All is true.

Why, Amit, WHY?

[Note: As I sit here in the drafty front room of my chilly abode in the downright frozen town of Chicago...I am having a really hard time keeping my chenille blanket about my shoulders as I type. That's right- I CLEARLY NEED A SNUGGIE AS I AM COLD YET ACTIVE. 

Note note: I did not get paid for this post. (Nor for the mentions of Snuggies or any other product herein.) This is not a review. It is a love song from my heart to a business' ears.

Thank you.]

And now, An Open Letter To Amazon.com.

Dear Amazon.com,

I love you.

You have changed my life, and- more importantly- my shopping habits. Before you came along, I used to actually have to go to the store. If I wanted something, I had to search for the best deals and varieties on foot. In person. Usually with a baby and diaper bag and something else really heavy in my arms. 

Your site sells everything. EVERYTHING. In a relatively short period of time, I've come to think of the word 'Amazon' as one of those wonderfully ubiquitous things like 'Google' or 'Kleenex' or 'Bandaid' or 'Jello.'

And guess what? You've recently made my instant gratification instantlier and infinitely more gratifying. Simply by guessing that since I buy diaper rash ointment vats large enough in which to backfloat, I must be a Mom.

And your new program Amazon Mom allows me to have Amazon Prime for free. For doing nothing. Nothing, that is, besides buying really awesome stuff for my kid and having it within two days. And now I get it completely free of charge, with no strings or fees or anything ever. Twenty five bucks worth of qualifying purchases for each free month of Prime? Yeah, I think I can swing that. (Especially since you guys are wonderfully loose in your definition of what a 'Mom' should buy. Proving that you are intelligent as well as convenient.)

Here's the truth: I've done 120% of my Christmas shopping on your site. I've made over thirty individual orders and had them all within 48 hours- again, with free two day shipping- and with lower prices than other sites. Trust me, I know. (I'm a Mom, remember? We know stuff.) Some of my purchases have even raced me across the country in my travels- and won.

One purchase didn't make its destination. You guys replaced it, no questions asked. My husband doesn't even give me that kind of leeway, and he likes me a LOT. 

Yesterday morning we realized that we had forgotten a present for one of our nephews- and ten minutes later it was out the door before I had managed to even shower. That's right, besides being good for our wallet, you have also ensured we are not going to be the awful relations this year. 

The other day as I was driving home with my daughter, singing Christmas carols along with the radio and feeling full of the holiday spirit, I gave thanks for you, Amazon.com. I am so serious. I actually felt such a welling-up of gratitude that it gave me a chill. Being a person who does not consider The Mall an integral part of the holiday process, I have so thoroughly enjoyed browsing and hand-selecting gifts for eleven million people (all with completely opposing tastes), sending them on their way within moments, and then being done with holiday shopping forever and ever, Amen.

This frees up more time for drinking mulled wine out of boots, crying over children's movies, and badgering my husband about my present. I think it's safe to say that we all thank you.

In closing, you are fast and powerful and I will never pay for shipping ever again. 

Exuberantly,

Keely

***

And now, to be fair and balanced, here is my sister Kate's actual transcript with Amazon.com customer service when she was trying to hook up her credit card to her rewards points. The conversation took 27 minutes and, at one point, the rep didn't respond for 8. Also, check out some of his gems. I've put my favorites in bold. Enter, Amit:

Kate: Hello. This evening I linked my AMEX membership rewards points account to my Amazon account. I see that they are linked, however, when I go to check out and pay, I am not given the option to select that credit card/points for purchase. Thanks.

Amit: Hello, my name is Amit. I will be happy to help you today. Please allow me a quick moment while I pull up your account. You do not see that option, correct?

Kate: Correct. I have three credit cards saved in my account. When I go to check out, only one of them in visible/able to be selected and it is NOT the one linked to my rewards points.

Amit: I too see that. Are you selecting a different address this time Kate?

Kate: For delivery, you mean? Yes, they are going to different addresses. If you mean something else by different address, I'm not sure what it is.

Amit: I mean place the orders with your address, let us see if we see that credit card. I can always change the address.

Kate: I'm still not understanding what you mean. Do you mean that I should try to place the order all going to my billing address? And if that works then you will change the shipping addresses for each item? I have 18 items going to different addresses, so I'm not sure that's an easy way to go ahead. Is there no way to instead get all of my credit cards to prepopulate on the payment page?

Amit: I do not have to change them individually. All are Amazon items.

Kate: Please explain to me how doing this process will affect the ability for my stored credit cards to show up on my account. It seems to me that no matter where I want to send my purchases, all of my saved credit cards should be available to me at check out. [Eight minutes later.] Amit? Are you there?

Amit: For security reasons when you enter a new address credit card should be entered in full. I am here.

Kate: I do understand that. None of these were new addresses. Yet only one credit card is available.

Amit: How can it be?

Kate: I just went back through and changed them all to my home shipping and billing address. This time, only two of the three credit cards were available, but not the one linked to my AMEX rewards. It seems as though something isn't working properly on the checkout end of things. 

Amit: If you select your own billing address as the shipping address then what is happening?

Kate: How can it be? That is why I'm chatting with you. I was hoping to get help resolving this problem. YES, precisely. If I select my own billing address as the shipping address for all 18 items, only two of the three credit cards are available. However when I go into my account and look at payment options, all three credit cards are there. When I have the items going to different shipping addresses, only one credit card is available.

Amit: I did not mean to hurt you Kate. I see three cards also.

Kate: All that I am trying to do is pay for my purchases but I need access to all of my credit cards.

Amit: Would request you to try to place the order after some time. There might be a technical issue now.

Kate: Is this something you could report then, in hopes that it could get fixed promptly? Thanks.

Amit: I will surely escalate it to my manager Kate.

After all of this, Kate filled out a survey for 'Amit' and was asked if she would like a call to resolve this issue. She said what the heck and agreed...only to find out that the call back was unavailable. Shortly thereafter she received another super secret number to call and reached a gal named Kristy. Who fixed everything, and- I'm assuming- didn't take things quite so personally.

Ah, Amit.

You're like the friend of the sixth grader I'm dancing with (I'm in sixth grade in this scenario, too) who keeps butting in and asking if we're in love yet. No, and STOP RUINING EVERYTHING. 


I still think Amazon Mom trumps The Amit Defeat (get it? Get it?)


And yeah, sure, maybe I pulled up that middle school scenario way too easily. But I think we can all agree that it caused a pretty visceral and instant recognition, yeah? Yeah?


Merry Christmas week. 

Christmas + Birthday= Featured Day.

Today I am the luckiest- and stokiest- to be featured at The SITS Girls! They're a fabulous community of over 7000 gals, all of whom have stellar blogs and thrive on supporting each other. And today it's me. And that is unreal awesome.

To the newest visitors: Hi! I'm Keely/Kiki/Mom (that last one is rather selective.) On any given day I'm a combo of writer, nanny, actress, mother, wife, sister, daughter, and overeager Feng Shui enthusiast. I am a superb napper. I cannot count without using my fingers. I know every bit of Hair Metal trivia ever...and can hold my own with a few other genres as well. I blog about all of these things with nary a through-line. Also, punctuation is rarely my friend.

These two are P.J. and Nora Jane (with some random girl at the otter tank.) They are, together and individually, the coolest things that have ever happened to me. He's an actor, sound designer, software guy and hero. She's the smallest mobile person ever and a personal source of hilarity and glee. They feature largely in this blog, as does the city of Chicago. And our Money Pit of a house. Also- Bean and Ender, the catz.

To get you started- three of my best [funniest/weirdly popular] posts:

The Tearjerker

How P.J. Annihilated An Unwanted Houseguest

...and Keely Yells At The Magazines

Thank you so much to SITS and all of the visiting gals! I'd love it if you followed the blog on Facebook... or Twitter...or, you know, here.

Here works, too.

It's the little ones you hafta watch.

