He did put a ring on it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I consider that a success.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I used to have dreams, people.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the [backwards] head nods during True Blood.

And especially the pairing of cords n' mandals.

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

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

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

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

Dream big, Nora.

I may actually still be in transit. And/or Indiana.

Weekend trips can really teach you a lot. Like about the importance of deep breaths.


For example. Try this li'l exercise:


After watching your husband toss a few outfits into a duffel bag the night before the trip, try-
a) packing your own stuff, 
b) the baby's stuff, 
c) healthy-ish meals for the baby, 
d) junk food for the husband/self/baby if she's feeling really quick, 
e) items forgotten by one's husband, 
f) things the kiddo needs- but still needs for the a.m nap, 
g) new outfit for the baby after lunchtime destroys first one (taking a T.O to do an emergency load of laundry and/or sinkfull of dishes. Maybe two by this point),  
h) set out food and water for the cats, plus enough catnip to dose a jam band, 
i) put on brief, educational DVD for the child in order to facilitate packing of the car, 
j) realize child will likely pass out from rage if she cannot accompany you, 
k) take child with to Pack. Each. Bag. Into. Car., 
l) acknowledge fact that you should have left to pick up the husband- oh, half an hour ago, 
m) forgo shower/non-smushed food/brushed hair/pants, 
n) remove cat from hall closet, 
o) forget to open dishwasher to "breathe," 
p) remember to turn on completely theft-deterring porch light, 
q) strap octopuslike and still inexplicably upset child into her carseat, 
r) reason with said child about how well rested she is, 
s) get a frog in the face for your trouble, 
t) receive jovial message from husband, 
u) plot his demise, 
v) wonder why you bothered with a list AT ALL, 
w) let alone began to pack the night before, 
x) drive downtown through summer construction/lunch rush/filming ofTransformers, 
y) realize you have still YET TO PEE TODAY, and 
z) pleasantly answer the question "How was your morning off?"


And the transit/weekend yielded such questions as whether or not Nora was a) a boy, b) able to eat the food I was giving her, c) three months of age, and d) six WEEKS of age. (Come ON, she has teeth!)

But in Cincy Nora got to play with all seven of the Schoeny cousins- and she could not have been more in love with their faces, their toys and their exotic snacks- and slept like a, well, baby in her private, darkened nursery. With fresh air all around the homestead. And nary a siren nor a Kedzie Avenue.

And I got the distinct joy of realizing that our 12 year-old nephew Tony never misses a blog posting- and votes every day for Top Mommy Blogs [sidebar, by the by], earning him the shoutoutiest shout out ever:(Hi, Tony. Nice divin' at the pool.)

And there were birthday revelings all weekend long for Peej's 40 year-old twin bros. And a pool party.
And a blowup giraffe pool party (the latter of which came back to Chi with us- and which I promise to share with Nora. At least once a week.)

I consider the addition of an animal-themed kiddie pool a plus in the 'weekend success' category, don't you?

Plus Peej's stellar driving skills that returned us to Chi in a timely ['True Blood'-wise] manner.

And all that family bonding time. 

But I'm really excited about the giraffe pool.

Put THAT in your system.

The Census is convinced that there are multiple families residing here. Like, slightly psychotic ex-girlfriend convinced. ("Are you sure there's no one else? I saw you out with someone." "Uh, that was my sister.")

There is nothing I can do to alleviate their suspicions- or, more rudely, to get them to leave us the heck alone.

We filled out the initial Census form. Promptly. We had a few self-congratulatory moments acknowledging how on top of things we were. Sure, we have a kid and a baby and a plethora of jobs and a punkin' vine that's threatening the very landscape of the property- but our paper trail is being dealt with.

Then we got a second form in the mail. Saying the exact same thing, with the addition of a kinda snotty tone: Did we know that the Census form is how our city decides how many schools there should be? So we filled it out again. Laughed a little, rolled our eyes and did a a little shoulder shrug; waa waa- Government.

Got a third form. Dis.Re.Garded. It. Stupid fools. You know why there's no money for Illinois education? Because it was all spent on paper!

Then they started coming to the door. "Is this Unit 1?" "Nope, it's a house." "Yeah, but...this is the first floor unit?" "Nope." Convinced them [poorly] that only 2.5 people lived here. "Did you send in your form?" "YUP!" She laughed. I laughed. (Waa waa- Government.)

Second lady came. I think it was her first day walking about on her own two legs, let alone actually having to talk to people. I'm not ashamed to say that I laid into her. Did the government appreciate that she was wasting both their time and mine? Especially mine? Did she know how sick I was of the whole process? And was she really gonna stand there and tell me MY house was the real problem? Millions of people don't fill in the darned thing but I'M in the hot seat?

 "Sorry for the trouble. One last question before I leave- this is Unit 1, yes?" "No. No units. Just house." "Did you recently convert it into a house?" "Nope." "Well, if you had sent in the form and stated that, it would be in the system." "You're probably right."

As we left the house that day to run errands, we saw her sitting on the stoop. This was a good half an hour later. She was writing frantically with a nubby pencil. I think her mind had been shattered.

Then, last week- my favorite encounter yet. A woman appeared on my doorstep and rang the doorbell a few times. As Nora hadn't been feeling so hot that morning and had just dozed off, I was already prepared to rip the face off of any unfortunate bystander. And the fact that it was a lady from the Census? Perfection.

I tersely informed her that I had already dealt with the Census. Many times. My info was in the system. She scoffed. The woman SCOFFED! And told me that I couldn't possibly have dealt with her department, she was with the Verification Team. With all of the patience that I could possibly muster (and using up some from the next week as well), I listened to her spiel. In no uncertain terms she told me that yes, my info was in the system, but I had left out crucial details about MY TENANTS.

I have no tenants, I told her as pleasantly as humanly possible.

She scoffed again. "Then why do you have two doorbells?" Checkmate, her smirk seemed to say.

"On either side of the house?" I yelled. "We have two doors! Each gets a doorbell! We have two doorknobs, too!"

I then threatened that my mother worked for the Census in Massachusetts, an arbitrary fact that- even while I was saying it- carried so little weight as to be kinda ridiculous. Yep, watch out- or I'll tell my Mom.

"So...no apartments?" Her smugness began to dissipate.

"Would you care to come see?"

She looked like I had slapped her. "Uh, no thank you." She thought for a moment. "That info should really be put into the system."

As nicely as I could manage, I replied that since I didn't actually work at the Census, there was only so much I could do in terms of getting them my info. Permanently. In the system.

She sat on the stoop, another victim of mind shattering.

My pal Bethany, who had stopped over before to say hi, left from the side door to go pick up some food. And the lady saw her. I'm sure she was convinced- after all that- that I was, indeed, harboring a tenant. So I'm sure I'll get a follow-up visit.

And, whilst blogging just now, the doorbell rang. (I swear. I can't make this stuff up.) Taking a deep breath (and a shoe in case the situation got ugly), I prepared to the Senseless Bureau onslaught.

But it's okay. It was just a Jehovah's Witness.

For the first time in my life, I was stoked to receive their pamphlet.

Nothing to fill out and return, there.