It's wick!

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Which sounds like a circulation issue.

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

Whine, whine, whine.

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

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

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

Sorry, Dad.

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

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



(Happy birthday, Dad!)

Sometimes we read books, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then we worked backwards.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please do not report me.

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

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

Except.

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

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

I do have an apron.

Just wait...

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

But I think you get the picture.

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

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

Which started me up again.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

At least 'til she hits 13.

Oh my God.

I can't drive 55.

...But apparently, neither can the state of Michigan.

This past weekend Annie and I surprised our excellent pal, massage therapist extraordinaire and partner-in-crime since 2002 (Annie and Kat go further back, but we're gonna go by my timeline, here) with a superbly awesome girls' getaway trip to Harbor Country, Michigan.

I had never thought about Michigan in that way, before.

I have been a fool.


For starters, we sent Kat a text on Thursday afternoon, saying she'd receive instructions the following night. An actual reply text: "I get INSTRUCTIONS? Like, go to the graveyard. Bring pennies and string. Tell no one?"

I replied that apparently she no longer needed instructions.

But the following night we told her to pack a bag with a few different types of outfits and to be ready the next morning at 10ish. When we picked her up and she tossed her bag in the trunk, she seemly awfully surprised that WE had weekend bags in there, too. (I guess one of our closest friends thinks that a "birthday surprise weekend" entails us dropping her off somewhere, alone.)

We crossed into Indiana. She seemed even more surprised. But when we hit Michigan her responses turned supersonic. "Two state lines!" We wondered to ourselves if maybe we should've checked with her parole officer. Or Annie's. (I don't have a parole officer. I've never been caught.)

Ninety miles outside of Chicago proper is the town of Sawyer, Michigan, quite possibly the cutest place ever. As we pulled into the Rabbit Run Inn, we were greeted by three dogs peering out of the "office" half door. One was a greyhound. I love greyhounds. Our room was called The Seagrass Room and it was downright decadent. It had a private porch that overlooked the koi pond and the grounds. It was a short walk to the beach. (Also, to the neighbors' property where they seemed to be having a rip roaring time until- oh, two in the morning. There was a bonfire and a spirited game of what Annie errantly called 'bunghole.' "I knew it was wrong!") And now it is in print.

The vineyards- oh, the vineyards. I had mistakenly believed that nothing amazing could come from a Midwestern winery, when in fact I sampled what may be the BEST PINOT NOIR EVER at Domaine Berrien. Also, a Viognier. And a nice table red. Also- the Cabernet Franc. And something with a 'G.'

After enjoying the tasting room, we bought a bottle, some cheese, crackers and tapenade and stayed awhile on their lovely deck overlooking the vineyard and pond. (What is it with Michigan and ponds? Also- hanging plates on the wall. In the inn, the wineries, the diner- the gas station. Decorative plates.) This part of the day was especially  fabulous, as the weather was in the 70s and, well, we were sitting on a winery deck with wine and cheese and each other. Even better was when a huge gust of wind blew the napkins and plates off of the table, forcing Annie to jump up and 'rawr' after them like an impressive Velociraptor. She got them all! And I almost fell out of my chair.

Next was the Round Barn Winery, up the road in an actual Amish barn. There was a tasting bar that encircled the entire structure- and it was elbow to elbow with people when we arrived. It took a soft-spoken Brit (Annie) to get space at the bar for her friends who were content to sit on the ground (Keely and Kat.) The deal at the Barn was that for 7.50, one would buy their tasting glass- and they would FILL IT with no less than five types of wine, one dessert wine, a vodka sample or martini AND you'd get a beer token to take to the adjacent beer barn. (They had a beer barn, too!) My samples included a Blanc de Noir (we all decided this was an excellent New Year's Eve wine), a lovely Riesling (for some reason my tasting notes on this one stated that "Annie has a crisis"), a Gewurztraimer (excellent with Mexican cuisine, forcing me to exclaim rather loudly that I was looking for a good taco wine), a Cranberry wine ("Is this alcoholic?" "No, but I think we kinda are"), a sweet Redel Doux (Kat- "I feel like someone just shoved a grape straight up my nose." However, I bought a bottle), and the Apricot dessert wine ("This tastes great but smells like cleaning products." "It really does!"). Then they gave us a sample of their vodka- made from grapes!- mixed into a martini with their cranberry wine. I didn't know you could do that! It was really, really good. Kat said it was Darwinism in a glass. I don't remember why she said this, but it was really apt at the time. And we laughed. A lot.