Bath Pingu also frightens me.

I am easily frightened. I think we all can agree on that. However, the other day my bravery reached an all new low.

I was taking advantage of a quiet/resting Nora by doing all sorts of exotic and glamorous activities in the upstairs bathroom; brushing my teeth, using moisturizer, contemplating a braid.

Glancing up into the mirror, I saw into Nora's open room through the reflection. I saw her crib, I saw her lovies, I saw...her miniature face staring at me through the bars, in a position she had clearly been holding for a good while.

She giggled at being seen. Maybe she also laughed at how hard my heart thudded against my ribcage. That's right, I was completely freaked out by the image of my own kid. The idea of anyone staring at me without my knowledge, no matter how related they may or may not be, still gives me a chill. Yup, even typing this- chill. And I don't know, but I'm pretty sure catching anything in a reflection is even creepier. Like- oh man, it's coming to get me and I haven't even turned around yet!

This could all easily be traced back to the misjudgment on my part of tearing through the entire series of Twin Peaks in two days. I pretty much always expect someone to crawl out of the furniture or dance backwards or do something equally terrifying.

On a somewhat tangential note- did anyone catch the Twin Peaks episode of Psych? Sheer, awesomesauce brilliance. They nailed it. Cadence, character, creepiosity...and poor P.J. barely saw any of it, due to my squeezing of his arm and squealing of his eardrums about that NAME and oh my goodness that's an ANAGRAM and that was the SONG they...(etc.) But it's okay. He wasn't a thousand percent invested as a) he oddly falls asleep towards the end of Psych episodes and b) he's actually never finished Twin Peaks. He's still pretty sure Laura Palmer's gonna be okay.

Back to the fears.

I really don't have a [shivery] leg to stand on, what with my penchant for scaring the bejeebers out of my poor parents. My Dad likes to tell the story of how I sleepwalked my way into the fridge. Or that time I made it outside. I personally like the time I ended up mid-staircase.

My Mom's zinger came the night I ended up standing over her sleeping body, staring evilly and chomping on something indeterminate. After a lot of incomprehensible babble [on my part] and prying of the jaws [on hers,] it was concluded that I had stolen the toothpaste cap and had attempted to grind it to death.

She put it back. And, I'm assuming, me as well. But man, what a freakish way to be woken!

That is why I- one thousand and two percent of the time- sleep with a blanket over my ears and up to my forehead, making a little tent for breathing room. (I tried to get my sister Kate to help me invent elastic straps to keep sheets securely fastened to the ears- but nooo.)

It's a well known fact that the mere presence of a blanket acts as a barrier to all sorts of undesirables: axe murderers, ghosts, vampires, hooligans, ruffians, and cats.

Okay, it actually encourages the cats.

I really hope Nora hasn't inherited these phobias from me. I'm pretty sure she's okay so far, given that she's the toughest thing around. From falling onto her back [Oh wowww] to laughing like a loon when upside down (something her folks have never and will never be cool with for themselves), she's a Brave Little Toaster already.

And P.J.'s a pretty brave guy, what with the [reluctant] hunting of That Sound Downstairs and going outside at all hours to Have A Word With The Neighbors.

He's already planning on taking big kid Nora to theme parks for their birthday week. I can just see them now- rollercoasters, splash rides, crazy spinny things in the dark...

...And I'll see them just fine from my perch on the kiddie carousel.

We Won't Go Until We Get Some.

I am not remotely done with the Christmas songs.

Whilst in the car the other day, Nora and I heard the cheerful lyrics of We Wish You A Merry Christmas. This is one of those songs that, for me, is so completely ingrained in my mind and memory of Christmas that I have fully stopped noticing the words. Until the car ride. Can you imagine if actual carolers came to your door one night? (This sort of merriment may occur in more refined and neighborhoody places- but if someone rings the bell in Albany Park after 8pm, your left hand's on the door and a Louisville Slugger's in your right.)

Okay, with me so far? It's late at night (yes, 8pm is LATE) and people are non-violently in front of your house. They are singing at you- which, as anyone with a schoolyear birth date can attest- can be rather awkward.

And then they want snacks.

Not just any snacks.

Pudding.

Figgy pudding.

(At this point in the song I'm wondering if 'figgy pudding' is the kind of treat that these folks are used to in the comfort of their own homes, or if they're just hoping to hit the snack lottery. Like if I went to my neighbor's house and screamed "Mussels fra diavolo!")

All of the aforementioned is weird, right? Especially towards the end of the song when they start outright demanding it. Give it right here. Merry Christmas.

Side note- (Also, did you know that 'Side Note' is the actual title to this blog?)- ever since my scree on Dominick the Donkey, it now plays no less than four times a night on our XM radio. P.J. can back me up on this, since it's usually he who sprints to change the channel.

And on the topic of radio stations, does anyone in Chicago listen to Lite FM's Christmas Wish shebang? (That is not the real name, I was just feeling jaunty.) Basically, people call or write in with their big Christmas wish and the radio station grants them multiple times per day. (I have tried to figure out a rhyme or reason or schedule for these free-for-alls. I cannot.)

Early in the season, I briefly entertained the idea of writing and begging for a Vespa or a closet with a shelf or two and a lightbulb. Then, once I heard the wishes being fulfilled on the air, I realized why I could never ever ever go through with my paltry demands.

These folks that get chosen? They have STORIES. Most of them have lost their jobs, someone in the family's always ridiculously sick and/or has died, the Mom has run off in more than a few of the cases, and no one has socks.

The only thing we really have in common is that I do not currently possess an abundance of matched, non-holey socks.

And they want one present for their kid. Or something to make for Christmas dinner. This one woman the other morning was the sole breadwinner for her son and his kids ('cause the mother had run off and her son had lost his job.) She was 72.

These stories always make me tear up and make me feel like the spoiled, white, middle class kid that I am. They're wishing for a special meal and I'm whining about carbs.

So to add to the mother guilt and Catholic guilt and American guilt...I can now safely acknowledge my Christmas guilt.

So I donated to the Arbor Day Foundation. (Yes, I am a card-carrying member, thankyouverymuch.)

And I gave to St. Jude's Children Hospital. (I CANNOT handle the St. Jude letters. Ugly cry x a million.)

And we adopted a family for Christmas presents.

We over-tipped our paper route kid and mail carrier and cat sitter.

Basically, I am trying to be generous and thank those around me and attempt to atone for the fact that, the other eleven months of the year, I am a horrid human being who does not eat bread crusts and instead throws them away.

I will strive to be less awful in 2011.

Anyone have any favorite charities that I haven't even realized I should acknowledge and fret over? Please list them below. 2011= Philanthropy Year!

Peej is gonna love this one.

The menagerie's full.

Many of you are hyper aware of my love affair with Earnest Music. (I initially typed 'Ernest.' That would be amazing. And most likely earnest as well. 'Camp' and 'jail' will do that to you.)

My earnestitude hits a whole new high around Christmastime. Holiday songs = country music + rhyming poetry on the scale of I Mean This Message Quite Deeply. But I dig 'em anyhow. A lot. Our radio has been tuned to the Christmas station since two weeks before Thanksgiving. That can cause some serious holiday earworms.

[Side note- If ever I am forced to hear Dominick the Donkey again, I will perhaps become homicidal. HEE haw HEE haw.]

[Side side note- A darling friend from middle school loved this song so much that she put it on a holiday mix CD for me. Twice. Intentionally. Despite this, I was thrilled to count her among my bridesmaids much, much later. But seriously. In the age of digital recording...I really could've easily skipped backwards on the track listing to hear Dominick bray again. Which would never, ever willingly happen.]

But there are certain holiday songs that just GET me. Quite embarrassingly, too. For instance- O Holy Night. Oh sure, it starts off innocuously enough with mention of how brightly the stars are shining and how special that evening is. Yep, I'm thinking- sure is a nice holiday song. Then the chorus hits. [Faaaaaaaaall...on your kneeeeeeeeeeees...] And suddenly I'm all like- wow. The notes are going up and up and up and the singer's gonna unleash a descant in a second or two. And then they do. Full voice. And I WEEP.

