I was Nana's favorite.

It's funny.

One can travel to far flung locales, dye one's hair questionable shades of red, and pretend to speak Italian...but when it comes right down to it, what makes you [me] happiest is when five lilac trees are planted in the backyard. The same kind that used to be in your [my] childhood home's backyard.

After living in a major metropolitan area for going on eight years (!), it's sweet to think that I can let Nora experience the same kind of lovely fragrance wafting through her bedroom windows- the same scent that woke me on Spring mornings in a small, western Massachusetts town.

Also- she can play Stables once the trees are fully grown. (I can totally see my little sisters wincing at this- whatever. If you had applied yourselves, you totally could have been promoted to exercising the A-list imaginary ponies. I don't make these rules. I just enforce them.)

And now on to The Issues. First up, Out and About:

During yesterday morning's commute, I spied a really special license plate. For the sake of privacy, let's just say the vanity plate was owned by MARCI. Now, apparently MARCI owns a Doberman, for her plate guard read: My Doberman Can Lick Your Honor Student.

However.

The placement of these words was rather questionable. Above her name read: "My Doberman." And beneath? "Can Lick Your Honor Student." So at 7am, if there's an early morning glare, a commuter might be surprised to read: "MARCI Can Lick Your Honor Student."

Which may very well be true. But that it hardly the correct forum for such a bold statement.

Also- the advent of construction season has me a tad more worried than usual. Driving south down California to Irving Park the other day, I was stopped by a worker carrying orange cones. He proceeded to line three extremely narrow paths for cars, all the while waving me forward. Without looking at me. Or the car driving north, whom he was also apparently waving forward. When neither of us made a move (except to shrug, confused, at each other) he waved us on even harder. So I slowly pulled through, knocking over a couple of cones along the way. (I felt like Marcia Brady in the episode where she learns to drive.) Suddenly, the large truck for whom he was apparently lining the road busted out and cut perpendicularly across the road. Between the cars going north and south. All the while we were being WAVED ONWARDS. (This was an eye contact-free event, I cannot stress that enough.) Eventually, through a series of complicated hand gestures between the north-driving fellow and myself, we maneuvered our ways through the mess on our own.

That worker may still be there, waving willy-nilly and lining narrow orange cones with Rain Man-like precision. I'll check later.

Also on the roads: my older sister had the pleasure- and confusion- of seeing this banner in her town the other day: Congrats, Seniors, for a Deficiency-Free Survey!

So many things. Firstly, what is this about? I know these words, but I cannot make them make sense. I'm going to go ahead and assume these were high school seniors. Congrats- I get that part, too. Survey...survey...like the Census? Popularity of New Coke? (Unless they meant the SATs...but in my day we called that a "test.") Deficiency-free...what could go wrong, warranting a "deficiency" in a survey? (What the heck happened last time?) And is it wholly necessary to broadcast this? This is akin to someone posting a banner on my front door proclaiming: Excellent Work Not Dropping Nora Today!

(Thank you!)

And in the world of IknewitIknewitItoldyou'causethisalwayshappenstomyshows News:

Demetri Martin is gone. I don't know where he went, but his show Important Things With Demetri Martin is now missing. After being bumped to 12:30am on Thursdays, it disappeared altogether. It's no longer featured OnDemand content. His website is no help.


And P.J. is not accepting my return to our marriage as gratefully as one might expect. He feels all 'second-placey' to Demetri- but I made no bones about with whom I was spending my Thursday nights. It's called an arrangement.

I still have John Krasinski (for now- although once people in charge figure out that I like The Office, that'll be it. I'm the Kiss of Death for programming.) And, of course, Psych comes back in June. And I can continue my love affair with a certain Nordic vampire in True Blood that same month.

But for now- totally married. Goin' on strong.

And I cannot- cannot- deal with the ending of Law & Order yet. Possibly ever. And yeah, fine, millions of NYC actors won't be able to get their SAG cards, blah blah. Let's look at this on a way more personal level: it's 3am. I've had a craving for tacos. I need to watch something, 'cause eating alone in the dark is way too sad to ever do again- and I can't believe I just put that in print- so what's it gonna be? Infomercial? Seen it. Lifetime programming? Not this late at night, thank you. Law & Order? Perfect. Soothe me back into indigesty sleep with your procedural drama, your forward-moving BOM BOM, your neatly wrapped up confession/courtroom 'gotcha'/healthy dose of righteous indignation...and if there are no more new ones, that means that- someday, someday awfully soon- I will have seen them all. A lot.

