On The Town With Keely.

Have you ever injured yourself in a really embarrassing way? The kind of OW that you'd rather no one know about- yet that you CANNOT keep to yourself? Like, despite your shame at your own awkwardness, you really need someone to ask if you're all right? Except, when they do, their query is disproportionate to the amount of sympathy a body-ending pain like yours warrants? And when they ask, sighing, if there's anything they can DO, you respond that- No, you do not need an ambulance, but maybe, just maybe, an acknowledgment of the potential severity of the catastrophic near-miss that just occurred would make the death knell ring a little more softly. Maybe. Or perhaps a moment of silence would help.

No? Never happened to you? Me neither.

And now, in Costco news:

Things That I Have Seen-

An elderly woman elbow me in the neck for a spanikopita sample...

A guy fondly ask his friends- Remember when I ate ALL of your almonds?

A couple acknowledge to each other that they're "not really into the pot pie."

And a Dad rub his hands together and gleefully announce to his kids that "NOW we shop for pleasure."

Costco, as I have learned, is no place for the casual shopper nor the novice. You will be tread on and crunched down like gravel under the wheels of a semi. And forget asking for help- no one actually WORKS there- they're all "independent contractors" working for various spanikopita vendors.

But I still love it there. A ton. Because there's a kind of [American] fulfillment you can only get by finding a 3-ton box of granola bars. And I don't even LIKE granola bars!

The shoppers there are something else. While at her Costco in Boston, my sis Kate was badgered by an elderly man who wanted her opinion on various track suits. Her reply that she liked them all only aggravated him. There MUST be a winner! I think she pointed to one and apparently he went away. I don't know. He might still be there. In his workout-y finest.

And a tiny, not at all self-incriminating bit of advice? Skip the gelato. Sure, it's dollar gelato. But you know what dollar gelato tastes like? Gelato made for a dollar.

In other marketing news, I've recently noticed in Pilates (while face-planting in various ungraceful positions) that the mats at the studio boast the phrase "The Total Body Solution."

Which is questionable. Sure, it's A body solution. Quite a nice-ish one. But at the time all I could think in terms of body fitness totality:

Lipo.

But whatever. There's something to be said for working out and earning it.

And I absolutely think we should all continue to.

As soon as our bodies heal from the pelvis-cracking baby gate injury that we've recently incurred.

For example.

Insulation Confrontation- The Sequel

This needs insulatin', too.

The insulation guys are upstairs. So, I'm assuming that our crawlspaces are being done up. (Hopefully the right side up this time.)

There was a momentary glitch this a.m. when a neighbor flung my lawn chair (previously gracing a parking spot in front of the house) into a different neighbor's yard. Then he parked his car. So Nora and I ran outside to a) retrieve our chair and b) give an evil eye to the chair flinger. Of course, that was when the 40-foot insulation truck pulled up. The car driver feigned ignorance. The truck driver raised his arms at me like- What?! But I know that move, too.

He argued with me that I was supposed to have a spot blocked off. I told him that I did- and in fact had four blocked off. LAST WEDNESDAY. (I am rarely confrontational. It felt good.)

I went inside (after I yell, I always retreat) and was sure that a) I was in trouble or b) we weren't gettin' no insulation did. However. The truck driver and the car driver argued in Spanish. Guess who won? That's right- the guy insulating the third floor.

I should argue more. HEAR THAT, PEEJ?

Half an hour later, one of the workers asked if he could use one of the bathrooms. I told him sure and pointed to the one on the second floor. (Nora and I were downstairs at the time.) He chose to use the one on the third floor, which- ha HAH- recently lost its ability to be flushed. He apologized. I assured him that it was previously broken and not to worry. I then realized that I missed an awesome chance to get the toilet fixed on someone else's dime! But the Pollyanna side of me could never let that fly. Besides, I'm an awful liar. (I was about to say that I'd make a terrible spy- but I couldn't remember the word. What did pop into my head was the word 'Decepticon.' I'd make a TERRIBLE Decepticon as well.)

So. This weekend.

