Wordless...except for the title and caption. And tags. And signatures.

Snacktime for Shorties.

Playing favorites.

Thanks to Trop50 for sponsoring my writing about fabulous bloggers. This year Trop50 is granting 50 Fabulous Wishes. Click here to enter for a chance to win $1,000 to celebrate a friend with a refreshing attitude about looking and feeling fabulous!

***

Okay, so I get to list five brilliant bloggers? Instead of being intimidated by this challenged, I was actually a little worried. Only five? (I do love me some interwebz-readin'.) So, with apologies to the eleventy other close, personal pals with terrific bloggy stylings, here are some perk-up-your-day, never-fail-to-make-me-smile reads from gals that I adore. (Also, hyphens.)

Kate at Grant Wishes has, hands-down, the most charming blog in the cosmos. Here's why: her subject matter (her three little dudes) are positively edible, she takes great photos of their life outside of Boston, and she has various themes that I truly dig; a daily thankful thought (even on those days that can be less than stellar) and two new columns that never fail to make me wet my pants. (Did I really say that and Did you hear that are primo examples of how strange and rad parenting can be.) Her husband Tom- who travels a lot for business- has his own column featuring adventurous pix of Leo, the boys' finger puppet lion, who gets to go on all of Dad's business trips. (Leo lives well.) All of these features- plus the fact that Kate updates nearly every day- makes for a good daily check-in. Also, she knows more about trucks and machinery than she ever could have planned for back in college.

Brie writes Pat and Brie Plus Three, which- yes- is technically another blog I love written by a mother. However, I wouldn't exactly call her a Mommy Blogger. She's more the Post Your Bail After Buying The Last Round Of Shots Blogger. What's more, she makes me guffaw. Guffaw, I tell you. Her stories are dirty, inappropriate for work, and quite possibly some of the funniest stuff online. Her Christmas memories post makes me cry with laughter. And sure, I cry a lot, but you know how sometimes I cry until I wheeze and hyperventilate and shake with spasms of tears? Like that. Brie's kids are also ridiculously cute, so there's that, too.

They even made their own wedding cake.

Cindy and Julia are good friends of mine. My husband married them. (This is true. Well, actually, they married each other, but he facilitated and got to stand up there looking all cute and cheerful with the brides.) They write a blog entitled What's for Dinner...but that may change shortly, as they're gonna expand into all levels of craftiness and awesomesaucity. I look forward to this, because these ladies are seriously talented. Besides being gourmands (if you're really nice, they might just make you a tart. And this tart might just make you cry) and fashionistas (they started a business called Crafty Broads wherein they design and tailor your clothes), they are also stage managers. Which means they are in charge of everything.

Huckleberry Flynn is penned by a gal named Emily whom I've known for her entire life- even before she was big enough to steal all of my toys. Regardless, she writes some of the funniest lyrical dissection this side of the Mississippi (although, to be fair, I haven't checked in recently with the other side of the river lately). Even though she occasionally strays back into the world of Sustainability (where she gets paid, yo), and traveling (she once slept tied to a ship's crow's nest while spending a semester at sea- but having seen how deeply she can sleep, it's not really that impressive), she endeavors to post as often as her glamorous life allows. Every single time a new link appears, I know I will laugh until I pee. (This is clearly the highest compliment I know.) Check out her take on Bruno Mars' Marry You. Her Skymall recap is also hilarious- and disturbingly informative.

Bogglingly joyful.

Laura and I have been friends since grade school. Even though we haven't lived in the same state (or time zone) for many years, I adore keeping up with her travels on I'll Take You In My Backpack. Recently, she's lived in Alaska, Japan, and now Guam. (The other day I went to a city park on the northside of town and was exhausted by my jaunt. For an example of my own comparative non-traveliness.) She remains upbeat and incredibly cool, despite the recent natural disasters in Japan- and, more recently, a burst eardrum while in her new locale. In fact, her arrival to each location has been marked by a separate earthquake each and every time. Alaska. Japan. Guam. Yep. So, good God, don't just go give her a gander...give her some love. (Also ask her if she remembers my Jonathan Brandis Trapper Keeper from seventh grade [mandatory] shop class.)

So there you go. You have no more excuses for doing your job or going to bed on time.

Get readin'.

And then come back here. 'Cause I'll always love you best.

***

Don't forget to enter the 50 Fabulous Wishes contest for a chance to win $1,000 to celebrate a friend with a refreshing attitude about looking and feeling fabulous. I was selected for this Tropicana Trop50 sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective, which endorses Blog With Integrity, as I do. I received compensation to use and facilitate my post.

Get in the house.

Little kids.

The traditional third anniversary gift is leather. The modern one is crystal, or- if one is feeling frugal- glass.

I am giving P.J. none of these tomorrow.

Instead, today I'll regale everyone with one of the best Peej stories in the history of...maybe ever. (Although, when this tale occurred I was carrying an awesome leather bag and P.J. almost got his face smashed through glass. So to anyone who still feels that this blog has no tie-ins, well, I just laugh at you, sir.)

Okay. So this was back in the late summer of 2005. Our relationship was squeaky new (and a fortunately small group of people had taken to calling us "KeeJay"). I was twenty five. Peej was a positively toddler-esque twenty four. And we had been out late. The show in which we had performed had ended for the weekend and we had- quite possibly- stayed a little too long at the After Hours bar. And while we certainly weren't drunk, one of us was a little more tired than polite conversation demanded.

Our cab let us off on the busy intersection near my studio apartment and we began our walk towards it. Halfway down my tree-lined block, a car whizzed by- way closer to the parked cars and entirely faster than P.J. deemed appropriate. In true P.J. fashion, he yelled after it.

"This is a residential neighborhood!"

Out of nowhere, a smallish group of Wrigleyville jocks appeared on the other end of the block. Telling P.J. to stop being such an expletive and yelling at them.

P.J. explained- loudly- that he wasn't TALKING to them.

Expletive.

Expletive.

Quicker than you can say "full body cast," we were surrounded by the frattiest looking group of White Hats- and one trashed and trashy-looking girl. Awesome.

They demanded to know all about P.J.'s beef with various issues. Peej conjectured that speeds of that car's nature were unsafe this early in the a.m. It got rather heated, but not too unmanageable.

Until a hand reached out and shoved P.J.'s back. Which propelled him into the chest of the largest guy- with the White Hat most firmly turned backwards. Then came a lovely shoving backwards and forwards of various hands into various chests. Now, I'm no psychic, but I knew how this short story would end. Especially since this little, red-headed dude kept popping his face into P.J.'s and demanding to know "who was talking now."