And Peej usually starts laughing, because- more often than not- I'm in the car with him when this happens. Or washing dishes at the end of the day. Then POW. Goosebumps and actual tears in the eyes. And then I do my embarrassed sniffle, the one that makes it more awkward that I'm clearly crying over nothing. And lemme tell you- there are few things worse than pretending you're not crying over something trivial while someone laughs [at you.]

Okay, there are many, many things worse than that scenario. But it's still pretty pathetic.

It gets worse.

You know who frequently covers songs like this? Crooners. Full-voiced, multi-octaved soft rock singers. That's right, let's add some more fuel to my furnace of shame. I am bawling to the melodic stylings of JOSH GROBAN AND CELINE DION. (Whom, let's not forget, I can seriously jam out to.) But it really doesn't help my case.

I recently stumbled across this version as well. I do not cry to it. Except with laughter. (Please do yourself a favor and listen to it in its [glorious] entirety. He really lets it wail at the end. Even replaying it in my mind, I'm trying super hard not to pee.)

So there's that.

Another semi-awkward bout with outward emotion always occurs when I watch Claymation Christmas. (Jim Henson Productions equate buckets of tears, apparently.) Man oh man, We Three Kings sung by the wise men and some sunglass-wearing camels is the absolute tops. And Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer as jammed out by The California Raisins is epic. (Does it bother me in the least that I'm thoroughly believing the activities of walking and talking raisins? Nope. I once watched an episode of their TV show in the '80s and was incredibly invested in the unfolding story of one of the female Raisins' (Raisinettes?) struggle with self confidence. When she managed to rock out a solo at the end of the show and shared a kiss with the lead(?) Raisin, I remember being really choked up. This is so true.)

However, I'd still choose the O Holy Night dude AND public sobbing (maybe even public California Raisin admiration) over Dominick the Donkey.

Hee haw, indeed.

December 6th...that day sounds familiar...

Happy Feast of Saint Nicholas!

Just what I asked for!

Here is how we celebrated this morning:
 -One of us filled a miniature boot and two normal-sized boots with candy, advent calendars and a rubber reindeer duck.
-One of us peed through one of our jammies/bedding/lovies/sleepsack.
-One of us spilled coffee on ourselves whilst trying to eat a Snickers bar shaped like a Nutcracker.

I'll leave it as anonymously as that.

Okay, so now it's fully and terrifically the Christmas season. We've got two of the major checklist items already notched; the tree and the Christkindlmarket boot.

The tree is courtesy of Home Depot (thirty buck tree and they tie it onto your car? Boy, long gone are the days of me having to heft the thing with P.J./whine about it until he threatens to cancel the holiday.) And boy oh boy- is there any more 'Dad' thing than the whole tree endeavor? I'm pretty sure it's one of those events that automatically straps a Bjorn onto your chest and peppers your temples with grey.

The choosing. The turning. The "helping" the guy attach it to the roof. Lugging it inside. Standing it up. Adjusting it. Adjusting it. Adjusting- (Keely, it's fine!) Watering it. Adjusting it. Looking in the circular for a cheaper holiday greenery coupon. Having remorse. Being convinced that all of the needles are falling off. Hoping you got a fresh tree. [Taking a break to listen to NPR and Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me.] Going outside to hang the lights. Coming back inside and muttering about the needles. Admitting a balsam does smell best. Emoting at the string of non-working lights. Randomly announcing that they work, you just saw them work. "Helping" your wife hang ornaments- if she lets you. Setting the timer for the Christmas lights and staring them down, as if into submission. Bed.

Nora wants one, too.

And the Market is a must for a true Chicagoan...who doesn't mind hordes of pushy crowds and overpriced mulled wine in a smallish boot. This year it's red. The boot, that is. (The crowds were multi-colored on their outers and crabby on their inners.) The newly redesigned boot (more of a heel and a narrower toe- like a city boot) is going to join his brethren on our kitchen countertop for the holidays...it's like an elf came and lost his footwear every year from 2006 'til now. And there's a mug from '02- how boring- and, inexplicably, nothing from '03-'05. (Anyone have those years? I would happily swap it out for another mug in my collection- perhaps one with an ironic saying? Let's not forget Elsie the cow.)

This jaunt to the Christkindlmarket was the very first time that I cared more about the line to meet Santa Claus as opposed to the line to get the mulled boot. If that's not indicative of something, then...I don't know what is. Maybe something else Nora-related. But if I was gonna force Nora to interact with someone whom she probably wasn't going to enjoy hugging, I really didn't want to stand outside in the cold with her for an hour beforehand.

But I needn't have worried. The North Pole beneath the gigantic tree had it together. We were in line for less than ten minutes. Mrs. Claus let us inside. (We got a picture. Nora is warily eyeing The Missus.) A few minutes later- the big guy himself! And he was the real deal. Kinder and gentler than I would've been at that point in the day. And even when Nora shifted from concern to outright doneitude, he patted her arm and told her what a good job she had done. Or maybe he was talking to us. Either way, he made our first Santa visit a screaming success.

Now Nora and I are off to celebrate the rest of my half birthd- Feast of St. Nicholas. I imagine that there will be a lot of "patpatpatting" of the lower tree branches [Nora] and a bit more chocolate-nabbing [me.]

Maybe some sheet-washing and boot-emptying.

'Tis the season.

3...2...1...

P.S...See that 'Vote For Me' box up there on the left-hand side? If you click it once, you'll give me a vote. (Of confidence.) Basically, they've restructured their site- yet again- and I've lost all of my votes. I miss them dearly. One click- reduced from two!- and no emails, etc., needed. Do it every day! Or...maybe just today?

Okay, I love you, back to the candy. 

This was no ordinary unicorn...

Get to work. Maybe comb that hair.

The other day I was asked- by more than one person- what I was "working on" these days.

Writing, I replied.

Real writing? They asked. Or just blogging?

Which made me think. 'Cause it's true- what initially began as a creative outlet for my projects and an incentive to keep going has rapidly become the norm in terms of output. And it's not like I don't have a plethora of other thingies on which to work. I do. Tons.

But here's the kicker: none of them are [yet] on the interwebz.

Thusly, the instant gratification of publication and glory of crazy page views is nonexistent. Meaning- I have to write it for good ol' fashioned personal purposes. And hope that someone with the ability to dole out paychecks will a) read it, b) pay me, and c) put it on the interwebz. Sure, the majority of stuff that I write about on this blog is Not Art, but do you see my conundrum? I'm already attaining the end result of publication, sans paycheck. Or glory.

Okay, it's not a conundrum so much as laziness.

'Cause here's the thing- I AM lazy. I can hear you thinking to yourself [Mom]: Keely, you are NOT lazy. You are energetic and wonderful and beautiful and fiercely intelligent.

And while two of those things are undoubtedly true, the busy work with which I exhaust my husband is not the product of non-laziness, but rather a childlike and irritating OCDesque tendency to do what feels right for that very moment until it stops being exciting and then it's time for a nap. I am a furniture-moving hedonist.

How does this affect my Good Writing? Well, it's a two-fold answer. The first part is this: anything remotely witty or funny or weird I immediately reserve for the blog. And use a ton of energy to [stupidly] make awkwardly long essays on Mondays and Thursdays. (Why are they so long? I have no editor. That's another one of those "paycheck" things.)

The second part concerns the snippets of time wherein I actually feel like producing actual words on paper. If and when the stars align- Nora is napping/I am caffeinated/the furniture isn't bugging me- then I usually feel a guilty twinge about starting the next blog post. Because- and this is the special part- the [minor] success of the blog has ensured that I value [obsess over] reader comments and feedback. And since I've been gently reminded [berated] to post when I'm an hour or two late, I certainly don't want to offend/lose my audience/feel even more guilt over my inability to just get one more thing done OH MY GOD THAT OTTOMAN IS ALL WRONG.

