You think I'm kidding about the cranberries.

You play the piano beautifully, Pop.

Thanksgiving has started off quite well.

My Dad made his signature waffles- Nora had the better part of two- and there have been more a few people dancing along with the Macy's Parade. No names...but Nora wasn't the only one marching with the Spirit of America dancers. (Also- I'm pretty sure the guy/girl ratio on that team is 7 to 800. I bet those boys felt pretty awesome last night at their motel party.)

Two of my sisters are home and the third will be here tomorrow. Plus all the guys. (That's a relatively new thing to say in this family.) My folks are here and have not yet stopped preparing glorious meals. Or facilitating naps; if ever someone is reclining, a comfy throw is plopped over their torso. (3...2...1...snore.)

I am thankful for all of the family and friends I'll get to see today and this week.  And the ones I'll be able to talk to via Skype and iPhone (for we live in The Future.)

Also, for the two turkeys and positively insane amount of side dishes and appetizers. (I will not talk to them, so much. But they will feel my love and gratitude.)

And beverages. All of the beverages, too.

I am beyond grateful for the fact that, this week, my husband has woken up with our Bitsy Bug at 6:30am- letting me sleep until eight. EIGHT! And due to his awesomeness/availability of sofa throws, I've taken no less than three naps.

I am thankful for our home- in fact, everyone's home- and various leak-free roof/floor combinations. Also, the ability to heat/cool/hydrate/shove food into various kitchens. That's a big one, too.

And I love my city, my neighborhood, the fifteen taco joints, the Middle Eastern bakery...

I'm grateful to the loved ones serving overseas...because, let's face it. I'd be awful at that job.

I'm thankful that I can have the combination of wonderful part-time work that allows me to nanny and blog and write and- most importantly- spend 22 hours each day with Nora. (We all need our down time.) And, obviously, I have love in my heart (and wallet) for the Peej that facilitates and supplements this whimsical paycheck ride.

And, as my Dad just made a massive fire in the front room's fireplace, this list could literally go on and on and on. And is that an hors devours plate? And who left this chenille throw here?

I do believe my daughter is still napping like the champion o' holidays that she is...leaving only one thing left to do.

Poke the cranberry sauce and get yelled at.

Happy Thanksgiving, Lolliers. I love you guys, too.  (Between all of this tryptophan and saccharine, naptime might come a little early today.)

Have a fabulous holiday, folks. Go on. Live it up and be merry.

...Poke the cranberry sauce.

Thank goodness she has something to play with, now.

This post is a tad late today, but I have an awesome excuse: I was playing with all of my childhood [ahem] toys in my parents' attic. We're talking Barbies and their clothing from the '70s (I think they were hand-me-downs from my cousins, soda shoppes, multiple dollhouses and furniture, pieces that I made myself...and they were all wrapped in at least seven layers of paper towels. 'Cause I was afraid all the plastic and felt blankies would break in all of that cardboard. But it wasn't until the dozen porcelain dolls made an appearance that Peej felt a little fear.

It's a good thing I have a daughter- 'cause these toys are all coming back to Chicago with us. They're for Nora. Obviously.

We had the easiest trip out East. Seriously. Saturday morning, as soon as N.J. woke up, we hit the road- for 10.5 hours. Nora was a gem. (Peej got a little cranky.) Between her bag o' toys, bag o' books, and music o' kids, she probably had the best trip of us all. (And P.J. and I got our first taste of what traveling with kids' music is like. It was...okay. I mean, if she can tolerate Sirius XM's Hair Nation for an hour or so, who am I to complain?)

And we met the nicest people. Really. Every single person we met in transit (with the exception of a BMW SUV driver- you know who you are), be it at the Ohio rest stop or the Upstate NY Days Inn, was pleasant and friendly and told us how cute Nora was. (Maybe the trick was in bringing Nora.) Either way, it was kinda cool. And unusual for holiday transit. As for the Days Inn, it boasted the most helpful folks...and the thinnest walls and floors in the nation. The couple staying on the floor above us had an excellent time. That's all I will say about that. Except to add that I almost applauded when the festivities ended...until I heard the dude walk to the bathroom and pee. However, I was the only affected Schoeny: Big and Little passed out as soon as their heads hit the queen bed and pack n' play, respectively. (And frankly, I don't think they would have noticed had the sleeping arrangements been reversed.)