There was a momentary lull in the action, which enabled P.J. to turn and offer up the most P.J. of all phrases he would ever utter to me, be it past, present, or future-

"Get in the house."

Oh, OKAY. I'll just leave you to your pummelly death then, shall I? Okie doke. I'll start getting ready for bed.

I ignored this advice, much to P.J.'s confusion. (Like I said, we were really new.) I then decided that this mission needed an ambassador mission and turned to the drunk girl.

"This is crazy," I informed her. "We need to stop this."

"My baby's gotta take care of me, you know?" She actually slurred at me. "He protects me from people disrespecting."

Uh, sure, Useless Girl With Imagined Slights. I chalked her up to be the least valuable person involved in the skirmish- maybe the city- and turned to one of the guys not currently shoving the boy I had decided would father my child in four and a half years.

"Please," I begged him. "This is stupid. I live right here and he hadn't even been talking to you. We almost got hit by a car!" I omitted P.J.'s strong feelings on speed bump necessities and also the gin and tonic- which I had just decided would be stricken from his drink menu until I died. (Which was looking pretty imminent.)

For some reason, this guy took pity on me. Or perhaps he felt something (respect? incredulousness?) towards P.J. fighting off six guys.

"Hey." And they stopped. It was magical. Curt words were exchanged and P.J. was grudgingly allowed to leave the circle of death. He and I walked towards the exterior door of my building and I unlocked it, all the while hearing mutterings of dismayed frat boys and one pathetic girl's misplaced prideful ramblings. As  soon as P.J. and I were almost safely inside the front door, the redhead piped up something obnoxious and unrepeatable. And since Peej has enough Irish in him to not let something like that lie- ever- he shouted back his own anatomical request.

And just like that, a crush of bodies shoved forwards.

Safely locking us into my building's foyer.

P.J. and I went upstairs and I contemplated having to move. As soon as we were contained in my apartment, he turned to me with a completely inappropriate gleeful smile.

"That was crazy!"

And while I didn't hit him- per se- I'm pretty sure he was more afraid of me than the pack of sporty hyenas down the street. Which is the basis for an solid marriage. And while nothing of that ilk has ever happened since, it was the first of many times where I knew that P.J. would happily face an angry mob (be it during the closing on our property or bugging the nurse for more post c-section painkillers)- as long as I had gotten into the metaphorical house.

And he still feels the exact same way about speed limits on tree-lined streets.

(I love you, Peej.)

The sun'll come out...in August.

Not only not recent, but not even ME.

I am le tired.

Perhaps it is the weather- this eternal just-on-the-cusp-of-March drizzle with twenty minute long bursts of quickly disappearing actual light- that makes me want to jump out a window. Except that my first floor is a half story up and the top level not high enough to really make a dramatic impact. (But maybe- just maybe- that's the kinda window jumping I prefer.)

(And then I remember that a goodly bit of the nation is having a WAY worse time of it, weather-wise. And I feel badly for wanting a consistent amount of sunlight at the end of May.)

Or perhaps it's the fact that I am still reeling from the smackdown I received from the LIBRARY two days ago regarding my wallet theft. No, they were not the first call I made (didn't even make the top ten), and no, I would not be filing a separate police report for the sole item of the library card, but yes, I will try and be more conscientious in the future. (I hate them.)

(But then I remember how lucky I am that the worst of my wallet-thievery is a bruised ego at the Sulzer branch of the CPL.)

Or it could be the recent development of this blog's traffic exploding to nearly eight times its usual weekly numbers...but because of an odd tracking glitch wherein no one can tell just where the numbers are coming from, I'm getting [monetary] credit for an less than an eighth of it.

(And yes, yes, yes, First World Problems. I'm extraordinarily lucky to be getting anything at all for babbling about...whatever it is I usually babble about. But the potential to earn more than a dime a day is rather tempting. Especially when the numbers are there. Unless it's a mistake. Or a bot. I LOVE robots. But only the nice, non-enslavey kind.) [Side note- Nora hates ALL robots, including, but certainly not limited to, our Roomba Wally.]

Maybe it's how I'm feeling ginormous and am one day away from being halfway through this pregnancy. That's right, this show's about to get bigger. We're not just taking it on the road, I'm BECOMING the road. And the nearby counties. And Peej is no help, as he says I look good. Great, even. But I am seriously beginning to doubt his ability to discern, as he has never once told me that my butt looked big. And I've worn some awfully big butt-ed pants.

(And this one stings the most, because we really, really wanted this pregnancy- and uh, still do- and the fact that I'm becoming an orca is a decent sign that we'll get a healthy baby and and and...)

And I hate whining. And whining about hating whining. It's a vicious cycle.

My point is, I'm tired. And batting incoming household/money/fatness issues away with Toddler Tantrum hands. (Can you picture it? Some of you have seen this.)

I promise to chin up.

While I still have a single chin.

Which is a rapidly closing window of time.

Just sayin'.

Some of the best expressions in the business...

...and business is good.

There was also popcorn in bed. Doctor's orders.

Sadly, Blogger has still (as of 9am CST today) not reinstated Thursday's post. So, uh, maybe check back later if you're dying for a mid-week recap? (And I know you are.)

Also, Wordless Wednesday explanations? The first pic is a magnetic version of a paper doll, one that the girls for whom I nanny love to dress in ball gowns and the fanciest of gear. They decided to make one that "dresses like Kiki."  "Can't I get a tiara or a snazzy dress?" "You don't look like that." So, rainbow tee and baggy jeans it is. (Also rad sneakers.)

The second pic is Nora, clad in jammy shorts, moments after gazing at herself in the full-length mirror and proclaiming herself to be "so pretty in blue [so pitty in boo.]"  Life Skills: Self-esteem in the face of questionable attire- check.

***

Last week was a jaunt through Crazyville. Not just the extreme temps (almost reaching 90 one day and then dropping to 37 the following night. I actually wept on Saturday morning. But that could've been due to a number of things), but the unexpected weirdness that permeated almost every single day.

Monday we flew home. And even an uneventful trip with a toddler is still a numbing journey through Overly Alert What-If Town that I wouldn't wish on my enemy. (Except that one. And she has it comin'.)

Tuesday gave me the unsettling experience of having my wallet removed from my person. (And again, lots of Ugly Cry. I cannot stress enough how unnerving this cry is to the random passerby. It also renders the Ugly Cry-ee unaware of blocks of time. My sister Rachel told me later in the week that we had had a lengthy conversation on Tuesday. We did?! Was I a refreshing conversationalist? She said yes.)

