clip of a remarkably young James Earl Jones reciting numbers has just reduced her to tears.

And not due to artistic appreciation. She's got a lot on her mind, too.

Like her third tooth and trying to walk and differentiating the signs for "milk" and "more." She has very little time for boomingly monotone recitations of things that are not yet being dealt with in her baby stages book, thankyouverymuch.

And grabbing the laptop away from me, that's a big one, too.

Dream big, Nora.