Look, I know shows have to end (I really do not know this), but this show is more a part of my college experience than my [frisbee-shaped] diploma. Sometimes I slept through class. Or would forget to eat. But miss an episode of [seven times a day] Law & Order? I wouldn't be the person I am today if I had let that kinda thing slide.

My Nana and I used to watch this show religiously as a backdrop to our nightly Rummy games. Sure, later on Nana was known to say that she "never really cared for that show, much." But, as Nana was also known for the occasional untruth, I'm gonna file that statement under the What're You Sellin' category.

Please, Dick Wolf- of the masculinely noun-ed moniker- please. Dick. Do not take away Nana Alice's favorite show. Don't make me turn to other cop dramas for comfort. Leave me with the illusion of dignity and classy viewing.

Because, as Nana would say- "I never know who she's gonna bring home."

Hint: I'm not The Genius.

This weekend we had a mix of Peej's fam in town to celebrate his nephew's 12th birthday: P.J.'s parents from Cincinnati, and his oldest sister and her son Tony from Myrtle Beach. They all came here because he wanted a trip to Chicago for his birthday.

Let that sink in for a minute.

We are so awesome that a 12 year old- (read: Land Of Which Nothing Having To Do With Adults Is Awesome)- actually wanted to spend time with us.

Or maybe we were just the only family in Chi-town. Regardless, we are awesome.

Peej took them to a Cubs game on Friday, and that night I got to experience my favorite type of restaurant: ESPN Zone. Let me list the ways in which this place is not geared towards, say, me:
a) Sports.
b) Aneurysm-inducing lights.
c) Head-crushing sounds.
d) Arcade filled with games about Sports.

But, since it was not my 12th birthday, I happily joined the fam for a lovely dinner and a sniper game.

This past weekend (while superbly fun) got me thinking about family dynamics- specifically birth order and the roles we set for ourselves (or get cast as) super early on. A while back, P.J. sent me this article about just that. And, while I don't believe that Nora is nursing solely as a devious means to prevent a sibling- it raises some good points about how we struggle for attention with our folks and the labels we find ourselves stuck with.

For the past few days I've hosted a set of parents, an oldest sister and an oldest brother, plus I live with a youngest sibling, and, of course, an only. P.J.'s sister has been nicknamed "The General," for her early responsibilities herding four younger sibs. And Tony happens to be the only boy in a family of five girls- four half sisters- but only lives with his younger sis.

But what happens when the oldest boy is an 'only' for a long weekend? Or when the big sis is hosted by the baby brother- nicknamed "The Crowned Prince" in Cincy, but in Chicago is very much so "DAD" in all caps? And how about The Parents, very much so in charge of their family, staying in the home of their baby boy and the youngest of their kid-in-laws?

I'll tell you. It's a lot of politesse. Roles are forgotten, remembered, things are almost said, taken back, lips are zipped, mugs and plates are moved- it's a complete upheaval of The Way Things Go.

This, of course, is coming from a crowd-pleasin' Middle in a family of all girls and one Dad. Sometimes a male pup. (But when the Middle- one of the Biggies in the sibling lineup- of one family marries the Baby of another...isn't she instantly relegated to Baby status in the eyes of her in-laws? I think yes. But that's fine. Decision-making starts to chafe after awhile, anyhow.)

In my immediate family we have very defined roles of The Good One, The Funny One, The Star, The Smart One, The Pretty One, The Favorite, The Practical One, The Genius, The Happy One, The Savvy One, The Rebel and The Vegetarian. (And that's only four gals!)

I tried for the longest time to give myself the tag of The Devastating One or The Wealthy One. But, like I've been saying, you cannot do this. It has to be thrust upon you. (And- turns out- you can't just decide to be devastating. Apparently it's a way of life.)

And if there's any cross-over? That results in a very weird gray area of jealousy and reinforcement. ("Yes, we love your highlights- but you cannot be The Pretty One. We don't make the rules.")

It's enough to make someone question (over and over and over) how many kids is optimal in a fam. Thoughts? Comments? Accolades? Meanie-pants suggestions for which I'll promptly tattle?

I'll go with the majority decision.

That is, after all, my role.

As long as you're okay with it.

It's like Guilt Gyoza- but worse!

I'm extremely lazy. Or exhausted. Late at night, I can't tell which it is. And it's been causing some guilt. I like to call this guilt- Floss Guilt.

I know I should floss. I spent 6k on my teeth in the past handful of years alone (not to mention Braces 1.0 that was sponsored by my folks between '90-'92. It didn't "take." Some may blame a latent latex allergy; I happen to know that I have evil teeth.)