The rest of the week was spent at the DMV, the Police Station, the Social Security Office, and on the phone with various companies that, at one time, had my business. To up the challenge, I brought along a child well off the beaten nap path just to see what that would look like. Turns out, our precinct is remarkably nice and helpful- and rather slow at 7:45am on a Wednesday- and the DMV is a sucker for a good sob story/attractive baby. No kidding. The guy in line ahead of me had only his passport and was denied even a place number to wait for the next seven lines. He was sent on his way with stern words and an eyeroll. I handed my passport- warily- and explained that I had been robbed. ("Oh you POOR thing- and hi there, pretty little gal!" I think she meant Nora.) We were outta there in fifteen minutes, new license in hand. I didn't even need to take a new pic! Which is good, 'cause Bloated and Tear-Stained Keely does not make for a great I.D. We even breezed through the Social Security Office in FIVE MINUTES. (And isn't it sad when one's dealings with government offices is the high point of the week?)

Because Friday brought a trip to the dermatologist (during which time the receptionist mocked my name to the billing department- two feet away from me- and also had me wait for an hour.) I had developed a rash under my wedding rings, leading me- briefly- to believe that Peej purchased said rings at the Dollar Tree. The doc told me that, nope, it was just a rash. And- GET THIS- I should avoid washing dishes and/or getting my hands wet. Sounds GREAT! (And if I must do the dishes, I should wear non-latex gloves with a new pair of cotton gloves underneath each time. And I should remove my rings, adding two separate lotions after drying my hands with a clean towel each time they got wet.) That all sounded feasible to me.

I was all prepared to go home- expensive lotions in hand- especially since I had only put two hours on the meter, when the dermatologist asked about a spot on my back. And [TMI ALERT] I had dismissed it as a weird and isolated spot of bacne. He said that, no, it was in fact a "suspicious looking cyst" that he didn't "like the look of AT ALL." Then he left the room.

Oh boy. Well, I prepared to make a further appointment and then leave, being as I had ten minutes left on the meter and it would take that long to get back down the hallways and elevator and more hallways and north a few blocks to my car. (Forgoing parking garages is how I say I Love You to my husband.)

Suddenly, the door opened again (no knock- THERE WAS NO TIME) and a team of dermatological nurses wheeled in a tray featuring some very scary instruments, (a la Hostel, if I had seen it, which I did not) and the brisk instructions to remove my shirt. Uh, okay, I thought, looking down at Nora and then at my pregnant belly. And how exactly was this gonna go down?

They advised me to lay on my side, and that my daughter would be "fine just walking about." Sure. Until they began the procedure and she screamed bloody murder, necessitating a nurse to place her in the crook of my fetal position on the table, laden with a episode of Dora on my iPhone and a rubber glove balloon puppet. (This was not the time to restate my latex allergy, I decided. I just hoped no one would repeatedly thwack me in the face with it and all would be okay.)

The doctor informed me that the local anesthetic on my back would "sting." I informed him that my previous spinal had probably stung a little harder. He proceeded.

Have you ever received stitches while clutching a toddler who cannot decide if up or down is the place she would best like to be? I highly recommend.

Thankfully, I have Tylenol to get me through this Cannot Lay On My Back Nor Stomach Nor Right Side Nor Left Unless I Arch My Lower Back To Not Touch The Stitches Phase of my week. 'Cause everyone knows that Tylenol is a great narcotic, akin to putting out a forest fire with a squirt gun.

The week was redeemed- yet again- by Peej, laden with Mediterranean food, enforced early bedtimes, and allowing me to purchase [more] Little People village stuff and two antique wingback chairs at the Ravenswood Manor Garage Sale- all for twenty six bucks.

Who needs Tylenol?

Stop! Thief! (Or at least gimme back my gift cards.)

Robbed.

As most of you [within a five foot vicinity of my Facebook and/or Twitter feed] are aware of...yesterday I had my wallet stolen. I'd say "pick-pocketed," but that seems way too Victorian and quaint for the ire I am currently feeling.

Fagan's boys ain't singing Consider Yourself on Kedzie Avenue.

And the thing is- I'm so mad at MYSELF for allowing this to happen. Which I realize is ridiculous. But it was my choice to go to Cermak Produce as soon as Nora awoke, and it was my choice to place my wallet and keys and phone in the stroller pocket...and it was my choice to most likely have smiled at the jackass who ripped me off.

I found myself getting all Sliders and alternate reality in terms of the what-ifs and if-onlys. WHAT if I had left twenty minutes later. IF ONLY I had kept my defensive elbows out.

And I didn't even believe it had happened at first. (Lemme tell you, there's nothing like telling the Spanish-speaking cashier that you've been robbed...especially when you have a massive amount of food on the checkout counter. And the deli loves returning sliced meats. They do.)

I even walked back and forth from my house twice before calling in the theft. Yep- I was even mentally preparing the berating I was going to publicly give myself. OH, Keely, YOU MORON, I was ready to announce. (I was hoping for it, in fact.) I was also weirdly focused on the fact that I had really wanted one of the peaches I had tried to buy, and I had NO IDEA what I was gonna do for dinner. (Nora's gonna starve, Mental Keely yelled at Pushing The Stroller Keely. And it's all because of your stupidity!)

Mental is right.

By the time P.J. had called one credit card company, (we divvied up the accounts for cancellation, you see. Teamwork!) the jerks had already spent a ton of money at a gas station and a McDonalds down on North Ave.

That's when it hit me that the wallet was actually stolen, and no amount of Pregnancy Brain (an excuse which I hate, by the by) could take away the fact that someone (with questionable taste- I'd have been halfway to Virgin Gorda with a stolen card) was sifting through my stuff...and Nora's stuff...and random stuff which I had forgotten I had stuffed into the stuff...and deciding which to keep and which to chuck like so many crumpled fast food napkins.

So then I started to cry. Ugly Cry. (The lady at American Express thought that someone had died.) Because- and this shows you where my true priorities lay- I couldn't help sobbing at the idea that these thieves were laughing at my stuff. And me. And making fun of my name. And writing down my address to come and laugh at me to my face. And throwing away my business cards and pictures of Nora and fortune cookie fortunes and a dandelion that Nora had given to me and- AND- a gift card with 25 bucks to Anthropologie that I will NEVER get to use now, no matter HOW skinny I become in two years...

That's what bothered me. More than all of the replacement fees and the fact that it would take me hours and days and piles of documentation to prove that I am who I say I am, while any schmo with a credit card can buy out Mobil. (For example.)