The next morning, after saying goodbye to the ten or so folks with whom we [Nora] had endeared ourselves, we drove the remaining four hours and reached my parents' house. A Narnia of home-cooked meals, soft beds, hot water, many arms with which to hug and hold Nora...and zero people peeing audibly. At least not strangers peeing audibly. Nora has adjusted nicely to being spoiled rotten, overfed her favorite foods, being gifted with No Particular Reason Presents, and- her personal favorite- not being alone in a backwards-facing car seat for hours at a stretch.

Livin' well.

As for me, I'm reverting back to my favorite At Home activities; among them emptying, cleaning and organizing kitchen cabinets (and amassing a collection of expired medications dating back to the early '00s,) and making my mother laugh like a loon. For instance, she placed a pair of vibrating, fleece slippers on my feet, causing me to walk around like an errant robot, destroying fields and buildings in my path (and, obviously, dancing like a robot).

Also, while using her face wash- which is remarkably wonderful- I was overcome with the urge to cleanse my head by splashing upwards, a la in the adverts. Guess what happens when you do that? Everything gets soaked. 'Cept your actual face. But my point is- my Mom has really nice bath products. Also, expired meds.

Here's what else she has: A BIRTHDAY TODAY. Today we're celebrating by trying to not mess up her house with Nora's stuff, my toys, random laundry, snacks, etc.,and then we're going to the Festival of Trees at the Berkshire Museum. (I guarantee my Mom wouldn't have cleared time in her day for it unless her beloved N. Janie was going to be in town...but I'll take it, regardless.) Hopefully she'll let me bring her out to lunch. Perhaps watch an old movie later on. Definitely have another cabinet-cleanin'. 'Cause- Good God, Mom and Dad.

So happy birthday to the best Momma I have- and the only one I'd choose, if I had the choice. Which I don't. But I'd choose her, anyhow. And that's what counts.

Anyone wanna go celebrate and play dolls?

You can't touch anything. But you can point. Gently. From the other room. And then you have to go away.

It'll be fun.

Anyone wanna play Clue?

I've been trying pretty hard to adhere to 10pm Bedtime Month- though it's well into November. It's been pretty tricky. For example: Did you know that most Evening Events start at 7pm? Sometimes 8? (Yeah, and some begin even later. They will not be delved into here, as I am no longer interested in your positively hooliganistic plans. If I can no longer place an order at The Taco Burrito King once your show/party/film has ended, then go ahead and take me off the Evite. Right now.)

Speaking of that- going out, not the tostada bowl- I'm finding that I've become more hermit-like every single year. (Or "hobbit," as my sister once said, never to be forgotten. Ever. Times three.) I've always been a bit of a homebody. In high school, my friends had to drag me out to the mall and sleepovers and coffee shops. Sometimes it took some prying, especially if I had just gotten a new BMG shipment or was involved in a particularly taxing EverDark quest. (Did I just out myself from the geek closet? Oh well. At least nine readers are nodding their heads and guessing which one it was.)

My days at Hampshire were a tad more social, due to- shall we say- its slightly polarizing social scene? However, I was still only a few choices away from being that weird, solitary girl in the dark- on a Friday night- in her substance-free, single sex, quiet hall. Who wore a cloak.

Then came the whole Chicago theatre scene...and there went sleep. But what the heck does a 24 year-old need rest for, anyhow? We did shows. And more shows. And had late-night shows. Then had talkbacks, meet n' greets, galas, post-show parties, after after parties, and- most importantly- 4am tacos. And, crazily enough, we made it to our 8am jobs, cup of coffee in hand. Ready to teach kids, clean houses, sling overpriced food. Then on to that evenings' events! Our friends' shows, maybe a free night at the Art Institute, perhaps a midnight showing at the Music Box, most definitely some dancing at Spin, a Chinatown run so "late night" as to be positively mid-morning. And on and on and on until somewhere in the vague '29th year' neighborhood.

