The menagerie's full.

Many of you are hyper aware of my love affair with Earnest Music. (I initially typed 'Ernest.' That would be amazing. And most likely earnest as well. 'Camp' and 'jail' will do that to you.)

My earnestitude hits a whole new high around Christmastime. Holiday songs = country music + rhyming poetry on the scale of I Mean This Message Quite Deeply. But I dig 'em anyhow. A lot. Our radio has been tuned to the Christmas station since two weeks before Thanksgiving. That can cause some serious holiday earworms.

[Side note- If ever I am forced to hear Dominick the Donkey again, I will perhaps become homicidal. HEE haw HEE haw.]

[Side side note- A darling friend from middle school loved this song so much that she put it on a holiday mix CD for me. Twice. Intentionally. Despite this, I was thrilled to count her among my bridesmaids much, much later. But seriously. In the age of digital recording...I really could've easily skipped backwards on the track listing to hear Dominick bray again. Which would never, ever willingly happen.]

But there are certain holiday songs that just GET me. Quite embarrassingly, too. For instance- O Holy Night. Oh sure, it starts off innocuously enough with mention of how brightly the stars are shining and how special that evening is. Yep, I'm thinking- sure is a nice holiday song. Then the chorus hits. [Faaaaaaaaall...on your kneeeeeeeeeeees...] And suddenly I'm all like- wow. The notes are going up and up and up and the singer's gonna unleash a descant in a second or two. And then they do. Full voice. And I WEEP.

And Peej usually starts laughing, because- more often than not- I'm in the car with him when this happens. Or washing dishes at the end of the day. Then POW. Goosebumps and actual tears in the eyes. And then I do my embarrassed sniffle, the one that makes it more awkward that I'm clearly crying over nothing. And lemme tell you- there are few things worse than pretending you're not crying over something trivial while someone laughs [at you.]

Okay, there are many, many things worse than that scenario. But it's still pretty pathetic.

It gets worse.

You know who frequently covers songs like this? Crooners. Full-voiced, multi-octaved soft rock singers. That's right, let's add some more fuel to my furnace of shame. I am bawling to the melodic stylings of JOSH GROBAN AND CELINE DION. (Whom, let's not forget, I can seriously jam out to.) But it really doesn't help my case.

I recently stumbled across this version as well. I do not cry to it. Except with laughter. (Please do yourself a favor and listen to it in its [glorious] entirety. He really lets it wail at the end. Even replaying it in my mind, I'm trying super hard not to pee.)

So there's that.

Another semi-awkward bout with outward emotion always occurs when I watch Claymation Christmas. (Jim Henson Productions equate buckets of tears, apparently.) Man oh man, We Three Kings sung by the wise men and some sunglass-wearing camels is the absolute tops. And Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer as jammed out by The California Raisins is epic. (Does it bother me in the least that I'm thoroughly believing the activities of walking and talking raisins? Nope. I once watched an episode of their TV show in the '80s and was incredibly invested in the unfolding story of one of the female Raisins' (Raisinettes?) struggle with self confidence. When she managed to rock out a solo at the end of the show and shared a kiss with the lead(?) Raisin, I remember being really choked up. This is so true.)

However, I'd still choose the O Holy Night dude AND public sobbing (maybe even public California Raisin admiration) over Dominick the Donkey.

Hee haw, indeed.

December 6th...that day sounds familiar...

Happy Feast of Saint Nicholas!

Just what I asked for!

Here is how we celebrated this morning:
 -One of us filled a miniature boot and two normal-sized boots with candy, advent calendars and a rubber reindeer duck.
-One of us peed through one of our jammies/bedding/lovies/sleepsack.
-One of us spilled coffee on ourselves whilst trying to eat a Snickers bar shaped like a Nutcracker.

I'll leave it as anonymously as that.

Okay, so now it's fully and terrifically the Christmas season. We've got two of the major checklist items already notched; the tree and the Christkindlmarket boot.