And, of course, it could've been worse. Way worse. It could've been at gunpoint. Or they could've taken my keys with my wallet and I'd have to change all of the locks. Or they could have tried to take Nora and I would have had to either a) kill a man with my bare hands or b) jump out a window, depending on how the scenario played out. So, obviously I feel lucky in that regard.

But it still doesn't erase the feeling of Not Right that is all around me today. I'm a decent person and I believe in karma. More than that- I believe in being good to people.

This doesn't mean, however, that I'm not fervently wishing for a swift kick of karmic justice into the face, kidney or groin of the perp. (That's right, I SAID PERP.)

But I can take solace in the knowledge that everything lost was replaceable- and more than that- I have a husband who came home with a pepperoni pizza and printed documentation for speeding up the I.D. process. (An hour later he went to Cermak and reproduced the exact shopping order that I had previously left on the checkout counter. That's right, I got my Peach of Sorrow. Or former sorrow.)

So, enjoy your fries, thieving stupidhead. You don't have a P.J. and you don't have a delicious pizza and you'll never have this head of green leaf lettuce. Unless you buy them with someone else's card.

But you do have a pretty sweet red wallet.

And Lollygag Blog business cards.

Be a doll and pass 'em around, willya?

I'm really bad at this.

Semi-Wordless Wednesday.

Any idea what the haps are in these two gems? Hint: The first one made me feel poorly about my self-image and the second is the sign of an overly adored daughter. (I'll explain later on the F'book page.)

Stop! Thief! (Or at least gimme back my gift cards.)

Robbed.

As most of you [within a five foot vicinity of my Facebook and/or Twitter feed] are aware of...yesterday I had my wallet stolen. I'd say "pick-pocketed," but that seems way too Victorian and quaint for the ire I am currently feeling.

Fagan's boys ain't singing Consider Yourself on Kedzie Avenue.

And the thing is- I'm so mad at MYSELF for allowing this to happen. Which I realize is ridiculous. But it was my choice to go to Cermak Produce as soon as Nora awoke, and it was my choice to place my wallet and keys and phone in the stroller pocket...and it was my choice to most likely have smiled at the jackass who ripped me off.

I found myself getting all Sliders and alternate reality in terms of the what-ifs and if-onlys. WHAT if I had left twenty minutes later. IF ONLY I had kept my defensive elbows out.

And I didn't even believe it had happened at first. (Lemme tell you, there's nothing like telling the Spanish-speaking cashier that you've been robbed...especially when you have a massive amount of food on the checkout counter. And the deli loves returning sliced meats. They do.)

I even walked back and forth from my house twice before calling in the theft. Yep- I was even mentally preparing the berating I was going to publicly give myself. OH, Keely, YOU MORON, I was ready to announce. (I was hoping for it, in fact.) I was also weirdly focused on the fact that I had really wanted one of the peaches I had tried to buy, and I had NO IDEA what I was gonna do for dinner. (Nora's gonna starve, Mental Keely yelled at Pushing The Stroller Keely. And it's all because of your stupidity!)

Mental is right.

By the time P.J. had called one credit card company, (we divvied up the accounts for cancellation, you see. Teamwork!) the jerks had already spent a ton of money at a gas station and a McDonalds down on North Ave.

That's when it hit me that the wallet was actually stolen, and no amount of Pregnancy Brain (an excuse which I hate, by the by) could take away the fact that someone (with questionable taste- I'd have been halfway to Virgin Gorda with a stolen card) was sifting through my stuff...and Nora's stuff...and random stuff which I had forgotten I had stuffed into the stuff...and deciding which to keep and which to chuck like so many crumpled fast food napkins.

So then I started to cry. Ugly Cry. (The lady at American Express thought that someone had died.) Because- and this shows you where my true priorities lay- I couldn't help sobbing at the idea that these thieves were laughing at my stuff. And me. And making fun of my name. And writing down my address to come and laugh at me to my face. And throwing away my business cards and pictures of Nora and fortune cookie fortunes and a dandelion that Nora had given to me and- AND- a gift card with 25 bucks to Anthropologie that I will NEVER get to use now, no matter HOW skinny I become in two years...

That's what bothered me. More than all of the replacement fees and the fact that it would take me hours and days and piles of documentation to prove that I am who I say I am, while any schmo with a credit card can buy out Mobil. (For example.)

And, of course, it could've been worse. Way worse. It could've been at gunpoint. Or they could've taken my keys with my wallet and I'd have to change all of the locks. Or they could have tried to take Nora and I would have had to either a) kill a man with my bare hands or b) jump out a window, depending on how the scenario played out. So, obviously I feel lucky in that regard.

But it still doesn't erase the feeling of Not Right that is all around me today. I'm a decent person and I believe in karma. More than that- I believe in being good to people.

This doesn't mean, however, that I'm not fervently wishing for a swift kick of karmic justice into the face, kidney or groin of the perp. (That's right, I SAID PERP.)

But I can take solace in the knowledge that everything lost was replaceable- and more than that- I have a husband who came home with a pepperoni pizza and printed documentation for speeding up the I.D. process. (An hour later he went to Cermak and reproduced the exact shopping order that I had previously left on the checkout counter. That's right, I got my Peach of Sorrow. Or former sorrow.)

So, enjoy your fries, thieving stupidhead. You don't have a P.J. and you don't have a delicious pizza and you'll never have this head of green leaf lettuce. Unless you buy them with someone else's card.

But you do have a pretty sweet red wallet.

And Lollygag Blog business cards.

Be a doll and pass 'em around, willya?

Popapalooza '11

It was a really great weekend.

Sure, Keely, you say. You always have a good time/eat too much food/nap during the chaos/watch MST3k your Dad and old movies with your Mom. What made this trip so boss?

He shreds.

Well, there was live music. Featuring my Dad.

And two bands.

Three if you count my sister Chelly wailing on the vocals.

And the food was in a buffet- that means that no one really knew how much food was consumed. (Secret: new plate each time? Little convo with a new party guest each go 'round the food table? That's how it's done. "Oh, Keely, you should eat. Think of the baby!" "Well...okay.")

A rare, non-food table picture.

Learned that trick back in '92 from a good friend.

On one day alone, I made four (4) trips for a bowl of sausages ALONE. That's right. Not even a flower for garnish. Bowl o' sausages. And that was just that type of meat. There were others. And I had some enchiladas and oriental salad and salad salad and pasta and potato salad (even though I do not- generally- care for the potato) and chips and multiple cupcakes originally in the shape of a sunflower.

Where's your I.D.?

The night before, I had been in charge of frosting the yellow ones. There were many delicious (and temper-tantrumy) casualties.

Kazoo= instant party.