I engaged in what P.J. considers his personal hell- and Feng Shui'd the bedroom. He seriously hates when I move anything to any other locale. Also making his nerves work overtime? The fact that I have the most rudimentary knowledge of Feng Shui (like, kindergarten Feng Shui) and frequently change my mind after the heavy lifting has been done. That said- it needed to happen. Our bedroom is a pretty good size, but narrow from the door over to the double window. We used to have the window as our headboard because it looked awesome. And it was great to get a breeze in the summer. And- really- who doesn't like hearing someone break a bottle on a car at 3am?

But here's what convinced me that we needed a change. I read- online, obviously- that one of the worst bed positions was with the headboard against a window. Noise! Energy! Frantic dreams! (I will start to blame all previous problems on this headboard placement!) And the worst bed position? Feet to the door- the Chinese position of DEATH. (That sounds way more intense than they probably intended. I may have gotten the wording wrong.)

So I fixed it. Everything, really. And it looks quite good. And even P.J. liked it- once I got him into the room under the pretense of getting something for Nora. (Subterfuge. Hey- maybe I would be a good Decepticon!) I guarantee that Peej won't be running errands for longer than an hour anymore. He'll be too afraid of what he'd come home to.

I also did some heavy duty fixin' up of some found objects (God bless Craigslist's Free Stuff section)- namely a partition screen that someone was just giving away! It was blue and white checks with broken buttons on crisscrossed ribbons- obviously we needed it. I stripped and recovered them with heavy brown velvet curtains that had been gifted to us--

[Major side note: P.J. does not like when I repurpose things. What if we need them for their originally intended use? I assured him that, unless we wanted a sickroom with dim, dusty light spilling onto my prone, plaid blanket-covered figure, we would not be using the heavy curtains any time soon. He wasn't convinced- what if we need them for one of the kids' bedrooms someday? If he wanted his kid to be Colin from The Secret Garden, then sure. Let's hang the curtains. He gave me the blessing for the fabric.]

--and I got to use the staple gun. Which makes such a satisfying 'ker-thwunk' when you use it. And then it's stuck there forever. With metal. While I worked on this project, I helped P.J. run lines for an audition. I don't know how helpful I was.

"But then there would be no play, Mr. Merrick." [ker-thwunk]
"If he did not love her [ker-thwunk], why should there be a play?" [ker-thwunk ker-thwunk]
"Keely."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm reading. I am."
[ker-thwunk.]

He really didn't need me, anyhow. He's the best actor ever. And the partitions look fabulous. 'Cause he's the most tolerant husband ever. And thanks to the insulation, he'll be the warmest one, too.

Which is good, because I'm certain our neighbors will be flinging eggs at our door in due course...

...And it'll be chilly tonight when he has to go clean it off.

Insulation Cancellation...*

Overshot the Peekaboo.

...and My Kid Is Terrific (Parts 1 and 77, respectively.) *Thanks, Dorrie.

Yesterday, we were going to have a guy come and fix our crawlspaces. They are seriously hurting. Four attic-like rooms off of the upstairs bedrooms- two the size of [really awful] bedrooms themselves- and all with upside down insulation...if at all. (There are, however, crazy amounts of notebooks, beer bottle caps and at least one high school prom mug. Good Counsel, Class of '83, if anyone's missing it.)

So I was excited to get them fixed for storage and general not-freeziness. But I was also wary. Here's why. This is how a contractor deal works at our house:

1. P.J. and I choose 3 companies.
2. I meet them all, listen to their spiels and Little Lady pitches, all roughly three hours apiece.
3. I suggest the company I like best.
4. Peej goes with the company of which he's just Googled something crucial.
5. On the Big Day, I ready the area, lock the cats in the laundry room and adjust Nora's naps accordingly...and wait. And wait. And sometimes wait.

Yesterday was no different- except- the insulation truck needed THREE SPOTS in front of my house. First thing in the a.m. Okie doke. Because, you know, I live on an extremely busy one-way street off of an extremely busy two-way street with rather expensive metered parking boxes (thanks, Daley), making our busy street the only free, non-zoned parking for blocks.

But sure, three spots.