This is a very long-winded way of announcing that today's blog may suffer a tad in Awesome. As will the state of Feng Shui in my house. For my resolution in the month of December (New Year's? Yeah- anyone can do that) is to stop being such a leech of time and energy.

For example, if I played Farmville? I would stop.

That hour after Nora goes to bed and right before I watch some programmes? I will stop whining to P.J. about How. Much. I. Have. To. Do. And I may actually do it.

I shall expand my workable [writeable] hours to now include right before bed (too sleeeeepy), while Nora's happily playing with her Miniature Army of Cute ('cause while I usually say that I'm trying to be In The Moment with her...I'm really just checking Facebook statuses on my iPhone) and I may even start to include some unorthodox methods of writing such as using actual paper and pens.

I will finish plays and one-acts and short stories and essays and that book about snarky unicorns. (Intrigued? Okay, it's really about babies and falling-down houses. But that raises an excellent question- would you buy a book about a snarky unicorn? 'Cause that could totally be bumped up on the priority list.)

Starting now.

Or maybe after work.

If Nora goes to sleep smoothly and there isn't too much carnage to pretend to clean.

But definitely tomorrow morning.

Because a [writing] writer's lifestyle is possible to maintain and that's my point. It is. Possible and my point. Both.

The End.

For now.

Times a million minus a nap.

***

"Once upon a time, there was a marvelous horned beast named Chester..." <---(How's it done.)

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

Get A Load Of This Gal Cam.

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

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

And which my creative process loves.

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

So. Writing. Yes.

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

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

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

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

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

He was not.

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

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

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

He faaaailed.

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

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

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

And this was Hour Three.

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

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

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

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

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

You think I'm kidding about the cranberries.

You play the piano beautifully, Pop.

Thanksgiving has started off quite well.

My Dad made his signature waffles- Nora had the better part of two- and there have been more a few people dancing along with the Macy's Parade. No names...but Nora wasn't the only one marching with the Spirit of America dancers. (Also- I'm pretty sure the guy/girl ratio on that team is 7 to 800. I bet those boys felt pretty awesome last night at their motel party.)

Two of my sisters are home and the third will be here tomorrow. Plus all the guys. (That's a relatively new thing to say in this family.) My folks are here and have not yet stopped preparing glorious meals. Or facilitating naps; if ever someone is reclining, a comfy throw is plopped over their torso. (3...2...1...snore.)

I am thankful for all of the family and friends I'll get to see today and this week.  And the ones I'll be able to talk to via Skype and iPhone (for we live in The Future.)

Also, for the two turkeys and positively insane amount of side dishes and appetizers. (I will not talk to them, so much. But they will feel my love and gratitude.)

And beverages. All of the beverages, too.

I am beyond grateful for the fact that, this week, my husband has woken up with our Bitsy Bug at 6:30am- letting me sleep until eight. EIGHT! And due to his awesomeness/availability of sofa throws, I've taken no less than three naps.

I am thankful for our home- in fact, everyone's home- and various leak-free roof/floor combinations. Also, the ability to heat/cool/hydrate/shove food into various kitchens. That's a big one, too.

And I love my city, my neighborhood, the fifteen taco joints, the Middle Eastern bakery...

I'm grateful to the loved ones serving overseas...because, let's face it. I'd be awful at that job.

I'm thankful that I can have the combination of wonderful part-time work that allows me to nanny and blog and write and- most importantly- spend 22 hours each day with Nora. (We all need our down time.) And, obviously, I have love in my heart (and wallet) for the Peej that facilitates and supplements this whimsical paycheck ride.

And, as my Dad just made a massive fire in the front room's fireplace, this list could literally go on and on and on. And is that an hors devours plate? And who left this chenille throw here?

I do believe my daughter is still napping like the champion o' holidays that she is...leaving only one thing left to do.

Poke the cranberry sauce and get yelled at.

Happy Thanksgiving, Lolliers. I love you guys, too.  (Between all of this tryptophan and saccharine, naptime might come a little early today.)

Have a fabulous holiday, folks. Go on. Live it up and be merry.

...Poke the cranberry sauce.

Thank goodness she has something to play with, now.

This post is a tad late today, but I have an awesome excuse: I was playing with all of my childhood [ahem] toys in my parents' attic. We're talking Barbies and their clothing from the '70s (I think they were hand-me-downs from my cousins, soda shoppes, multiple dollhouses and furniture, pieces that I made myself...and they were all wrapped in at least seven layers of paper towels. 'Cause I was afraid all the plastic and felt blankies would break in all of that cardboard. But it wasn't until the dozen porcelain dolls made an appearance that Peej felt a little fear.

It's a good thing I have a daughter- 'cause these toys are all coming back to Chicago with us. They're for Nora. Obviously.

We had the easiest trip out East. Seriously. Saturday morning, as soon as N.J. woke up, we hit the road- for 10.5 hours. Nora was a gem. (Peej got a little cranky.) Between her bag o' toys, bag o' books, and music o' kids, she probably had the best trip of us all. (And P.J. and I got our first taste of what traveling with kids' music is like. It was...okay. I mean, if she can tolerate Sirius XM's Hair Nation for an hour or so, who am I to complain?)

And we met the nicest people. Really. Every single person we met in transit (with the exception of a BMW SUV driver- you know who you are), be it at the Ohio rest stop or the Upstate NY Days Inn, was pleasant and friendly and told us how cute Nora was. (Maybe the trick was in bringing Nora.) Either way, it was kinda cool. And unusual for holiday transit. As for the Days Inn, it boasted the most helpful folks...and the thinnest walls and floors in the nation. The couple staying on the floor above us had an excellent time. That's all I will say about that. Except to add that I almost applauded when the festivities ended...until I heard the dude walk to the bathroom and pee. However, I was the only affected Schoeny: Big and Little passed out as soon as their heads hit the queen bed and pack n' play, respectively. (And frankly, I don't think they would have noticed had the sleeping arrangements been reversed.)

The next morning, after saying goodbye to the ten or so folks with whom we [Nora] had endeared ourselves, we drove the remaining four hours and reached my parents' house. A Narnia of home-cooked meals, soft beds, hot water, many arms with which to hug and hold Nora...and zero people peeing audibly. At least not strangers peeing audibly. Nora has adjusted nicely to being spoiled rotten, overfed her favorite foods, being gifted with No Particular Reason Presents, and- her personal favorite- not being alone in a backwards-facing car seat for hours at a stretch.

Livin' well.

As for me, I'm reverting back to my favorite At Home activities; among them emptying, cleaning and organizing kitchen cabinets (and amassing a collection of expired medications dating back to the early '00s,) and making my mother laugh like a loon. For instance, she placed a pair of vibrating, fleece slippers on my feet, causing me to walk around like an errant robot, destroying fields and buildings in my path (and, obviously, dancing like a robot).

Also, while using her face wash- which is remarkably wonderful- I was overcome with the urge to cleanse my head by splashing upwards, a la in the adverts. Guess what happens when you do that? Everything gets soaked. 'Cept your actual face. But my point is- my Mom has really nice bath products. Also, expired meds.

Here's what else she has: A BIRTHDAY TODAY. Today we're celebrating by trying to not mess up her house with Nora's stuff, my toys, random laundry, snacks, etc.,and then we're going to the Festival of Trees at the Berkshire Museum. (I guarantee my Mom wouldn't have cleared time in her day for it unless her beloved N. Janie was going to be in town...but I'll take it, regardless.) Hopefully she'll let me bring her out to lunch. Perhaps watch an old movie later on. Definitely have another cabinet-cleanin'. 'Cause- Good God, Mom and Dad.

So happy birthday to the best Momma I have- and the only one I'd choose, if I had the choice. Which I don't. But I'd choose her, anyhow. And that's what counts.