The music was epic. The groupies were out of hand.

But easily, the best part was the one-on-one (or, rather, sixty-on-one) with the birthday boy himself.

And the pulled pork sammiches.

But mostly my Dad.

You're the best at this, Pop.

On [in] the road [air] again...

This is how I USED to travel.

This morning, the mini Schoeny clan o' Chicago shall be heading back East.

Sadly, this involves plane travel.

Over the past few years, I've come to realize that I am a car trip kinda gal. So is my daughter. So is my husband (sans the "gal" part.) In fact, that last part is a bit of an understatement. Peej is the KING of the road trip. (And I am his consort. I can never be the Queen, you see- for I am, at heart, a commoner.)

Plane trips seem to bring out the planniest part of my nature. That's not a good thing.

I begin making lists- weeks in advance- when I know we'll be taking a flight. Lists to pack, lists to check, lists for carry-ons, and lists for stuff to do at home (because- and I really hope I'm not alone in this- taking a flight brings out the fatalist in me. This requires that everything be cleaned, washed, and put away. You know, just in case someone shows up to judge my homestead after I'm gone).

I make lists of how to pack things; ease of getting things from the car to the gate, ease of getting things in and out of security, and ease of transpo for the toddler. (The Nora part used to be cinched up by having me, at 6am, put her in a cloth sling. I'd take her out at roughly midnight and that would be that.) Now, sometimes we use a stroller. And sometimes she runs and I lure her with stickers and the promise of an iPhone show. Tomorrow will feature the device I enjoy best- Daddy's Shoulders. (Freeing Mama up to carry the diaper bag, carry-on bag- which, let's face it, holds nothing for my personal in-flight entertainment sans a broken blue crayon. Fun!- and various incidental things like Proof That The Baby Is Ours. I'll say it again- if anyone wants to take a child on a flight- theirs or otherwise- do not make them show documentation. Why the heck would they willingly travel with a child if not bound by blood and/or familial responsibility?)

I pack three pairs of [Nora's] pants. In "my" carry-on. Because nothing signals the beginning of contained travel like peeing through pants, hers or anyone upon whom she is sitting.

You'd think the snacks I carry could sustain the entire passenger list. (Ooh, there's an idea. I could clean UP! "Cheese stick? Yeah, that'll be nine dollars. Half eaten apple? Hmm. Fourteen. Hey, buy it or don't- it's the last one.)

Then we do the prayer dance that a) our bags are among the first fifty bags off the flight...and/or b) that our bags made it at all.

And among my absolute favorite parts is trying to flag down one's ride...which is currently impossible to do, as it is illegal- punishable by death- to stop anywhere near the curb/airport/major metropolitan area to pick up one's passengers. Unless they are already in your car when you pull up to Arrivals, then you are doing it wrong.

And it cannot be stressed enough that this is for a One. And. A. Half. Hour. Flight.

If this were a car trip, we'd all be wearing hoodies, we'd shove ourselves in the car twenty minutes after we rolled out of bed, and halfway through the trip I'd toss a banana back to Nora. (And we'd be HAPPY.)

Here's wishing you all a Thursday free of peed pants and lost anything, and with all of the complimentary snacks your heart desires.

Even peanuts.

Unless you don't like them.

Then I wish you a day with no peanuts.

She's just like her mother.

Thought I'd try something new. For me, anyhow. For the rest of the blogosphere, it's most likely horridly clichéd.

Here's my attempt at a Wordless Wednesday. (I am failing already.)

I will not explain why I love these pictures. Or what they mean. Or why the last one is so terribly funny. It's killing me, but I will not. Because it's Wordless Wednesday.

And I have already said too much.

Also, liverwurst now comes in slices.

I think I see a dandelion, Dad.

There was a lot to celebrate this weekend.

Globally, the capture of Osama Bin Laden. (And while I rarely "celebrate" any death, I happily acknowledge the sense of justice permeating the interwebs. To paraphrase a friend -thanks Andrew Slack!- Everyone remembers where they were on 9/11; scattered all across the globe. And now everyone will remember where they were when they heard news of Bin Laden's death- on Facebook.)

Regionally, we were stoked about three solid days of sun. For what feels like the first time in eight years. There were birthday parties, lovely weddings, first communions, legions of kids covered in sidewalk chalk...

Even more locally, our front yard is in full bloom (ranunculus and pansy and tulip, oh my!) and when I finally tracked down the taco cart I had been jonesing for, they had stewed lamb and green chilies. And it was revelatory. For example, I had a revelation that this is what I should be eating every day for the rest of my life.

The pleasant weather brings out the crazy in the Schoeny family. It really does. Here's a smattering of Saturday events:
-P.J. fought a battle with the neighborhood's dandelions, digging the roots out of each one. He did pretty well, but now a good portion of our backyard, front yard, and median strip of grass looks like a really outdoorsy version of whack-a-mole.

-I already mentioned the taco cart thing, but what cannot be documented enough is the fact that I was sitting on my stoop, clutching a five, looking for all the world like an abandoned puppy. (Seriously, you cannot sleep in the summertime here, what with the dinging and bike horns and beeping trucks selling tamales and snow cones. BUT NOT THAT DAY. Bereft isn't a strong enough word.)

-P.J. wanted to mow the lawn, now that Operation: Dead Dandelions had been completed. We needed gas for the mower. So we decided to take a family walk to the BP on the corner. To get the most bang for our walkin' buck, he suggested that we walk a few items to the Salvation Army a block past the BP. No problem. Except that the items were a humongo hand-me-down stroller and an end table. Also a life jacket. Seriously.

- I loaded some smaller items into the stroller, because Nora wanted to walk, natch. P.J. carried the end table- and Nora, once we got to the end of our block. Every single thing we carried and/or pushed was unwieldy, most of all our toddler. (My favorite addition was the gas container poking out of the stroller. "Can I see your baby? She's beautiful!") So we were those people walking down Montrose: a pregnant lady pushing her treasures in a cart, followed by a man hefting a heavy (and ugly) end table along with a smallish child screaming that "[she] dooo ittt..."

-After we dropped off the items, Peej took the kid and I took the gas can. (We still looked a little weird...but slightly less so.) While P.J. filled the container at a pump, I took Nora over to the sidewalk next to the BP Mart. She quickly fixated on the ice machine, which featured three penguins dancing on ice cubes. This joyful sight caused Nora to drop to her knees and hug the machine, saying "hi hi" to the "pingus" and kissing them one by one. It is really, really hard to dissuade a child from doing this. Regardless of how dirty the machine/sidewalk/BP Mart may be, it kinda makes one feel like a monster.