The tree is courtesy of Home Depot (thirty buck tree and they tie it onto your car? Boy, long gone are the days of me having to heft the thing with P.J./whine about it until he threatens to cancel the holiday.) And boy oh boy- is there any more 'Dad' thing than the whole tree endeavor? I'm pretty sure it's one of those events that automatically straps a Bjorn onto your chest and peppers your temples with grey.

The choosing. The turning. The "helping" the guy attach it to the roof. Lugging it inside. Standing it up. Adjusting it. Adjusting it. Adjusting- (Keely, it's fine!) Watering it. Adjusting it. Looking in the circular for a cheaper holiday greenery coupon. Having remorse. Being convinced that all of the needles are falling off. Hoping you got a fresh tree. [Taking a break to listen to NPR and Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me.] Going outside to hang the lights. Coming back inside and muttering about the needles. Admitting a balsam does smell best. Emoting at the string of non-working lights. Randomly announcing that they work, you just saw them work. "Helping" your wife hang ornaments- if she lets you. Setting the timer for the Christmas lights and staring them down, as if into submission. Bed.

Nora wants one, too.

And the Market is a must for a true Chicagoan...who doesn't mind hordes of pushy crowds and overpriced mulled wine in a smallish boot. This year it's red. The boot, that is. (The crowds were multi-colored on their outers and crabby on their inners.) The newly redesigned boot (more of a heel and a narrower toe- like a city boot) is going to join his brethren on our kitchen countertop for the holidays...it's like an elf came and lost his footwear every year from 2006 'til now. And there's a mug from '02- how boring- and, inexplicably, nothing from '03-'05. (Anyone have those years? I would happily swap it out for another mug in my collection- perhaps one with an ironic saying? Let's not forget Elsie the cow.)

This jaunt to the Christkindlmarket was the very first time that I cared more about the line to meet Santa Claus as opposed to the line to get the mulled boot. If that's not indicative of something, then...I don't know what is. Maybe something else Nora-related. But if I was gonna force Nora to interact with someone whom she probably wasn't going to enjoy hugging, I really didn't want to stand outside in the cold with her for an hour beforehand.

But I needn't have worried. The North Pole beneath the gigantic tree had it together. We were in line for less than ten minutes. Mrs. Claus let us inside. (We got a picture. Nora is warily eyeing The Missus.) A few minutes later- the big guy himself! And he was the real deal. Kinder and gentler than I would've been at that point in the day. And even when Nora shifted from concern to outright doneitude, he patted her arm and told her what a good job she had done. Or maybe he was talking to us. Either way, he made our first Santa visit a screaming success.

Now Nora and I are off to celebrate the rest of my half birthd- Feast of St. Nicholas. I imagine that there will be a lot of "patpatpatting" of the lower tree branches [Nora] and a bit more chocolate-nabbing [me.]

Maybe some sheet-washing and boot-emptying.

'Tis the season.

3...2...1...

P.S...See that 'Vote For Me' box up there on the left-hand side? If you click it once, you'll give me a vote. (Of confidence.) Basically, they've restructured their site- yet again- and I've lost all of my votes. I miss them dearly. One click- reduced from two!- and no emails, etc., needed. Do it every day! Or...maybe just today?

Okay, I love you, back to the candy. 

This was no ordinary unicorn...

Get to work. Maybe comb that hair.

The other day I was asked- by more than one person- what I was "working on" these days.

Writing, I replied.

Real writing? They asked. Or just blogging?

Which made me think. 'Cause it's true- what initially began as a creative outlet for my projects and an incentive to keep going has rapidly become the norm in terms of output. And it's not like I don't have a plethora of other thingies on which to work. I do. Tons.

But here's the kicker: none of them are [yet] on the interwebz.

Thusly, the instant gratification of publication and glory of crazy page views is nonexistent. Meaning- I have to write it for good ol' fashioned personal purposes. And hope that someone with the ability to dole out paychecks will a) read it, b) pay me, and c) put it on the interwebz. Sure, the majority of stuff that I write about on this blog is Not Art, but do you see my conundrum? I'm already attaining the end result of publication, sans paycheck. Or glory.

