My house doesn't even spin.

Let me be among the top five hundred to welcome you into 2011, three days in.

I am deeply consumed with confusion over my absent flying car, meal tablet, robotic housekeeper...or any housekeeper at all, for that matter. (Do you hear that, P.J.? Do not feel limited by any type of maid. I would take Amelia Bedelia at this point.)

Our New Year's Eve was pretty normal and quiet, by rest home standards. The three of us stayed in our jammies- actually, I changed into daytime jammies and Nora wore a fancy dress for part of the afternoon, but only 'cause she wanted to. There were copious amounts of television, naptime, and Super Mario Brothers 3 for the Wii. (I excelled at two of those activities and got skunked at the third.)

You'd never know that dinner was to be for three individuals- one of them smallish, at that- by the amount of Trader Joe's appetizers procured and prepared. Let's just say that bacon-wrapped things played a huge part. Also, regular bacon.

The most exciting part of the evening by far came around 11pm (or midnight in The Future where my East coast family resides) when I decided to cook up the last round of baconesque foods...and forgot how temperamental our Doesn't Mess Around oven gets when faced with such an opponent as wooden toothpicks.

Long story short, wood became charred wood. Smoke detector went crazy. P.J., previously downstairs and now very much so concerned about Nora's continued sleep, raced up the stairs to swat at the alarm with a towel. Crisis averted.

He went back downstairs.

A moment later, the other smoke detector went off. (Question to self: We have two kitchen smoke detectors?) Highlight of the year: P.J. flying back up the stairs and LEAPING into the air to rip the alarm off of the ceiling (after a second or two of confused glancing around) and then to smash it to the ground.

Problem solved.

P.J. offered to finish with the bacon. Also to repair the smoke detector[s].

Happy New Year.

And now, the beginning of what I'd like to call Suggested Resolutions For All:

1. Can we all agree to stop leaving lengthy outgoing voicemail recordings? Personally, I've had some semblance of an answering machine since 1991 and am pretty confident in my ability not to be confused senseless by the beep. Telling them to leave their name is a bit of a gimme. No phone number? Google it. "Brief message" also kills me- there are certain nameless family members who have been known to leave a Homeric epic on my voicemail, pausing once or twice to start and complete conversations with passersby. As for "time you called"...well, my futuristic phone has been informing me of that tidbit since car phones actually had to be plugged into the glove compartment via curly wire.

Sure, it's nice to know into whose phone you're about to gossip, but it doesn't have to be opulent. You could leave the 'Uncle Jesse'. You know- "Talk to me." (I've never felt cool enough to pull off that one.) You could take advantage of the name function, allowing a metallic voice to announce, "You have reached," followed by an overenthusiastic "KEELY!" Anything short and sweet works, because here's the kicker- the majority of voicemails include the automatic "To leave a message after the beep, please press 1." Or something like that. Meaning, the same exact thing is being demanded twice! Do not make me wait that long to inform you that bacon is on sale.

Besides, if the folks you're phoning are confused by the lack of directions, they're probably also the ones who will be confused by the sound of your voice on the outgoing message.

"Hello? HELLO? Keely, it sounded like you were there- HELLO?"

This series shall continue, and it shall also take helpful ideas. Because, let's face it- there's a lot of inanity out there (some of it is RIGHT HERE!) and we have to stick together.

Like bacon speared with a toothpick.

"It costs more because it SAVES more."

Sometimes things just don't turn out at all how you expected.

Example A: Instead of enjoying a cup of coffee whilst typing, the ottoman tray upon which my Mama Bear mug had previously rested decided to upend said coffee onto tray, couch, self- but most importantly, not computer. The empty mug is now being cradled by a vanilla powder-scented baby doll. This is a first. And sure, while annoying, it doesn't really represent the bigger picture as well as-

Example B: The other morning, while crawling around on my hands and knees in Nora's bedroom, I smelled something awful. Sure, this in and of itself is not unusual in the home of a smallish child- but I was fairly certain it was something rather dangerous. I called in the troops. Or, uh, troop. I asked P.J. if he smelled anything like gas or a chemical, to which he replied that he was certain it was just Nora's diaper pail, proving that even my husband believes that we live in squalor.