Anyone wanna go celebrate and play dolls?

You can't touch anything. But you can point. Gently. From the other room. And then you have to go away.

It'll be fun.

Anyone wanna play Clue?

I've been trying pretty hard to adhere to 10pm Bedtime Month- though it's well into November. It's been pretty tricky. For example: Did you know that most Evening Events start at 7pm? Sometimes 8? (Yeah, and some begin even later. They will not be delved into here, as I am no longer interested in your positively hooliganistic plans. If I can no longer place an order at The Taco Burrito King once your show/party/film has ended, then go ahead and take me off the Evite. Right now.)

Speaking of that- going out, not the tostada bowl- I'm finding that I've become more hermit-like every single year. (Or "hobbit," as my sister once said, never to be forgotten. Ever. Times three.) I've always been a bit of a homebody. In high school, my friends had to drag me out to the mall and sleepovers and coffee shops. Sometimes it took some prying, especially if I had just gotten a new BMG shipment or was involved in a particularly taxing EverDark quest. (Did I just out myself from the geek closet? Oh well. At least nine readers are nodding their heads and guessing which one it was.)

My days at Hampshire were a tad more social, due to- shall we say- its slightly polarizing social scene? However, I was still only a few choices away from being that weird, solitary girl in the dark- on a Friday night- in her substance-free, single sex, quiet hall. Who wore a cloak.

Then came the whole Chicago theatre scene...and there went sleep. But what the heck does a 24 year-old need rest for, anyhow? We did shows. And more shows. And had late-night shows. Then had talkbacks, meet n' greets, galas, post-show parties, after after parties, and- most importantly- 4am tacos. And, crazily enough, we made it to our 8am jobs, cup of coffee in hand. Ready to teach kids, clean houses, sling overpriced food. Then on to that evenings' events! Our friends' shows, maybe a free night at the Art Institute, perhaps a midnight showing at the Music Box, most definitely some dancing at Spin, a Chinatown run so "late night" as to be positively mid-morning. And on and on and on until somewhere in the vague '29th year' neighborhood.

Sure, by that birthday I was busy cookin' a wee babe in my middles, but this need for home had slooowly been creeping up on me for a while before then. Sure, flirting with Peej against the jukebox at the Blue Light was super fun, but you know what else was? Waving at him from across our living room. (And it's, oh- about fifty bucks cheaper. Babysitting fees-wise, of course. They practically gave the beer away.) And wild n' wacky nights out with the girls are always divine- as are Netflix marathons with popcorn bowls the size of Guam.

The point being? I enjoy using Nora and the falling-down house as an excuse for my housebound slothitude. I have slowly lamed my way out of rotation. And that's cool. People have asked- doubtfully, scornfully- Don't I miss auditioning?  Eating regrettable amounts of food at unwise hours? Yeah- the stress/panic/euphoria tango with a heartburn chaser will be missed. For now. But the only guilt regarding this euphoric chapter in my adulthood is that I didn't treat myself this well sooner.

And make no mistake about it- it is good livin'. I make meatloaf once a week. I never even knew I LIKED meatloaf! P.J. recently taught me to play chess. And sure, I suck at it, but that's not the point. The point is that I get to listen to a Sirius XM oldies show in my sock monkey pajamas whilst P.J. trounces my players right offa the board. I take near-nightly soaks in the glorious (rat-free) lower level bath. I rearrange furniture monthly, a sorta 'Hi, how are ya/I OWN YOU' kind of acknowledgment to every single thing in my possession. (It helps my writing process to know where everything is forever and ever Amen.) And sometimes- just sometimes- when I've finished wiping mango bits from beneath the dining room table and folding an improbable number of socks- I climb into bed and pull the blanket up over my ear (so nothing can crawl inside, obvie) and sleep. And I do not feel lame. Not at all. I feel rested and warm and cozy and- sure, a little irritated at the sonic boom of a snore coming from my husband's face- and content.

It doesn't always work out that way. For example, the other night as I was drifting off way too late in the evening, I was jolted upright by the question of whether Emilio Estevez changed his name or Charlie Sheen did. (I mean, they're brothers so, what gives? Turns out, Martin Sheen changed his name. Used to be Estevez. Seriously. Also, did you know Emilio is older than Charlie? Blew. My. Mind. God bless you, imdb.com.) And certainly, blissful evenings can stall out while waiting for SOMEONE to finish pouring his  Ovaltine and come to bed after setting the alarm...so we can read magazines together. (Back off ladies, he's all mine.)

Those folks not super close to me often mistake this activity as inclusive gloating. But it isn't. Not really. I can name half a dozen people for whom the idea of dinner-makin', baby-tendin' and husband-keepin' would be an absolute nightmare and not a reward at all. (Conversely, I can think of a few people with evening careers with whom I would gladly trade places for a night or two. For example, Go Go dancers. Do they not just look like they're having a blast?)

But this Staying Innyness? It's become MY nighttime event- no more important than your reading or wine tasting- but certainly no less, either. "Projects" that require "pants" will eventually pique my interest again, but for now I'm cool.

The world isn't running out of pineapple fried rice any time soon.

I'll sleep in March.

Oh, Monday.

In my efforts to protect my laptop, phone, coffee and child from each other, I managed to dump the third over all four things. Five, including myself.

The coffee was cold. She's fine.

Maybe I need to be child-proofed from myself.

(What is that glorious aroma of hazelnut coming from my iPhone case? Smells like...a warranty crying.)

So, yes. Monday. It was a busy and fabulous weekend across the board- and the country. Sadly, we missed my youngest nephew Declan's baptism, but we were there in spirit. And present. And presently, our present is being presented to the incorrect zip code. (P.J. errantly mixed the oldest sister's street address with the youngest sister's zip code. What, we all look the same to you? What's one Massachusetts town compared to the next? Thanks a lot, Cincy.)

The past few days also included the best sushi in town (Yay, Macku! I ate a potentially unwise amount of super white tuna) an evening with P.J.'s coworkers (great band, terrific company, positively cougartastic dancin' on the floor), a birthday party for a one year old whom Nora alternately adores and has a coy-ish thing going on (and a good time was had with his always suprafun parents and their pals), a holiday swaparoo with no less than eight types of cheese and plates that rest on one's FINGERS (I could not invent that kinda thing if I tried), and a brunch/playdate with neighbor pals- a relationship that we are quite thrilled to cultivate, as they are a) cool, b) possessing a daughter of the same age as Nora, and c) fluent speakers of sober English.

Saturday evening was the extraordinarily different experience of having someone pick out my outfit (because I collapsed in a pile of my Momitude and comfy hoodies) and whisk me out for an evening of dancin' in divey locales. (Thanks, B!) I hadn't been to the Liar's Club since my 26th birthday, which was...last year...and it hasn't changed a bit. Except maybe it's a little cleaner? Slightly? Or maybe my standards have completely dropped off the face of the planet. (There aren't any waffles stuck to the chairs- what a classy joint!) Even though the music was- shall we say- a little too current for my dusty tastes, we definitely got the dancing started. (I am always the first on the dance floor. I don't want to brag and say that people pack the floor once I get out there...but it inevitably happens. Granted, this could also be because I start dancing while the DJ is still setting up. It would be pretty hard to start dancing before the person who doesn't need music starts dancing.) And Miss B was so proud of my efforts that she convinced the DJ to play Boston for me. Sure, I was the only one really dancing to More Than A Feeling...but ask me if I cared. Or noticed. (I did not.)

And now, about the kids' music today: (Scoot aside, my walker needs to be parked.) The last time I really identified with trendy music was the early 90s- seriously. Once hair metal started to die out, I Status Quo-ly listened to Nirvana and Pearl Jam and Soundgarden. But my flannel-clad heart was still aching for a modulation of Hysteria proportions. And a couple of years later? I was so done with the boy band/pop princess explosion that I regressed into blues and oldies and classic country just to remind myself of how music used to sound- and I was seventeen.