Okay, it's not a conundrum so much as laziness.

'Cause here's the thing- I AM lazy. I can hear you thinking to yourself [Mom]: Keely, you are NOT lazy. You are energetic and wonderful and beautiful and fiercely intelligent.

And while two of those things are undoubtedly true, the busy work with which I exhaust my husband is not the product of non-laziness, but rather a childlike and irritating OCDesque tendency to do what feels right for that very moment until it stops being exciting and then it's time for a nap. I am a furniture-moving hedonist.

How does this affect my Good Writing? Well, it's a two-fold answer. The first part is this: anything remotely witty or funny or weird I immediately reserve for the blog. And use a ton of energy to [stupidly] make awkwardly long essays on Mondays and Thursdays. (Why are they so long? I have no editor. That's another one of those "paycheck" things.)

The second part concerns the snippets of time wherein I actually feel like producing actual words on paper. If and when the stars align- Nora is napping/I am caffeinated/the furniture isn't bugging me- then I usually feel a guilty twinge about starting the next blog post. Because- and this is the special part- the [minor] success of the blog has ensured that I value [obsess over] reader comments and feedback. And since I've been gently reminded [berated] to post when I'm an hour or two late, I certainly don't want to offend/lose my audience/feel even more guilt over my inability to just get one more thing done OH MY GOD THAT OTTOMAN IS ALL WRONG.

This is a very long-winded way of announcing that today's blog may suffer a tad in Awesome. As will the state of Feng Shui in my house. For my resolution in the month of December (New Year's? Yeah- anyone can do that) is to stop being such a leech of time and energy.

For example, if I played Farmville? I would stop.

That hour after Nora goes to bed and right before I watch some programmes? I will stop whining to P.J. about How. Much. I. Have. To. Do. And I may actually do it.

I shall expand my workable [writeable] hours to now include right before bed (too sleeeeepy), while Nora's happily playing with her Miniature Army of Cute ('cause while I usually say that I'm trying to be In The Moment with her...I'm really just checking Facebook statuses on my iPhone) and I may even start to include some unorthodox methods of writing such as using actual paper and pens.

I will finish plays and one-acts and short stories and essays and that book about snarky unicorns. (Intrigued? Okay, it's really about babies and falling-down houses. But that raises an excellent question- would you buy a book about a snarky unicorn? 'Cause that could totally be bumped up on the priority list.)

Starting now.

Or maybe after work.

If Nora goes to sleep smoothly and there isn't too much carnage to pretend to clean.

But definitely tomorrow morning.

Because a [writing] writer's lifestyle is possible to maintain and that's my point. It is. Possible and my point. Both.

The End.

For now.

Times a million minus a nap.

***

"Once upon a time, there was a marvelous horned beast named Chester..." <---(How's it done.)

Not too early for a late breakfast martini, though...

Get A Load Of This Gal Cam.

Boy oh boy, have I overcome a major writing hurdle. As I've been working on various projects this a.m., I put on Sirius XM's 40s on 4 channel- recently converted to all holiday music, all the time. Which I generally dig. But it wasn't doing much for my creative process other than making me want to swirl brandy in front of a fire- and it's about an hour too early for that. (Darn you, Andy Williams!)

Theeeen I remembered that P.J. had emailed me the new- and free- Girl Talk album. Which I also love.

And which my creative process loves.

So now I'm jamming out some literary awesomeness (or, at the very least, literary plenitude) to the wundy beats of some of my favorite classic rock tunes just shoved all up against some dancey R&B hits of whose titles I cannot name in this family blog. (And yes, this is yet another album of which I cannot listen to in front of my extraordinarily impressionable toddler. That list is surprisingly long. P.J. and I have gotten pretty darned adept at singing 'bleep' at appropriate times. Note- bleeps are always appropriate.)

So. Writing. Yes.

We had a superbly nice time in the Berkshires. Most of it was spent napping and eating while someone else kindly asked my daughter to stop eating the footwear, but, you know, that's the kind of thing memories of made of.