But by the end of the evening, I find that I can barely muster the energy to check items off of my usual bedtime routine: teeth, retainer (did you know that I wear a retainer? Now everyone does.), three step face 'system' (I have a thing for infomercials), cocoa butter for "problem areas" (which- ahem- is strictly preventative), *TMI ALERT* using the pump (or as Annie and Kat call it, "playing a polka-" it's very rhythmic), taking vitamins, Thermos of Dutch cocoa, seaweed wrap, chilled cucumber slices, mini mani/pedi, brow maintenance, a section of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "Sonnets From The Portuguese..."

The idea of adding 'floss,' regardless of how crucial it may be- exhausts me.

I informed P.J. that I was too tired to floss.

"Okay."

Too tired to floss? my inner adult scolded. Are you also too tired for future dental anguish? (Sometimes I don't even need anyone else with whom to argue.)

So I flossed. Angrily. Lots o' huffing and sighing. And timed it. Thirty seconds! Cheesen'crackers, it takes longer to organize Mount St. Pillows on our bed each morning! (And I never skip that.) So I added flossing into the routine.

Except for last night. 'Cause I was too tired.

And speaking of timing activities we don't feel like doing- Real Simple has a new segment called Speed Cleaning. Now, I love Real Simple more than I could possibly extol. Truly. It's a minor [major] obsession. But I think they might have overSimplified things this month. (See that right there?)

This month's Speed Clean was..."Your Porch. A total transformation in 10 minutes or less." Okay, I don't have a porch, per se (certainly not the Tara-esque one featured in the mag), but I'm feeling game. Even gamey. Let's clean:

-Minutes 1 and 2 tell me to remove everything from the porch. Done.
-Minute 3 says to wipe down all of the objects with a damp cloth. Okay, maybe I can do it that quickly.
-Minute 4- "Using an extendable duster, sweep cobwebs from high corners, overhangs and shutters." A minute? Really? It's gonna take me twice that long to locate an extendable duster, let alone use it. More if I hafta walk over to Walgreens.
-Minutes 5 and 6- Wipe down all metal and wood surfaces. Also- clean the windows. Really? Really?
-Minute 7- Sweep the porch and steps. Okay, maybe I can do that one in a minute. But I may have used up some time from whining about the windows.
-Minute 8- "Dip a long-handled scrub brush in the bucket and clean the floor." I am but one woman, Real Simple. (Have you ever cleaned any floor in a minute? Junk, it's taken me half that to complain about this step.)
-Minutes 9 and 10- Once everything is dry, I'm supposed to put everything back, then get myself something to drink on my awesomely clean porch.

Perhaps a chilled IV bag to replenish the fluids lost in the death march called Speed Clean Your Porch.

(I much prefer the game called Hose Off Your Cracked Cement Patio.)

And now, some kudos; the blog's recently been gifted with some sweet awards. Thanks to Kristin@Ellie-Town and  JoeyRes at Big Teeth And Clouds! I'd like to pay it forward as well (minus the horrid script and overblown budget), and acknowledge some fellow bloggers without whom I could not get through the day.

-My youngest sister Emma's blog: Huckleberry Flynn. I recommend not having a beverage anywhere near the vicinity of your mouth and/or nose when you read her lyrical dissections.
-The bitingly witty Caitlin Montanye Parrish and Everything Loose Will Land. I'm lucky enough to be in a secret society with her.
-The multi-talented Regina at And Baby Makes Four. She shops organically. She cooks. She has two boys. She has still yet to come make ANY of the dishes featured on her blog.
-Rick at Retired Pastor Ruminates (and also Rick's Recipes!) I will forever known him as Reverend Floyd, seeing as he baptized me and all. One blog is full of literary wit, the other teeming with truly yummy recipes.
-My pal Leah at Tin Roof, Rusted. Nora's in love with Leah's son Calder, and I'm in love with the fact that she and I are both from Western Mass.
-The hilarious Nifer and Jeremy at He Said and She Said. Contrasting views on arbitrary themes? False. I daresay they are crucial themes.
-Neato keeno Gwynne at God Spam. Trivia: We were almost roommates back at Camp Hamp. Due to a lack of follow-through, this did not occur. I think she lucked out. I am a horrid roommate.

And before this turns into a lengthier blogroll than the one featured on the side of this page, may I recommend that you seek awesome reads there, as well? Can't go wrong. They are all Keely-Approved. I'd thumbprint them if I could.