But really. Taio Cruz? Dynamite? There are just some songs so inane as to permanently damage my frontal lobes each time they are reflected upon. (And with a stupid hook that catchy, it is sadly a DAILY occurrence.)

"I throw my hands up in the air sometimes!" he exclaims. (Sayin' AYO.) Every time I hear that one line I am completely taken out of the moment. I need to step off of the bar and think about how ridiculous that lyric is. Really, Taio? You seem surprised by this. Sometimes you just throw your hands in the air? Is it like an involuntary twitch? ("May I offer you a canape?" "Yeah, this is a lovely catered event, I- AYO!" Trays akimbo.) So I think about that. Then I am always drawn back to Nora's book about a shy little wombat called "Sometimes I Like To Curl Up In A Little Ball." Always. Always always always. Then I get an image of a smallish Taio Cruz curling up into a ball and waving his arms willy nilly against the onslaught of not being able to live his life/rock this club/light it up/move move move.

It's a wonder they even let me through the door.

Back to the weekend.

As the Summer/Fall events transition into All Things Holiday, I often think about how nice it's gonna be once Winter hits. Truly. And this is coming from a girl who takes baths at a trillion degrees Fahrenheit and cannot stand the sight of snow once February hits. But, as friends and I were discussing yesterday, the cold weather season means you actually see people. As counterintuitive as it seems, we never see anyone in the Summer. Sure, we're out and about and there are a trillion things going on...but we've been booked since January. Weddings, family, travel, festivals, weekend thingies. But in March? The only plans people make for March around here are cozy house parties, Scrabble nights, movies, dinners in, blanket tents, etc. Sure, last winter was positively idyllic, what with a glorious maternity leave, snuggly little wee baby, entire seasons of programming at my disposal, and enough homemade food to stock two freezers...but I have high hopes for this one as well.

So to all of my lovely friends and fam- the ones whom I could not get it together in time to see this Warm Season- come over sometime. I hear that Peej has a few movies.

But I'll provide the music.

Yelling At Inanimate Objects (And Other Fun.)

This photo, originally in the January '10 issue of Parenting magazine, nearly gave me a brain aneurysm when I first saw it.

So, so many things.

For starters:
-She is eleven years old.
-She is holding a doughnut and wincing at her weight on the scale.
-She weighs 129lbs.
-To get a full body shot like that, she must have a positively Louvre-like bathroom. Or the photographer is standing directly inside her full length mirror.

Am I to feel any sort of connection with this image? Any sympathy for her plight? I do not believe that she either a) feels badly about herself or b) eats doughnuts. Maybe even c) has kids. (LOOK at those HIPS! Eleven.)

And sure, I'm not compelled to immediately identify with every single picture placed in front of me- but come on. The magazine is called 'Parenting'. Not 'Awesome Thin People Eating Junk Food'. (Although- sign me up for that one.) But its target demographic is the young Mom and Dad. Who presumably, if they have body image issues at all, have legit ones. (If I looked that good and had a doughnut, you would surely not hear me complain.) The article goes on to extol the virtues of being easy on yourself after the holidays, that a new diet is sure to fail now and again. The important thing is to not beat yourself up! Have a doughnut!

At the time that this magazine entered our house, I was a hot mess of hormones, sleep deprivation, Chicago winter skin/body/hair, and forty extra pounds of taco. You think you've seen tears? You have not seen tears. And a frightened P.J. did not think that a bag of Mexican food could solve it this time.

Instead, he told me to hang on to the article. Maybe even hang it up in my office. Before I could projectile weep at him, he delicately suggested (from behind protective forearms) that I take my own picture when I felt good about myself. Compare the two. Laugh. Have a snack.

And ten months later, I did.

I made a few executive edits:
-Wasn't so much feelin' the underpants thing.
-My shirt is crazy cooler.
-Martinis make scales easier. (Also- we don't "keep" doughnuts around. You either walk in and have them in a box, or you've just run out of doughnuts.)
-I've definitely got more rage than consternation.
-My camera was propped up in my toddler's Snack Trap.

So, what's my point? Am I coming almost a year late to The January Issue Of Parenting Made Me Feel Badly party? Am I railing against unfair depictions of actual Momitude in the media? Do I believe that only hefty people should consume baked goods?

Nope.

Oh sure, I was all set to be a stoic example of what a Real Mother On A Scale Holding A Highly Caloric Object looks like- a super zoom would reveal my lack of makeup, poorly patched "pedicure" and yes, those are a series of small holes on the front of my favorite tee- indeed, I kept it REAL. Until I stepped on the scale.

For you see, I didn't weigh 129lbs. I weighed slightly less. (Take that, MODEL.)

Now I was in a wicked pickle. There is NO humor in being smaller than the teensy person whom you are in the act of condemning for the samesuch quality! NONE.

But there was a smallish bit of pride. Not just that I was [fleetingly] thin, but that my self-created diet of tears, once a month Pilates, stress, more tears, some yelling, okay- more yelling, forgetting to eat, more than making up for it and crying out the difference, and playlot shame WORKED! For the time being!

Sure, it was nearly inevitable that once I stopped eating for seven- loooong after I'd had the baby- that I'd shed most of the weight. But should I should call Parenting and have them feature me as January's obnoxious example of unattainable long-term lifestyle goals? No way. Here's why:

Because in my quest to mock an unfair depiction, I've unwittingly become closer to the actual image against which I'd raged, an act which demands that I- momentarily- dislike and scorn myself. I'm basically required to wonder about what it is, exactly, that I'm trying to "say" to Me in general...and then spend way too much time agonizing about how I'm presenting Me to Myself in the media. It's kinda like Time Cop. Also- the weight of Not Real Problems is staggeringly heavy and hubris adds about twenty pounds. Oop, there we go. Back to normal. Thanks for nothing Parenting.

But I'm not gonna beat myself up about it.

Doughnut, anyone?

<---Not Brave.

Nora is covered in band-aids. Five of them, to be exact. On her bruised, teensy tiny upper arms.

I have one band-aid. But I care not for my own pain- for it is my penance.

Oh, sure, Nora was thrilled to see the doctor and her nurse pals this a.m. What's not to like? Cool artwork (for her, anyway- she's not too discerning yet), tons of stuff to poke and touch, people telling her how big and strong and pretty she is...

And then jabbing her with needles the size of a small country.

Trying not to project my own fears of [awfulterriblepainful] needles onto my kid, I smiled and sang and gave her a cookie. A special doctor visit cookie! You know, a Halloween sugar cookie, like you do.

And then they made me lean over her to pin down her upper body and legs. Right away, she knew something was up. As they tightened the tourniquet and swabbed her miniature inner arm, she looked at me with panicked and pleading eyes. Then she began to whimper. And, I AM NOT ASHAMED TO SAY...so did I.

I almost went and got the car. Seriously, I asked myself. How threatening IS polio? So what if she has lead in her system?

I'm pretty sure they drained all of the blood in her body. It took like seven hours.

And they they gave her four shots. Two of which, they warned (there were multiple nurses), might be really sting-y. And, gauging by the [momentarily] silent scream emitting from my purple-headed daughter's face, I'm willing to bet they were.

Her arms are already purple and blue and red. She has, occasionally, removed her sleepy weepy head from the crook of my neck- once when the nurses returned to do my flu shot. (I've rarely seen such a wary and tension-filled glare coming from one so little.)

My arm is a little sore. I cannot even imagine the Achyville in which she currently resides.

We both had cookies.

So. Yes. This weekend.

On Friday we had the unparalleled date night of watching ourselves on The Food Network (Outrageous Food, playing again on the 14th at 3p and 10:30p CST, in case you missed it)...and enjoyed the evening by having our phones in hand, computers on lap, texting, emailing, Facebooking, Skyping, Gchatting, and phone-calling. Just like the pioneers intended.