-To make up for our cruelty, we took her to Leona's (Groupon!) where P.J. and I proceeded to drink lemonades as big as lampshades...and Nora chose to only eat three bites of tomatoes and a handful of black olives. (The next afternoon, after my darling charge Julia's first communion and during an absolutely awesome luncheon at the University Club with her fam, Nora only ate...one bite of squash ravioli and a full slice of cake. She must be on a 'tapas' diet.)

But, today is a new day. Many things must be dealt with. Among them is the bizarre thing that there are seven towels- all used- hanging on the back of the "master" bathroom door. This is despite the fact that a) the door can truly only hold three towels- and that's if it's really trying its hardest- and b) to the best of my knowledge, only two people use that shower. The third resident takes a bath downstairs and all of her towels feature hoods and smiling creatures. (Okay, some of mine do as well, but my point is that these aren't HERS.)

These are the things with which I must deal, people. My only hope is that, by doing so, you will never have to.

Have a happy Monday, and may the towels on your bath hook be your own.

This kid is getting way too good at aging.

Tomorrow, Nora Jane turns eighteen months.

(Yes, I still say 18 months- and will continue to- for a little bit longer. But I do temper this response, depending on the audience. If I say anything other than 'a year' or 'almost a year and a half' to my friends without kids, it's invariably met with an eye roll. However, if I omit the exact month when replying to a parent, the question will be asked again, more specifically. Because without the child's exact age, comparisons with their offspring's eating, sleeping, walking and talking habits cannot be compared. This is just a fact of life, people. At least 'til she's two. Then she's TWO.)

Back to N.J.

I can't believe her age. This is something I say way too often, being as I'm with her Every. Single. Day. and know darned well how old she is. But I can't believe it. She was a wee, floppy little infant one second- and a kid the next. Kidesque, anyhow. A kidlet.

In my mind she's this big:

Okay, technically, she's not that much bigger nowadays...but personality-wise, it's the difference between getting nudged by a Tonka and flattened by a Mack. And those differences KILL me and take me out of the moment and make me jump decades into the future and cause me to cry.

(This is why I should never be left to my own devices. Ever. Always equip me with a crossword or book of minute mysteries or something before you leave.)

For instance, Nora doesn't care for meat. At all. In the past, she's been known to fling food with the crossest of looks- as if to say, You are contaminating my plate/tray/line of sight. These days, if I catch her the moment before the mass evacuation occurs, I can usually suggest that she at least try a bite. And you know what? Ninety percent of the time she will. Yes, we'll get an eye roll and an exaggerated swallow (and then a sleight of hand maneuver rendering the offending morsel invisible) but it's a start. Other times P.J. and I will be caught up in dinner conversation and then happen to look over at our kid, glancing around, eating her food, occasionally nodding. It's like she's 20. (A really messy 20, but hey- some of the instances I witnessed firsthand in college...) And sometimes- just sometimes- she seems so adult and content that I almost wish she'd require spoon-feeding and a burp because she's got a mortgage and kids and lives halfway around the world...

I never said it was rational.

The other day, while playing in her room with P.J., she pointed to a toy bag attached to the ceiling.

"I want a puppy."

P.J. goggled at her. "What did you say?!"

Nora, patiently, repeated herself. "I want a puppy."

"A puppy?"

"I see a puppy."

P.J. reached up to the top and handed her a small, stuffed puppy. Nora patted it, thanked her Dad, and said, quite patiently:

"A puppy." (Like, you morons.)

Some of her words are clear as anything. Others (my favorites) are longer and more mangled; strawbeddie, bluebeddie, blackbeddie (we love the beddies), yibbydee (ladybug), (wasplash) water table, and, my personal favorite- NoNoMommyGibadeeNoNo (an indeterminate berating of her toys and books whenever I tell her no).

I really shouldn't be surprised that my child makes up her own words, right?

Nora still dances with her Dad every night after he gets home from work. She likes our mix CDs best and, I kid you not, she does the robot. (I realize I need to get video proof of this.) And it is incredible. She waits for the right song- and it MUST be the right song- to jump into the middle of the living room floor as if clearing it for a dance-off. She holds her body completely rigid. Her little head goes side to side. She brings some shoulder action into it. Then the arms. Then the ankles. The feet come next. That transitions not seamlessly at all into something akin to Kriss Kross' Jump! Jump! P.J. manages to dance with her, but me? I'm on the floor attempting to not pee myself.

Snuggles are a rare currency these days. My attempts to pin her down and cover her with kisses are often met with a shove to the neck and a pained "Mommy."

But every so often, maybe when she's really tired or feeling a little overwhelmed, she'll curl up in my lap with the ever-stinky Doc Bullfrog. Thumb in her mouth, eyes droopy, she'll pat me on the cheek and just chill.

And it'll all I can do to not ruin the moment by chomping on those still ever-so-slightly chubby cheeks and squeezing that protruding little belly. So I content myself with smoothing her [Dad's] crazy hair from her forehead and smelling that sweet scent of her baby skin. Also, peanut butter. Maybe a little goldfish cracker.

Most parents think their kid is the absolute bee's knees. They believe this to be one hundred percent true- but I'm not sure how it's possible. After all, my child eats peas as a reward and tells Scrooge McDuck that he is sad and does the robot.

This is my favorite age, ever.

So let's stick here awhile, shall we?

Please buy me a toy.

I'll admit it.

I got really excited when I was asked to review Ebeanstalk.com's Toys For 2 Year Olds. Sure, Nora's barely a year and a half, but you have to think BIG when it comes to the stuff you'll be Playing. With. All. Day. Every. Day.

In the past, we've been the lucky recipients of Ebeanstalk's stellar Grow And Learn series, which gave us gifts all throughout the first year of her life. Right after she was born, Nora received the sweetest barnyard animal rattle shapes. (The lion even clocked some air miles with us.) The series ended with soft nesting cubes, all featuring the alphabet and adorable pictures- and an accompanying book. (C for Cat and S for Strawberry had to be taken out of rotation for a bit. They were getting tired.)

So yes. The site.

You can just go ahead and get me the first item on the Toys For 2 Year Old Girls page- it's the Forest Fairy Treehouse by Happyland...and yeah, we have a ton of stuff from this company. They're the cutest things ever, you can chew on their faces and they stay intact, and sometimes I even let Nora play with them.