However, I peeked out the window at 6:45am and saw the spot right in front of our gate had vacated. I ran outside in jammies, a hoodie and Crocs to place a questionably light folding chair in the space. Which is totally your best bet for staking a spot. Nothing says Back Off like a folding chair.

And somehow another spot opened up. And another. AND A FOURTH. I was so stoked and took it as a sign.

Oh, it was a sign, all right. It was a surefire way to guarantee that after I'd gotten the spots secured (as well as the wrath of my neighbors) and after I'd sealed off Nora's door against dust and shards, and after I'd settled the kiddo into a confused sleep in the downstairs pack n' play...that I'd get a call at 10am canceling the appointment. You see, the head supervisor's wife had had a baby the night before. I mean, mazel tov and all that, but THAT shut down operations for the day? And we're not talking about a Mom and Pop operation, here.

They said they were sorry. I said it was okay. (Grr, I always say that. And I so rarely mean it.)

But then I got to spend the rest of the day with Nora in a half-clean/half-rearranged household. And there's nothing like spending the day with Nora and her Doc Bullfrog and Jeopardy and the park.

I love my kid. I really do. As I was singing her to half-sleep and she was doing a patpatpat on my cheek in acknowledgement, it hit me (not her hand) that I'm blown away by this little child almost every day.

I looked down at her sleepy 11 month-old face and was kind of amazed by the fact that she was, indeed, this old. And still this young. And so, so busy all of the time. And such an independent little thing but still so happy to be held and rocked and kissed.

And she's ours. And she looks like both of us and no one else at all but herself and she never even used to exist. That blows me out of the water. I think it always will.

Parents always say that Having A Baby Changes You and You'll Never Be The Same and You Cannot Imagine The Capacity For Love and blahblahblah. And you nod and smile and roll your eyes, thinking- yeah, I know how to love. I'm gonna dig my kid. Yep.

But it's seriously unlike any other feeling I've ever felt. Even towards my husband. And I like him. A LOT. But here's the kicker: This feeling towards Nora? This wildly out of control love and constant gleeful surprise? I still couldn't explain and do it justice to an expectant parent.

I think it's kind of like how humans can't hold the full memory of pain in any sort of constant way- nor would one want to. You'd never get anything done, remembering exactly what it felt like when your arm shattered after a fall from a bike or that last migraine that left you incapacitated for days. But you know it hurt. And you tell friends how much it hurt. But even you've forgotten- just a little- how overwhelming that pain is.

And that's what it's like with Nora.

Except non-painful. (Unless I'm in a mood and full o' tears.) Because I think I have moments like I just did as I got her ready for bed because I can't keep that kind of awareness going 24/7. And so it's shocking and wonderful and silly when I do.

It's funny- I did not intend to write about this today. Really. I had planned on whining about insulation and home repair. Maybe gripe about laundry a bit. Share an anecdote about how people will still not talk to me at the park.

But as I started typing, here I was- again- extolling the virtues of being a parent. And I imagine- to my friends who have no desire to have babies- it's worthy of a little eye roll of their own. But here's another kicker: I think the majority of this amazement and love comes from the fact that I had SO little to do with how wildly cool this girl is. She just showed up, guns of awesome a blazin', and decided to change our lives.

And for that I have nothing but love in my heart.

And little but sweet potato on my shirt.

Cheese Royalty.

The Cheese Queen & Princess.

Our toes are just beginning to thaw, I've got a shelf full of vintage treasures, and I found a cheese curd in my pocket.

We've safely made it back from Wisconsin.

Now, back in the old days, way before I was married to a Midwesterner and was simply a gal from the 413, I couldn't have differentiated between Wisconsin and Iowa on a map. Really. Granted, I'm kinda terrible at geography, but in Massachusetts (a puzzle piece of a state so teensy that you could step back, squint your eyes and pinch it from across the room) all of those states Over There are kind of one big nebulous corn (or cheese) borderin' square. Even the ones that are decidedly not squares.