I called People's Gas and they showed up ten minutes later. Wow, I thought. What a helpful and prompt organization run by the city! They'll get this fixed in NO TIME!

Except.

His sensor thingie went wild in Nora's room, due to gas leaking in through the drafty baseboard that led to the crawlspace (you know, the one we just spent bank trying to insulate?) He then outdid himself by finding four more gas leaks (at LEAST, said he) down by the boiler and water heater. Nervous but optimistic, I asked what would be best to do.

He shrugged. Gotta turn it off. Law.

What?! You can't turn off my hot water, cooking gas and general warmth in DECEMBER in CHICAGO! I politely informed him that I had a young child, two cats, pipes that I'd prefer not to have freeze prior to New Year's, and a general desire to shower.

He told me to call my "guy-" but warned me it would be pretty extensive work. And that's where it got ugly. I was informed that at LEAST one wall would hafta be ripped out upstairs (to even find where the leak MIGHT be), and I'd need to solder off THAT piece and put a T pipe in HERE and have "your guy..." And I felt my optimism falter. Maybe quiver a bit. And, as most of you know, my strength is not hearing technical descriptions and committing them to memory. It just isn't. So I asked him to write it down.

"Too much to write," he helpfully dismissed. So I then asked (and I HATE myself for this part) if I could call my husband to hear all of these instructions for our plumber. The kindly gentleman from People's Gas then told me that I have EYES, I'm the one HERE, just LOOK at this and remember that it needs to be soldered here and a T pipe put here...

And I really, really hate myself for this next part- but I got so overwhelmed that I cried. A lot. The kind of sobbing that you pretend you're NOT doing, the kind that you choke back to reply to A SUPER TECHNICAL QUESTION, but it only comes out in high-pitched squeaks. The type where the city worker looks at you with utter confusion/disdain, the kind where the toddler in your arms wonders what weirdo game we're playing now, and the variety that makes you see the dollar signs floating away into the ether like some deranged cartoon and also at the pajamas which you may well be wearing for the next week. That kind.

So he shut off the gas and left. ("Sorry. Law.") And I called P.J. and for a good few moments he didn't know who was on the other end, perhaps some tragically hyperventilating chipmunk. But, as he so often does, he took care of it. Namely by leaving work early. And getting our "guy." And crawling into the insulation to dig out pipes with our plumber. And moving stuff into storage, outta storage, into storage again. And talking me down from my useless cliff of hand-fluttering.

But it all ended decently well, even though we're sure the city of Chicago now believes us to be dangerous horders, what with our upended storage spaces and all. Our "guy" fixed both the downstairs and upstairs leaks WITHOUT tearing into any walls. (I imagine he also soldered something and used at least one T pipe.) I made an edible emergency crockpot Beef Stroganoff with none of the traditional ingredients therein. The gas company arrived at 7pm to turn the gas back on (after a manly competition with the plumber of Whose Monkey Wrench Is Bigger.) And, most impressively, the house which we constantly disparage did not get below 62 degrees, despite an entire frigid day with no internal heat. Let's hear it for brick construction!

But, as I think you'll agree, that anecdote is a terrible way to end the bloggy year.

So how about if I wish a WONDERFUL birthday to my lovely pals Natalie and Cassie, and tomorrow to my darling sis in law (and pal) Natalie! (Also, did you know how long it took me to realize why so many ladies born in December have the name 'Natalie?' Including my mother in law. I work with words, folks.)

And may the new year bring more blanket tents for fun and less for warmth.

More stellar programming and less cancelled shows.

More sushi and less Ramen.

More hugs and less missed Skype calls.

More happy tears and less Ugly Cry.

And absolutely no rats.

By the numbers.

This was Nora's holiday week- let's break it down.

On Wednesday: (4) meat products were consumed, (9) family members were hugged.

Thursday: (5) meat products were consumed, (30) family members were hugged.

Friday: (4) meat products were consumed, (9) family members- not including her touchy/feely parents.

Saturday: (6) meat products were consumed...plus (5) cheese appetizers, (29) family members were hugged.

Sunday: (5) meat products were consumed, plus the rest of the cheese/etc., appetizers, (10) family members were hugged.