And yes, at first I was all prepared to debate whether or not the Girls page necessarily needed all of the pink and frilly stuff up top, as opposed to the Boys page that featured trucks and car mats and riding stuff. But, I scrolled down to the bottom of the fairly comprehensive list and was pleased to see that those kinda things were there on the Girls page as well. Lime green Rody horses. Dudley Dump Truck (and his pal Bumpity Bump Bernie). The Road Hog trike. Plus a really good assortment of some of my favorite childhood books- with the exception of The Berenstain Bears Learn About Strangers, which really freaks my shizz out.

So then I checked out the Toys For 2 Year Old Boys page...and it's also really awesome. And full of stuff that Nora [I] would like; stacking trains, Rub A Dub Pirate squirters, more Happyland figurines, a garden fruits n' veggies shopping bag (Hey, has someone been following my husband around?), and a few really sweet Calin dolls. And as anyone who has been to my house recently can attest, Calin a.k.a. Baby Dot is an extraordinarily good addition to anyone's home. And she can really take a beating. Okay, that sounds wrong.

Since you- most likely- know your child way better than I do, I recommend checking out both the Boys and Girls pages. Or you can take even more of the guesswork outta your decision by heading straight to the Top Selling Toys For 2 Year Olds page, which has a nice cross-section of all of the aforementioned goodies. You'll definitely find something perfect for your toddler.

Or favorite 30 year-old blogger.

Is that like Baker Street?

Last night I had a dream that I had the most amazing blog post. It was timely, well-written, and was essentially gonna make everyone understand that I had Something To Say. Unfortunately, by the time I realized I had not yet posted the thing, it was 5pm. And, as everyone knows, due to a self-imposed and completely random timetable, I need to have the blog posted by 11am. If not earlier.

So I went to post the darn thing, but somehow couldn't. Neither of my trusty methods o' constant communication were nearby. More importantly, neither was my daughter. She was in a library/daycare/cathedral type of place. And I had an empty stroller. And somehow- just somehow- I knew that she desperately needed to have a diaper change. I couldn't find her, however, since the name of the street on which the amalgamation building resided was escaping my memory. It started with an 'm,' that much I knew. I actually asked a passerby if he knew where "Mojito Street" was. (If THAT'S not a telling bit of dream info, then I don't know what is.)

While I searched for the correct one-way street, I amused myself by high-fiving various Hampshire College graduates...some of whom I've never spoken a word to, either in college or in the ether of dreams. Nevertheless, they seemed pleased to see me. That's always nice.

Finally found the place, but couldn't get upstairs because the thing had been designed by M.C. Escher. I asked someone for help, but realized I couldn't talk. For I was choking to death. On a Duplo. (That's right, an oversized Lego block.) Where did I get this? Oh, earlier in the dream I had been wandering through my childhood home with two of my nephews, obvie. But how it got lodged in my windpipe is another nebulous matter.

So, OF COURSE they had to call the paramedics. But guess what? Ineptitude is not just limited to cathedral/daycare design nor street-naming. These EMTS took their sweet time coming to my rescue. "Traffic was bad," one guy lamely told me. "Yeah? I am DYING," I managed to squeak out. "And do not need your excuses."

And instead of getting down to business and, you know, freeing my throat, they proceeded to tell me about the most killer concert that they had just seen- and did I know blahdiblah? (I didn't even retain the name, that's how irked I was.)

Eventually they just gave me a prescription and left a pair of tongs with P.J., just in case. (Oh yeah, and P.J. had just sorta waltzed in during this last part. Where's your daughter, Philip?!) Then they all left. Typ.i.cal.

Finally- somehow- found Nora, (and yes she DID need a new diaper, thankyouverymuch), and was all dirty and sweaty. (Never leaving her there again, Dream Keely told herself.)

And it was at that moment that I realized I was late for work. By fifteen minutes. And Lily was alone in her house, across town, waking up from a nap. (I KNOW these things instinctively.) So I called my bosses, apologizing for my tardiness, but knew that it wouldn't be well-received.

It was the third time this week that it had happened, after all.

***

Happiest of 60th birthdays to my Dad! May the rockiest and rollingest guy ever to ground me have another 60 years of exceptional lawn care, priceless music trivia, and the best alfredo sauce outside of Italy.

You are so right, Dad.

And I promise to never eat that much before bed, ever again.

This goes way beyond Mommy Fashion.

Fashion.

During our commute this morning, I handed a book back to Nora and saw that it had been in publication for 25 years. I laughed and said that was crazy, since that was how old I was. Then I paused, realizing that I was indeed that age...plus five years and ten months. Which makes me painfully close to 31. 

I mentioned to Peej that I still felt like I was in my mid-twenties, and if I had to check a box or something, I usually felt pretty jarred to realize that it just wasn't the case. I started to ask him how old he felt in his mind's eye and got as far as "How old do you-"

"38," was his immediate response.

And since he's only 29, I can shoulder some of that rapid aging onto myself. For our lifestyle, our sleep habits, and my incessant need to know what he's thinking about. 

The subject of age has come up a lot lately- twice this week with my sister, in fact. She was lamenting the fact that, whenever she goes into a store, she's either in the tween section or the aged and dusty section. And she's not a big fan of "the skanky jeans" (direct quote) nor, I imagine, is she fond of the oversized cardigan and teensy floral-printed slacks display. So what to do?

Answer: nothing. 

Even stores and brands that promise not to make you look like a fifteen year old...somehow do. Or send you decades in the opposite direction. 

One of my most shocking incidents from mid-twentyhood occurred in the [at the time] new H&M down on Michigan. While I was happily pawing through eclectic and affordable Euro clothing, I was almost bumped into by a group of teenaged girls. 

"Oh my GOD," one of them squealed at her friends. "You almost wandered into the OLD PERSON SECTION."

I stared around in horror. Where?! As a twenty three year-old, I didn't want to be there either! Turns out, it was the whole floor. And I embodied it. Confusingly enough. 

Eventually, I gave up on buying "new" things. So here's what I do now: clothing from college (at one time nearing the spectrum of acceptable fashion, this I promise you) is WORN TO THE GROUND. Also paired with hoodies, grubby shoes (also at one point pretty darned cute), and tie the [unwashed] hair up into a ponytail. Maybe use your toddler's hair clip, if handy and left on the floor for dead. Voila. 

"But Keely," you ask. "Isn't that the epitome of youthful dressing? Wearing actual clothing from one's youth?"

Yes. But while you'll look like a thirteen year-old, you won't be a SEXY thirteen year-old. And that's my point.

My friend Nat and I love to mock those bright yellow bags from Forever 21. Because while, sure, the clothing there is ridiculously affordable and not entirely out of my age range, anything you buy is placed into a neon bag proclaiming you to be FOREVER 21. (Twenty-one 4eva!) This leads the random passerby to believe that indeed, you believe yourself to be twenty-one. Forever. 