Once at the beer barn, I got a cocoa stout, I think Annie got an IPA and Kat ordered the mother-pucker (oh, you guys) which was a sourish beer that Kat could not drink, as she's allergic to hops. So we drank it! Happy birthday, Kat!

Back to the Inn to sit on our porch and stare at the koi pond. I took a break to pump (sorry, but this was a big ol' subplot of the weekend- Kat and Annie frequently acknowledged the rhythmic sounds and compared it to various animals having little animal issues.) THEN we got all dressed up and went to Tabor Hill Vineyard for dinner. Since we had missed a tasting at this winery, we each got two separate glasses with dinner and shared them about. I started with the Cab Franc rose with our incredible appetizers of polenta fries with white truffle oil dipping sauces AND a smoked salmon flatbread, and moved on to a Classic Demi Sec (Bob Hope's favorite! That sure is why I ordered it!) with my rad dinner of tempura lobster in nori. We also got this really cool side dish of "potato salad" that was anything but- sliced and friend potatoes, slivers of green beans, blue cheese, a vinagrette...and some other awesome stuff. (I actually brought that back to the room and ate it for breakfast with a spiced muffin.)

Perhaps the best part of the dinner, though? The 17 year-old busboy who simply could not stop hitting on us. I say this with all modesty. Really. I think he would've hit on the chairs had we vacated them. It started with pouring glasses of water and telling us "what a treat it was to see three beautiful smiles" that night. Aw, we thought. Aren't you cute. Next go-round was a comment that we seemed like a lot of fun. Yes, yes we do. And then he casually dropped the fact that he got off at ten! I almost offered to drop him off at the sitter's house.

However. Incredible meal. We capped off the evening by taking two bottles back to the Inn for our "evening." Okay- proof that we are no longer 24? We only got through one of the bottles, decided that the porch was "too chilly" and passed out in our beds, tucked in and with jammies by 1am. Sure, there was some concern regarding a lamp "we'd hafta keep an eye on" and at one point I laughed until I almost peed (it really wouldn't be one of my stories without it), but for the most part it was pretty tame.

And I slept! Sure, I woke up around 4:45am just to look at the clock (apparently Nora woke up in Chicago around then, too) and then every half hour, just to peer at the clock and acknowledge that it was, in fact, okay to be sleeping. Still counted as a great night's sleep- on an insanely comfy bed. I may or may not have starfished out into Annie's territory (I was snuggling!) but she's too polite to mind.

The next morning we went to the Blue Plate Cafe for brunch- I ordered the smoked salmon and bagel (it was whole wheat- "That's all we have, I think") and it came scrambled up in eggs. Which was not previously mentioned. But it was fine. (I'll admit it- I'm a breakfast snob. My parents and their restaurant have ruined me with awesomeness.) We had a very earnest waiter that I nicknamed 'Earnest.' He was all about being a waiter. It was appreciated.

And then antiquing! Which truly gives a new meaning to the term Adult Weekend. I bought Peej a squirrel doorstop (for our bedroom door that slams whenever an upstairs window is open) and an antique brass door knocker with various keys on the ring. Quite cool- and not a little bit Jacob Marley. Annie started a teacup collection. With one teacup. But it's an excellent start. I had Antiques Regret as we pulled away from the second shop- there had been this vintage green "lizard skin" handbag with a funky handle that I coveted (the tag read Genuine Reptile(!!)- but at 65 bucks, we had to love from afar.

And then homeward bound. It was a fabulous weekend- but I was superbly excited to see my li'l miss, home with her Dad. I had been extremely nervous about leaving her, even for 28 hours, but they were fine, I was fine, the pump was fine, the bottles of wine in the trunk were fine...

...and somehow, turning 30 seems fine. I think the three of us are ready.

(In two months.)