If I weren't tangled in floss.

Why yes, that was a picture at the Bean.

I just love holidays. This is no secret. So, uh, a weekend devoted to mothers? (Yes, it's a weekend.) I accept. In fact, this 30 day span includes Mother's Day, our anniversary, Memorial Day and my birthday. Cinco de Mayo just missed the cut.

With the exception of Cinco de Mayo and Memorial Day, someone around here is feelin' the holiday pressure. And it sure isn't me. (And Nora never lets stuff like that get to her.) But, so far, he's stepped up to the plate. (But it's a long 30 days, Schoeny. This is no time to let down your guard, even for a second.)

So! The weekend began with a motherly trip to...the Home Depot. Apparently neither my bathroom window nor  various things requiring adhesive realize that this is a HOLIDAY. But they were giving out popcorn. Festivities- check. Also festive? The gifts that Big and Li'l Schoeny gave me: bubble bath (yep, I still take baths. But these days it's more of a "Forget* this, I'm taking a bath") and a membership to Costco. Woot, a brick of cheese bigger than me! Also, admission into that club that acknowledges 'second breakfast' and 'first lunch!' I was also given a stunningly crayon-ed card with questionably good penmanship for a six month-old.

(*Sometimes I don't say "forget.")

After a quick car nap, Nora was ready to be bundled within an inch of her life to go play downtown. (For you see, we live in Chicago. March= 90 degrees and May= 12.) We took her to the Celtic Fest at Grant Park...where it was predominantly about Nova Scotia. And by "predominantly" I mean "four booths." The other was manned by the Chicago Tribune. So, they scaled down a bit. We still had such fabulous Celtic fare as...Irish nachos. You know, like the [Mexican] Celts used to serve up. Whatever, they tossed some corned beef on top and I had no qualms at all about saying Erin Go Brasa.

And then it rained. But it was cool because Nora was charming the aprons off of the counter staff inside one of the beverage tents= we got to stay without ordering more food. In the process of trying to rip P.J.'s cup from his hands (she loves cups) one of her squeals of outrage and dismay attracted loud 'awws' from a few 20-something gals. So we hung out for a few with our pals Natalie and Dave and his bro (Natalie of 'Get Keely Back In Shape' fame- seriously, she's faboo) and then realized we should actually, you know, see the festival. We had wanted to stay and see the Saw Doctors at 7pm but, well, rain + infant + only four booths of merchandise= we were done by 4:30pm.

We went home and took a nap.

That night P.J. and I had an inexplicable craving for meatloaf. So, we whipped up a batch and ate it while watching SNL. Yes, Betty White was great. So was the meatloaf.

Sometimes adulthood is a lot weirder than they make it out to be.

The next a.m. Peej and Nora took me to Victory's Banner, my favorite brunch place in the entirety of the world, where I ate too much food, let strangers tell me how darling my well[ish] behaved daughter was being, and was handed a lovely long-stemmed rose. (I also met a woman who was originally from Pittsfield, MA. The Pittsfield contingent can attest to how bizarre this is. For many reasons.)

But what holiday celebrating motherhood would be complete without a couple of Oh My Goodness, Please Don't Remove My Child From My Care moments? For instance. As I was rocking Nora to sleep on my lap, a YELLOW JACKET landed on her bare arm. (I have no idea how it got inside, for the record. Windows and doors= closed.) I had a moment of panic- about eighteen rapid fire thoughts rushed through my mind- is she allergic to bees? Am I? WHO CARES? And then I grabbed the corner of her towel and crushed the bee in my hand. And then yelled for P.J. And then did the exact opposite of Stop, Drop & Roll, which is Run, Spin & Panic. 'Cause I couldn't find the bee.  P.J. discovered it a few feet away from us- yep, we had traveled around the upstairs of the house with it in the towel- and he performed a Fatality. My poor nudie daughter was more alarmed by her crazytown parents than by any impending stinger. (At least bees are quiet.)

And yes, she was clad only in a towel- we had just given her a bath and were letting her play naked due to the horrific diaper rash currently wrecking her poor bottom- and that was because of an adverse reaction to her oatmeal baby cereal. I, too, was in a slight state of- um- exposure due to nursing prior to BeeWatch 2010. Perfect for running around in front of windows, especially if you're drawing attention to yourself with yells. Happy Mother's Day!

We finished off a lovely weekend with exceptional Ecuadorian food and a viewing of that maternal classic- Blade.

Okay, adulthood isn't just weird. It's also relentlessly terrific.

As long as you're properly attired.