This a.m. is too soon to calculate. But I can imagine it'll be a doozy on the food/smooch front. Some other important numbers:

- (500) rows of large families with small babies at the family mass- and (1) Nora who began singing her own "song" any time a new intro was played. Also, (1) freakout when an elderly lady belted the descant.
- (2) Baby dolls that smell like vanilla powder. That Nora will get to play with REAL soon.
- (1) Plush rocking horse with realer-than-real whinny. (Thanks, Aunties.)
- (300) Dessert-esque things. (Gotta keep your energy up to digest all of the protein.)
- (1) Really nice camera For The Family- but which Santa will have to pry outta my greedy, snappy hands.
- (2) Trips to Skyline, each time warranting (1) cheese coney and (1) small 4-way, extra onions. (Why, what are the rest of you having?)
- (1) (6)-hour trip back to Chicago, roughly (4) hours from now. In addition, (3) loads of ruffly socks of which to wash/pack.
- (40) miniature creatures: snails, kitties, bears, firefighters, policeman-in-car, at least one Bushwoolie, and a Doc Bullfrog to pack into the car along with the full size ones.
- (1) meat-stuffed and overstimulated toddler, laughing herself into a frenzied half-sleep every few hours. Only to wake at 3am. And then sleep past 8am, burning the morning nap. Which threw off the afternoon nap. Which would, obviously, make her wake up at 3am. HahAhaHahAhaH.

And (1) shocking revelation that it's currently Monday morning at 9am Eastern, not Wednesday at 1am, any time zone.

See you Thursday, at some morning hour.

At some time zone.

With some semblance of sentence structure and throughline.

One can dream.

You're gonna want to sing this one aloud.

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…a mortgage and a baby.


On the second day of Christmas, Chicago gave to me…two parking fines, and a Volkswagen and a Bitsy.


On the third day of Christmas, my kiddos gave to me…three blanket tents, two museum free days, and a "Sleep in 'til seven thirty."


On the fourth day of Christmas, my parents gave to me…four words of wisdom, three No Way naptimes, two ethnic bake shops, and a "Sorry the Brita's empty."


On the fifth day of Christmas, my kitties gave to me…FIVE YUCKY THIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four “Do it now’s,” three paper airplanes, two taco joints, and a plate full of pasta for me.


On the sixth day of Christmas, my good friends gave to me…six rolls o’ sushi, FIVE HALF-DEAD THIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four “Doing great's,” three sticker books, two festivals, and some Kombat on the Wii.


On the seventh day of Christmas, my sisters gave to me…seven calls o’ gossip, six dates with bacon, FIVE INNARD THIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four “Write your thank-you’s,” three twigs and leaves, two clean playlots, and a kiss on my bruise-d knee.


On the eighth day of Christmas, my homestead gave to me…eight wonky fixtures, seven rants o’ lifestyle, six Pinot Grigios, FIVE MASSAGE-Y THIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four “Go to bed’s," three trampolines, two new parades, and some programmes on the TV.


On the ninth day of Christmas, my daughter gave to me…nine gleeful babbles, eight missing light bulbs, seven money crises, six spicy tunas, FIVE SCRATCHED-UP THIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four “Have you done it’s," three princess wands, two vintage shops, and a love song sung on key.


On the tenth day of Christmas, my Blogger gave to me…ten featured postings, nine bossy gurgles, eight crazy neighbors, seven Call You Right Back's, six fried-up dumplings, FIVE COUGHED-UP THIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four "You're my favorite's," three tutus, two car alarms, and a bag of my favorite coffee.


On the eleventh day of Christmas, the theatre gave to me…eleven brand new playwrights, ten front page write-ups, nine pointed mandates, eight scary thuddings, seven belly-laughings, six pickled gingers, FIVE LOUD YOWLIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four "Eat your crust's," three mysteries, two barking dogs, and a trip to see the sea.


On the twelfth day of Christmas, my conscience gave to me…twelve thankful feelings, eleven non-eq epics, ten full page ads, nine 'dis' and 'dats,' eight "The smell is fading's," seven "Love you- bye now's," six sauce with goat cheese, FIVE GLAD PURRIIINGS (ba dum dum dum), four thumbs way up, three crayon hearts, two lakefront naps, and permission to Feng Shui.


(Merry Christmas!)