Also this weekend; I made the very urban discovery that a car alarm truly serves no purpose. None. Its intended use it to deter car theft. What ends up happening, however, is that you don't end up hearing the alarm at 3am. Your neighbors do. And, instead of checking to see if everything is all right, they actually wish the car jacker would hurry up and disable the siren. Maybe smack you with a car part if a child is woken.

Just a casual observation apropos of nothing on Troy Street.

Another revelation? A few reviews of my new 3lb computer warned against its small and tricky-to-maneuver keyboard- the one that actually makes me a better typist. Obviously, I HAVE CHILDLIKE HANDS. Thank you, Picayune Polly, for being yet another affirmation that I am indeed a ten year-old.

In case the wardrobe, hairstyle, fear of the dark, toy collections, nicknaming, and joyful outbursts didn't give it away.

Nora thinks I'm cool. Or will once I give her another cookie.

(Small hands high-five!)

Intensive porpoises.

[Note: This posting was, for all intents and purposes, ready to go this a.m. However, apparently I wasn't. Really, all I had to do was do a li'l spell check, edit some late night phrases that don't do so well in the light of day (and vice versa) and hit 'publish post.'

Yup. Couldn't even manage that. 

To be fair, I was awfully busy ruining my daughter's life and stranding a three year-old in the line for preschool pickup. One super sick baby (she got the illness lovingly passed on by a good half of her party guests) in addition to one semi-sick three year old, and throw in a seven year-old outta school due to a teachers' conference. Add in a stalled recycling truck outside of two schools with simultaneous pickup times...and oh, let's just pretend that the non-sleeping baby didn't care to be stopped in traffic (with or without garbage truck fumes) and, just for fun, let's say that the middle kiddo felt thoroughly abandoned after a ten minute wait...and the littlest one decided to get her only nappin' of the day in whilst car bound. 

That leaves about three hours of unfulfilled nappage and 9.5 hours of fulfilled crabbage (that's a combo crab/cabbage/cribbage)- but plenty of opportunity for five cups of caffeine. 

The day might've been destined for crabbagetude, however, since I woke up from a nightmare that seemed about eight years long. In a nutshell, the dream took place on my wedding day. Sans P.J. or any actual items or locations of that day. Especially without Peej- because he had stood me up on the altar. All I remember was being very sad, and then, when I woke up, being very mad at P.J. (He hates when these things happen. Awake P.J. and Dream P.J. need to have some words.) 

So. Yes. Lack of bloggin' for the day. Amended. With apologies for the late hour.]

Previously Penned Posting o' Prose and Puns:

This was, quite obviously, a good time o' year to be born'd. I don't think I had realized just how many pals were Scorpios in addition to my husband, daughter, sister and Mom. 

Lots of passionate, deep thinkin' arguers. 

I didn't exactly need the zodiac to tell me that.

And a happy birthday week to my big sis Kate. She's awesome. Awesomer than me, in fact. Here's why: she had her first kid on my birthday. (06.06.06- and I turned 26. Neato/frightening!) I could not manage the same, despite an original due date a mere day before her birthday. (11.04.09. Kate's is the 5th. Nora was delivered on the 29th of October. Darn you, modern medicine!) 

So there's that. There's also the fact that she's a computer whiz, soccer star and baking genius (seriously- ask her to make you a banana cake. On second thought, don't. It's for me.)

If only I had enough floss, I'd string up a pulley/basket contraption- like the kind that used to hang between our bedroom doors- and send a secret birthday message as big as the Midwest. In fact, maybe I'd send myself in the basket and save on airfare. Or...or...I could send others and charge for it! Then I could see her whenever I wanted!

Birthday magic. Brilliant.

Some other little-known tidbits and magical facts about this week:

1) Despite having mopped the floors and both staircases repeatedly over the last few days, there are miniature cat hair tumbleweeds rollin' on by...and rollin' on over random sticky spots near the fridge. I'm gonna go ahead and presume that they're made of juice. Also, I'm gonna go ahead and guess that this all is the work of one thing and one thing only- a ghost. 

2) I am getting a new laptop delivered any time between right this very second and tomorrow in an hour to be determined...and oh, it will be determined. Because my nose will be pressed against the window until the very second it arrives, prompting my daughter to wonder why she's being neglected and I will tell her that MOMMY IS GETTING A NEW COMPUTER. Drink your juice. But not by the fridg- oh well. 

3) This new computer is teeeeeensy...and yes, it already has a name. 

4) And a customized skin. Like the 13 year-old girl that I am. 

5) My bloodstream is comprised of 79% sugar. And not even the fructose kind. Like, straight up candy corn and brownies and caramel apples and cupcakes and Kit Kats. I find that this affects things like "energy," "sleep," and "mood." This has not slowed me down in the least.

6) And many, many of my friends have seen this already...but P.J. and I are exceedingly proud of the following 12 second clip:

...Because it means that our darlin' girl has put the 'fun' in FUNCTIONAL. 

        

Anagram: ANTIC FLU NO.

A.K.A.: Keely, go to bed.      

November is for sleeping.

Firstly and foremostly, congrats to Kelly F, winner extraordinaire of the Brain Noodles giveaway! (And no, that does not read 'Keely F.' It doesn't.) Hope you have some fun kiddos in your life- or enjoy a good crafty evening by yourself. 'Cause who doesn't?

Except for autophobes.

Hmm. So. Where did October go?

Ah yes, now I remember. We sent it packing with armloads of confetti and [impossible to open] plastic toy enclosures, a face full of Trick or Treat makeup and frosting up its nostril.

Maybe a frozen Reese's cup in its back pocket. (I'm kidding. I ate all of those. In the state.)

Hey gorgeous. Cupcake? Sure!

Yes. This weekend. Friday was a crazypants day, full of tutus, graphic tees proclaiming 'ONE,' zoo trips, zero naps, and all sorts of good foods. And some really bad ones. We took Nora Noodle to the zoo for her big day and decided to make up for the other afternoon where we tried to squeeze an entire visit into the last fifteen minutes before closing time. We failed.


Here is what she dug:
-The cats. And they were all 'cats.' The lions, servals, panthers, tigers, seals...
-The birds. Flamingos, ducks, nearby chickadees and street pigeons.
-Dad was there. Dad! DAAAAAD!
-Smelling the gardenias inside the conservatory.
-Walking about on the pavement.
-The snack I had brought.

Here is what she did not care for:
-The fact that the monkey house was indoors and dim. Also, kinda smelly.
-That she could not hold the snake.
-Not being allowed to walk about on the pavement the entire time.
-The near-freezing temps.
-Not being allowed IN the koi pond at the conservatory.
-When I removed the empty snack container from her hands.

I had made all of her favorite foods for that day- in fact, for the whole week. P.J's as well- because, as everyone knows, she's taking notes. And will remember. These foods included: French toast with bananas, mini croissant sandwiches, a sweet potato and apple bake, eggplant parmesan, and a chocolate cherry cupcake (from Sweet Mandy B's. I cannot bake.) I'm rather surprised she didn't explode.

As for the cupcake itself, we had a very cool (and rather Epcot World of Tomorrow moment) where my parents got to Skype and see Nora blow out her first candle. (We live in the future!) It was pretty neat, especially when everyone got a close up look at my delicate daughter smashing her face (hands-free...she's a LADY) directly into the frosting.

We undressed her right over the bathtub and she took a nice long soak surrounded by cake and eggplant bits. YUM.

Dux.

She awoke the next morning to find her parents in a frenzy. Why? Oh, because they had decided on a no-stress mini party for their toddler at her favorite nearby playlot. And that required multiple trips to multiple stores. And they needed to get food and drinks (and adult "juice") and presents and paper goods and wipes and candles (and and and) to the park that may or may not have available picnic tables because, once again, it is a free city park. Also, the forecast had- ever so helpfully- been fluctuating between  a pleasant mid-60s sunny day and a positively frigid rainy 40-something. Which meant that the party MIGHT have had to take place at the homestead. Which was also frantically being cleaned for the arrival of P.J.'s parents sometime that day. (Sorry Nora, happy birthday and all- go lay down.)