Sure, by that birthday I was busy cookin' a wee babe in my middles, but this need for home had slooowly been creeping up on me for a while before then. Sure, flirting with Peej against the jukebox at the Blue Light was super fun, but you know what else was? Waving at him from across our living room. (And it's, oh- about fifty bucks cheaper. Babysitting fees-wise, of course. They practically gave the beer away.) And wild n' wacky nights out with the girls are always divine- as are Netflix marathons with popcorn bowls the size of Guam.

The point being? I enjoy using Nora and the falling-down house as an excuse for my housebound slothitude. I have slowly lamed my way out of rotation. And that's cool. People have asked- doubtfully, scornfully- Don't I miss auditioning?  Eating regrettable amounts of food at unwise hours? Yeah- the stress/panic/euphoria tango with a heartburn chaser will be missed. For now. But the only guilt regarding this euphoric chapter in my adulthood is that I didn't treat myself this well sooner.

And make no mistake about it- it is good livin'. I make meatloaf once a week. I never even knew I LIKED meatloaf! P.J. recently taught me to play chess. And sure, I suck at it, but that's not the point. The point is that I get to listen to a Sirius XM oldies show in my sock monkey pajamas whilst P.J. trounces my players right offa the board. I take near-nightly soaks in the glorious (rat-free) lower level bath. I rearrange furniture monthly, a sorta 'Hi, how are ya/I OWN YOU' kind of acknowledgment to every single thing in my possession. (It helps my writing process to know where everything is forever and ever Amen.) And sometimes- just sometimes- when I've finished wiping mango bits from beneath the dining room table and folding an improbable number of socks- I climb into bed and pull the blanket up over my ear (so nothing can crawl inside, obvie) and sleep. And I do not feel lame. Not at all. I feel rested and warm and cozy and- sure, a little irritated at the sonic boom of a snore coming from my husband's face- and content.

It doesn't always work out that way. For example, the other night as I was drifting off way too late in the evening, I was jolted upright by the question of whether Emilio Estevez changed his name or Charlie Sheen did. (I mean, they're brothers so, what gives? Turns out, Martin Sheen changed his name. Used to be Estevez. Seriously. Also, did you know Emilio is older than Charlie? Blew. My. Mind. God bless you, imdb.com.) And certainly, blissful evenings can stall out while waiting for SOMEONE to finish pouring his  Ovaltine and come to bed after setting the alarm...so we can read magazines together. (Back off ladies, he's all mine.)

Those folks not super close to me often mistake this activity as inclusive gloating. But it isn't. Not really. I can name half a dozen people for whom the idea of dinner-makin', baby-tendin' and husband-keepin' would be an absolute nightmare and not a reward at all. (Conversely, I can think of a few people with evening careers with whom I would gladly trade places for a night or two. For example, Go Go dancers. Do they not just look like they're having a blast?)

But this Staying Innyness? It's become MY nighttime event- no more important than your reading or wine tasting- but certainly no less, either. "Projects" that require "pants" will eventually pique my interest again, but for now I'm cool.

The world isn't running out of pineapple fried rice any time soon.

I'll sleep in March.

Oh, Monday.

In my efforts to protect my laptop, phone, coffee and child from each other, I managed to dump the third over all four things. Five, including myself.

The coffee was cold. She's fine.

Maybe I need to be child-proofed from myself.

(What is that glorious aroma of hazelnut coming from my iPhone case? Smells like...a warranty crying.)

So, yes. Monday. It was a busy and fabulous weekend across the board- and the country. Sadly, we missed my youngest nephew Declan's baptism, but we were there in spirit. And present. And presently, our present is being presented to the incorrect zip code. (P.J. errantly mixed the oldest sister's street address with the youngest sister's zip code. What, we all look the same to you? What's one Massachusetts town compared to the next? Thanks a lot, Cincy.)