I like Nora's method of dressing "her age." Ever since she was in the womb, we've had generous (and impeccably stylish) friends and family load her future closet with clothing so new that P.J. and I are ashamed to touch them with our thrift-store selves. Even more importantly, she stubbornly remains six to nine months behind her current size. That's right, my [almost] one and a half year old rocks the 12 month clothing. (Just barely, and awfully recently.) This means that her current wardrobe will last- oh, for years. (Maybe 4eva!)

THAT is how it's done. 

For the rest of us [me], let's just hope that faded and baggy layers (some of them maternity!) come back into raging style. We'll see who's laughing then. 

It'll be anyone witnessing the 31 year-old (thinking she's a 25 year-old) in positively ragged outfits, carting around a designer princess...

...Getting asked if she's the nanny. 

Weekends Are For Eating.

Corn dogs forever.

Okay.

So, this snow is seriously an unexpected turn of events. Especially to my ranunculus- which, yes, I realize makes me sound a thousand creaky years old- but they [were] lovely be-petaled window box beauties...and are now flowersicles.

If there is one victory, it is that the sneaky bunnies and the mammoth squirrel we've named The Don will no longer be able to pilfer my lettuce. (Ha HAH.)

Before I spiral into a depressing morning of Snuggie-wearing and tropical screen saver-watching, I'm going to reminisce on my truly wundy weekend.

Friday, we had a date night. Sure, it was raining in big ol' torrential buckets, but I wore my splash boots with a cute/borderline maternity outfit and looked JUST FINE. (Thanks to all of the pals who okayed this fashion mash-up.) We went to Raw Bar, a place for which we had been holding onto a Travelzoo coupon for a really long time. How long? Let's just say that when we purchased it, the idea of monstrous amounts of oysters and two complimentary martinis sounded like an awesome idea. (Heck, it still did.) So, P.J. got his pomegranate martini and I was offered a pretty tasty muddled strawberry daiquiri. It seemed to be missing something in the rum-esque department, but I was still pleased.

P.J., solidifying his Guy Of The Millennium status, insisted that I order the Maine lobster. This is totally true. I think it was in part because a) he knew that I would be saddened by the no oyster/raw anything deal, and b) he was afraid we wouldn't get to the minimum of the coupon. (Also c- 'cause he likes me and, thus far, I have successfully carried 1.5 of his children.) We also ordered the smothered alligator (poor 'gator) and ostrich steak appetizers. We were feeling adventurous. Or, at the very least, Meats Across The World-y. Upon ordering the lobster (steamed, thankyouverymuch), we were informed that it was "a lot of work" and the Jamaican style would be easier to eat. P.J. and I just laughed and laughed. (If this whole nanny/writer/mother thing doesn't work out, I'd be an exceptional crab-picker down by the docks. I really would.)

They even let me say goodbye to my lobster from the tank. I could've done without that part, as my guilt over whether or not he would've lived had I not dined there that night really took over. P.J. reassured me that my lobster was a bastard and had been mouthing off.

After a stellar dinner, we went to our friend Neil's big 3-0 birthday party. The shindig was complete with a keg and an ice luge for some unidentified yellowish drink. Because nothing says "rapidly approaching the thirties" like tubing drilled through ice blocks and germy mouth upon germy mouth sucking lighter fluid in a puddle of melted God-knows-what on the floor- (Oh my stars, I'm gonna vomit even in the retelling.)

I had a ginger beer.

But we saw a goodly bunch of our favorite friends and we even got to make tinfoil Rapture hats. (I love party favors.) Inexplicably, I was a Viking.

The next morning (hangover-free, ahh), we went to Ikea for Nora's first trip to the Emporium of Fabulous. We had intended to get a rug for the baby's room. We left with: a rug, two sets of curtains, a blankie, a toy bag, a hanging frog bag, some hangers, a gender neutral crib bumper, gigantic poster frames, three bellies full of swedish meatballs, and a blue soccer ball for Nora. Whilst there, I also managed to get a really full shopping cart completely stuck on the escalator track (stopping all movement until a kindly employee fixed the wheel and assured me that "it happens all the time." Sure it does). There was also some crazy rudeness going on with other customers, but I won't get into that. Besides, big savings and Swedish design just brings out the Berserker in some people.

That night was Sleepover Night 2011. I had invited my gal Julia (for whom I've nannied since 2003) for an overnight. Since most of her days are consumed with school, various activities, and constant competition for attention from her little sister and my kiddo, I thought it would be nice to have some one-on-one time together before her fam moves to London this summer.

Leaving Nora with Peej (seriously, that guy is incredible), I picked up J for an early supper at Stanley's, a Southern-style kitchen where we used to go all the time when she was a toddler. We ordered pink lemonades at the same time. Also mac n' cheese fritters. She got a burger and I got a shrimp po'boy- and we did some damage. (And can I just say how pleasant it was to dine with an intelligent 8 year-old...and not have to put a bib on anyone/keep food on a tray/lug a diaper bag? There's something to be said about having an actual kid.)

We went home to have a dance party with P.J. and Nora, watch Ponyo (the cutest Japanese movie ever), play some Mario Kart (we are evenly matched), eat ice cream sprinkled with homemade granola that Julia had brought, read some books, and have a Girls Only upstairs sleepover. (P.J. was- happily, I'm sure- relegated to his office/guest room and stacks n' stacks of DVDs.)

The next a.m. we convinced Peej to make us blueberry pancakes while we read the comics. J and I wrote a short story. Nora failed to nap, so we had an art party extravaganza (even though Nora was only allowed to use the crayons/shortie colored pencils. She's not the most trustworthy thing on two wheels). Julia and I  played Scrabble. Then, to cap it all off, we went out for corn dogs. (Seriously, Julia's one of my favorite people ever. We have identical tastes.) We even convinced Peej to spring for an extra box of curly cheddar fries.

J was sad to have the overnight end (especially since I found out it had been her first ever sleepover!) but at least now we have plenty o' memories for our scrapbook. That's right, we have a scrapbook.

I made salads for dinner, since I had been bingeing on fried fantabulousness all weekend and had been feeling like The Very Hungry Caterpillar right after he eats through seven pages of lunch meat. But, like the Caterpillar does after he eats through one nice green leaf, I felt much better too.

I promise to stop talking about food all of the time.

Back to my morning with my main shorty-pie. Maybe a cuddly day featuring the dreariest of weather isn't such a bad deal after all. Perhaps I will break out the Snuggies.

And the corn dogs.