And when she decided to nap for a whopping twenty minutes that day? No one was surprised. But thankfully, the day turned out to be gorgeous, Nora was thrilled when she realized where we were taking her, even more ecstatic when she realized that other people she knew were there (Hey guys! You're at my park!), and she devoured a second glorious cupcake (punkin' this time, made by the fabulous Cindy/Julia Team O' Excellence) with all the acumen of a seasoned pro.

Of course, we had decided to have it at the park to best accommodate all of her miniature friends...four of whom were able to show up. (There were various illnesses and weekendy plans. You know how it goes.) However, a whopping 90% of our friends made it, allowing for a positively creepy number of adults san children at a public playlot. Lots of bench-sitting and "juice" drinking. I had fun. Nora thought it was terrific.


That night she passed out atop brightly wrapped boxes, clutching a questionably "food"-covered Doc Bullfrog. Party over, I could almost hear her bitsy (and racing) mind decide.

Miiine.

Except.

The next day was Halloween. A day for masks, Skyping with a good half of Trick or Treating cousins (what's a telephone?), carving pumpkins (you're doing WHAT to the punkins?!), giving buckets of candy away to other kids (they get ALL of it?) and dressing up as Raggedy Ann (I did this last week, weirdos.) Aside from the oddity of hearing the doorbell every five minutes, she had a pretty decent time. She even got to take a bath with all of the leftover cupcake ducks.

There's a sentence I've never before typed.

But now that it's November, maybe we can all agree to take a nap? Specifically the shorties? I need all the extra time I can get to dispose of the veritable kitchen candyland we're got going on (immediately into my face) and find some sort of order for the F.A.O. Schwartz open for business in our playroom. (Nora: It is fine the way it is. Leave it. LEAVE IT.)

Raggedy Tired.

I might start by doing a big ol' load of laundry. That's right. Let's start with the upstairs bedding. I'm probably gonna need to crawl under the sheets to make sure I can reach all of the blankets. And I should rest there for a few.

This hand holding the cupcake is getting heavy.

Like a Sharpie with a chisel. Of diamonds. Big ones.

It continues to be Birthday Week.

On Monday I enjoyed regaling my pretty terrific husband P.J. with a list of 29 reasons why he should remain married to me.

Today's featured birthdaygoer (and haver) is none other than Nora Jane, One Year Old Extraordinaire (well, tomorrow, anyhow.)

What?! How can she be that aged already, didn't you carry her for thrice this long, you exclaim? (AGREED.) But since it wouldn't be fair to only list 1 reason why she should continue to remain my daughter (and how thoroughly incredible she is)...I've decided to compile a number that shall reveal itself when I finish this post, as I shall make it up then.

Dear N.J.,

1. You may be small (in size as well as years), but you have already- undeniably- learned the important life skill of getting exactly what you want. And- despite my tireless reinforcement of  rules, politesse and patience- whenever you want. What's your trick? Why, it's the same as your Daddy's- offering up a stunning and genuine smile before and after the event or object of your fascination.

It goes like this: grin/point/thatthatthat/applause/poke/patpatpat/grasp/beam.

Here's your pony.

2. You have a miniature library containing hundreds of titles. Despite this, we are captive readers each night of Ten Little Ladybugs. This in and of itself is not amazing- but what is is your ability to be constantly enchanted by these twenty pages, sometimes flipping back to marvel at earlier plot developments. So much so, in fact, that we find ourselves laughing along with you, excitedly pointing out characters in a tale that, frankly, had long ago ceased to be suspenseful. ("Previously, on Ten Little Ladybugs...")

In short, you make everything really, really fun. And did you know that your father would be so adept at voicing grasshoppers and butterflies?

3. You eat pesto and eggplant and Armenian delicacies. Actually, "eat" is too ladylike of a term for how you destroy plates of food. Actually, same goes for "plate." It's a good thing you're strapped into that highchair and it's made of fairly solid and toxin-free wood. Watching you consume food is an almost daily revelation. You've never tasted this or that- your reactions are immediate and for the first time ever.

That is so cool.

Subsequently, you make us feel like really, really good cooks. Which is awesome! Even though sometimes you eat to mimic us and pack teensy bites of bread into that cavernous mouth of yours like the squirrel-cheeked beastie that you are...you NEVER lie or pull punches. If the alfredo sucks, then the alfredo sucks- and it's going on the floor.

4. Our days together kinda always feel like a Saturday, early in the afternoon. We have a good time. You're game for strollin', car seatin' (usually), being slung (slingin'?), ridin' in the shopping cart, swingin' at the playlot...and pretending that you don't know how to walk. (I know you do. I've seen it when you think I'm not looking, lazy bum!) We watch Jeopardy. (You get super excited when Alex Trebek laughs. And the other day, when they showed a pic of a cat sarcophagus, you squealed "catkittycatmeowhihihihimeow" for, oh- a good half an hour.)

You climb on our tall speakers and tap them for emphasis, announcing to the room at large that it would be great if someone could make something happen here. You love music. All music. But especially stuff that lets you dance with lots of hip and knee action. (Again, this is a lot like your Dad.) And speaking of him...you innately know when he's due to arrive home and you bounce impatiently by the speakers, clapping and cheering like an Elvis sighting when you hear the key in the lock. And then he plays songs that the two of you have deemed your favorites. And then you dance identically.

But there are also afternoons where you are beyond content to sit and play with a pile of blocks, dolls and books by yourself. Happily turning pages, patting babies' eyes, shoving smallish pieces into your mouth or shirt or underneath a pile of something that will be unearthed later in the week (you've recently discovered the concept of a "nook")...this is when you allow me to return emails, write, start dinner, lay facedown on the area rug in unfolded laundry...

We've discovered, you and I, what so many relationships strive to attain throughout years of togetherness: we can just be. Sure, me more than you, but you've allowed me to work on the discipline of Not. Having. To. Work. On. Something. At. All. Times. (And yes, definitely, that's still a work in progress.)

5. Nora Noodle Junebug Jane, you've made me a more prolific writer. (I hesitate to say "better," because I'm barely functional in terms of grammar and punctuation in my casual writing.) And it's not all about sunlit beams over sleeping babes and blah blah- because, as most people are well aware, my poetry is God Awful. (It's really bad. It even rhymes.) But, when I need to write something down and explain it (and tangent it) to death, you've inspired me to write and write and write. 'Cause babydoll, now I know fear. And rage. And comedy so dangerous to bladders it should have its own warning label.

Granted, the stuff I write isn't exactly the apex of literature- but then again, in my kid-free days, I wasn't exactly penning Chaucer. [Note: Really? Chaucer? I've been an avid reader since the early 80s and my go-to example of literary greatness is the Canterbury Tales? Really?]

Oh, Nora, I've failed you in this list. The idea of even pretending that individual numbers correspond to itemized ramblings is a little inane. So...

20. Everyone said how hard IT was. How hard IT was gonna be. Few people said- or were even able to let on- how unimaginably wonderful IT is. How full of wonder, joy, exquisite sadness and shocking hilarity this whole shebang was gonna turn out.

And, weirdly enough, "life-changing" (as overused as it is) doesn't seem big enough to cover it. Because it was- obviously. But any time you do something new and nutso, your life is bound to change. I need a new term for something so upside-down-making, so outside the realm of one's comprehension, that you can't help but be immediately catapulted into a stronger and more strongly defined person.

Nora, you've so thoroughly outlined my edges that I've been Etch-A-Sketched. With a Sharpie.

And, no I don't think that this kinda transformation is exclusive to parents- I can think of at least five other Life Etch-A-Sketching events- but I think I was lucky enough to get it right with you, kiddo.

I think I was lucky.

(Happy birthday.)