The past few days also included the best sushi in town (Yay, Macku! I ate a potentially unwise amount of super white tuna) an evening with P.J.'s coworkers (great band, terrific company, positively cougartastic dancin' on the floor), a birthday party for a one year old whom Nora alternately adores and has a coy-ish thing going on (and a good time was had with his always suprafun parents and their pals), a holiday swaparoo with no less than eight types of cheese and plates that rest on one's FINGERS (I could not invent that kinda thing if I tried), and a brunch/playdate with neighbor pals- a relationship that we are quite thrilled to cultivate, as they are a) cool, b) possessing a daughter of the same age as Nora, and c) fluent speakers of sober English.

Saturday evening was the extraordinarily different experience of having someone pick out my outfit (because I collapsed in a pile of my Momitude and comfy hoodies) and whisk me out for an evening of dancin' in divey locales. (Thanks, B!) I hadn't been to the Liar's Club since my 26th birthday, which was...last year...and it hasn't changed a bit. Except maybe it's a little cleaner? Slightly? Or maybe my standards have completely dropped off the face of the planet. (There aren't any waffles stuck to the chairs- what a classy joint!) Even though the music was- shall we say- a little too current for my dusty tastes, we definitely got the dancing started. (I am always the first on the dance floor. I don't want to brag and say that people pack the floor once I get out there...but it inevitably happens. Granted, this could also be because I start dancing while the DJ is still setting up. It would be pretty hard to start dancing before the person who doesn't need music starts dancing.) And Miss B was so proud of my efforts that she convinced the DJ to play Boston for me. Sure, I was the only one really dancing to More Than A Feeling...but ask me if I cared. Or noticed. (I did not.)

And now, about the kids' music today: (Scoot aside, my walker needs to be parked.) The last time I really identified with trendy music was the early 90s- seriously. Once hair metal started to die out, I Status Quo-ly listened to Nirvana and Pearl Jam and Soundgarden. But my flannel-clad heart was still aching for a modulation of Hysteria proportions. And a couple of years later? I was so done with the boy band/pop princess explosion that I regressed into blues and oldies and classic country just to remind myself of how music used to sound- and I was seventeen.

But really. Taio Cruz? Dynamite? There are just some songs so inane as to permanently damage my frontal lobes each time they are reflected upon. (And with a stupid hook that catchy, it is sadly a DAILY occurrence.)

"I throw my hands up in the air sometimes!" he exclaims. (Sayin' AYO.) Every time I hear that one line I am completely taken out of the moment. I need to step off of the bar and think about how ridiculous that lyric is. Really, Taio? You seem surprised by this. Sometimes you just throw your hands in the air? Is it like an involuntary twitch? ("May I offer you a canape?" "Yeah, this is a lovely catered event, I- AYO!" Trays akimbo.) So I think about that. Then I am always drawn back to Nora's book about a shy little wombat called "Sometimes I Like To Curl Up In A Little Ball." Always. Always always always. Then I get an image of a smallish Taio Cruz curling up into a ball and waving his arms willy nilly against the onslaught of not being able to live his life/rock this club/light it up/move move move.

It's a wonder they even let me through the door.

Back to the weekend.

As the Summer/Fall events transition into All Things Holiday, I often think about how nice it's gonna be once Winter hits. Truly. And this is coming from a girl who takes baths at a trillion degrees Fahrenheit and cannot stand the sight of snow once February hits. But, as friends and I were discussing yesterday, the cold weather season means you actually see people. As counterintuitive as it seems, we never see anyone in the Summer. Sure, we're out and about and there are a trillion things going on...but we've been booked since January. Weddings, family, travel, festivals, weekend thingies. But in March? The only plans people make for March around here are cozy house parties, Scrabble nights, movies, dinners in, blanket tents, etc. Sure, last winter was positively idyllic, what with a glorious maternity leave, snuggly little wee baby, entire seasons of programming at my disposal, and enough homemade food to stock two freezers...but I have high hopes for this one as well.

So to all of my lovely friends and fam- the ones whom I could not get it together in time to see this Warm Season- come over sometime. I hear that Peej has a few movies.

But I'll provide the music.