But I married a Schoeny. And to a Schoeny (or Verkamp, to be fair), Wisconsin is a Narnia/Disneyland combo of epic summer proportions. (And yes, that's 'summer' as a verb.) And I was wholly unconvinced. Until the summer of '07 when, as a fresh-faced fiancée, I accompanied P.J. to a week of family togetherness in neighboring lake houses.

I kayaked every day- at least three times. I pretended to swim- in the way I do that's not actual swimming (I don't even know if I can anymore)- even though I still do not care for the feel of lake bottom on any part of my being. I rode the well-loved and oft-lamented oldie bike Limey. (With our hoodies and bare feet, Peej and I could have been just another two kiddos at camp.) I ate fresh produce and more cheese than was wise. We had bonfires and bottles of wine on the dock, went stargazing and yard-saling. Fireworks were viewed from boats. I found a cove that I pretended to have discovered (though, in all honesty, I do this all over the world.)

In short, I dug the place.

So this past weekend, when we were invited to spend time with P.J.'s Mom, sister and nephew (the guy born just five days before Nora), we were stoked to take our little Bitsy up North.

It was a little colder than it had been a few summers ago- but it just gave me an excuse to break out the baby hats with animal ears. And sure, Nora's lunch one afternoon consisted of me feeding her leftover pizza in the backseat of our car...but I know she had a good time.

The kids attempted to toddle in a pumpkin patch. They crawled on piers (and each other). They shared pack n' play time, all of their toys, and more than a few of their germs (Sorry, Dor.) The grownups shared lovely meals, crisp Fall afternoons, and a spin in the sauna. (I could have happily slept there.)

And we got to go antiquing- one of those clichéd activities that women supposedly love and men are obligated to grumble about. But it's true- I love poking around antique and vintage stores. P.J....tolerates them. Nora thinks they're awesome, but sadly, they do not feel the same way about her. So yesterday, Peej gave me the most fabulous of gifts- he took Nora to go visit some family friends in town...and left me to chill at an antique emporium FOR AN HOUR. (I actually teared up. And my heart palpitated with excitement. Seriously. I've so rarely felt that fondly about another human being.)

And it was great. Overpriced as heck, but great. Especially since I found The Find of All Finds.

Lemme take you back a little- back when I was a kid, I loved having tea parties and using fancy glasses and plates. My mother- possessing a fabulous assortment of such pieces (not to mention the patience required of a mother to a fancy child) let me use these lovely things for special occasions. She also let me arrange her cabinets and ooh and ahh over the very fanciest. (I LOVE to arrange fancy things. Have you seen my dining room? Or living room? Or- heck, the upstairs?)

But there was a set of glassware that trumped everything else. Frosted Libbey iced tea glasses, all with a different brightly-colored carousel animal. A green and black zebra, chartreuse lion, reddish orange giraffe, yellow lion, pink elephant, teal deer...and a red pony. I loved the red pony best- loved it. And I would use these with all of the reverence and care of the queen's finest china.

Until the day that I dropped and broke one.

And it was the red pony.

I cried and cried. I don't even remember my mother being angry with me- I think she knew how heartbroken I was, and that it was an awful punishment to never again be able to hold that wonderful glass. And we moved on (somehow) and she even promised me the set to keep way down the road.

But now, here I was in the antique emporium.

Looking at the red pony on a frosted carousel glass.

And yes, there was also a blue tiger, an orange and tan pony, a pink and red elephant, and an orange and black zebra (how many did they make?)- but I am not even the littlest bit ashamed to admit that I wept in the middle of a Wisconsin antique store. And I called my mother. She was excited (but really, I don't think my level of excitement can be topped by anyone, ever.) And I finally feel like I have atoned for the horrible crime I committed back when I was eight years old.

And I have my red pony back.

Best. Trip. Ever.

And sure, we took a long overdue trip to the Mars Cheese Castle (it is a CASTLE MADE OF CHEESE- you cannot ever begin to convince me differently) and I felt like royalty with my bag of cheese curds...

...but seriously? The trip was made when I found that glass.

For two dollars and fifty cents. The one item in the store not marked for a hundred bucks.

Making it an act of Fate.

Or maybe an act of Wisconsin.