My Mom took P.J., Nora, and me swimming. (Nora digs indoor pools and shows no discernible fear of water= she may actually be someone else's kid.) A middle-aged and slightly insane man made some very real attempts to steal me away from P.J., so that's also cool. We also saw the Berkshire Museum's Festival of Trees which N.J. loved...until she realized that she was not going to be allowed to eat the ornaments- which she hated. And I took my Mom out to sushi for her birthday lunch and convinced her to order a bento box- which she loved.

P.J. and I even got to go see the new Harry Potter flick and pretend it was a date- minus the 60 bucks for childcare. (Note to those with whom I went to high school- Um, North Street is now gorgeous. And a new stadium seating movie theater? Uh, what? In my day, we went to North Street to get shot and we LIKED it like that.)

I spent a questionable amount of time organizing my parents' medicine cabinet, pantry, and kitchen shelves. There was also a goodly bit of berating on my part for the excess of toothpicks, Worcestershire sauce, and paper goods on their part. Kate and I also cleaned out part of the attic (how else was I supposed to get all of my Barbie doll shoes?) and enjoyed reading things aloud [Me] and throwing empty boxes into empty bags [Kate.]

Here is what I did NOT enjoy: meeting a mouse. A very dead one. (Note- I screamed like a smallish child. I initially thought that my volume had actually killed him. My Dad assured me that screaming did not cause advanced rigor mortis.) And here is what caused the screaming: I almost picked the thing up, thinking he was a shoe or something awesome like that.

He was not.

Based on my reaction, Kate thought I had been stabbed or electrocuted or something worse than having something unpleasant in one's line of sight. Nope. I'm that much of a child.

I have three major fears in my life (okay, more like ten, but for the sake of my pride we'll narrow it down to the biggies): Needles, the Dark, and Rodents. (I'm more into Pills, Nightlights and Cats.) But man, ever since becoming a homeowner and seeing the various critters than plague us here- I'd rather donate blood in the back of a cave than deal with a mouse or rat ever again.

That's all I have to say about that. Except to mention that the offending creature had met his maker between two lamps on the floor. Kate thinks that perhaps he was trying to get warm.

He faaaailed.

Nora was a rockstar on the trip home as well, except for a minor squabble we had in a rest stop- whilst I was holding her, using the facilities, and keeping her away from the floor, the walls, the door or the toilet...and keeping me away from the actual toilet surface as well. (Don't believe this is possible? It is. Until one's daughter has the checkmate of throwing her miniature shoe on the floor behind the toilet. Point to you, Nora.)

I also had the misfortune of total coffee cup failure- in front of witnesses. I had been attempting to refill my travel mug at a BP- sans half decaf, Splenda or anything else that makes my coffee worthwhile- plus a wiggly one year-old in my arms. (The kid, mind you, who had just moments before made me pee on myself in a disgusting stall.) After finally mixing a random assortment of stuff into borderline acceptable coffee, I turned to pay for...whatever it was I had in my cup.

And the BOTTOM of the mug gave out. Not the lid, but the structural stability of the thing itself. I saw P.J.'s jaw drop from across the BP Mart. Thankfully he grabbed napkins to clean up the mess- for I remained frozen, clutching an irate kid to my coffee and pee-stained outfit.

And this was Hour Three.

Nora also survived being placed in a Cold War-era portable crib the night before. She actually looked at me as if to say- That does not seem cool.

But it was, and she was. No fingers were lost, although a good bit of sleep was- after sleeping during the six hours of transit the previous night, she was ready to PLAY. In the dark. At 3am. Peej and I can sleep through that, but I don't imagine the people with whom she shared a wall were able to. Ah well, that's the risk we all take when we reserve rooms at the Microtel. (See: Amorous Activities at the Days Inn.)

And now we're home. The house is surprisingly clean. The kiddo is miraculously sleeping. Not shockingly, we're completely out of food, but that can be amended easily enough. Later.

But for now, there's one track left on this album. Something this non-kid friendly requires a special activity.

The newly re-acquired dollhouse furniture ain't gonna arrange itself.