January must be Customer Service Month.

It was a good, albeit frigid, weekend here. We actually saw more people than we do for some combined weeks.

We went with one pal to an awesome creperie up the street from here- I highly recommend it. Nora also gave it two miniature thumbs way up- but they're covered in cheese, so I wouldn't shake her hand or anything. There was a bit of a language barrier, so my Moroccan chai latte actually came as a fresh mint infusion- but happily, I'm a superbly easygoing diner. Also- he must have known that I actually needed mint more than all that sugar.

Our neighbor friends invited us over for dinner- again! (Okay, for any newcomers: we have one set of friendly neighbors that a) are sober, b) speak some semblance of English- heck, I'd take sober Spanish at this point, and c) have repeatedly made plans with us. This is great. What's even better is that, beyond those three stellar qualifications, they're actually superbly cool people who have an adorable one year old. That's right- they even come with a friend for our kid. And sure, Nora and Emily spent the better part of the evening shrieking directly into each others' faces...but I think that toddlers have a really intricate and evolved way of communicating. Besides- they made TACOS for dinner!

Another good friend came over for sugary treats a la El Trigal Bakery- the place where I get a a tote bag full of pastries and cookies for under five bucks total- and gabbed about her currently preggo form. Attention friends: a really cool way to be in my heart forever? Walk in the door and announce- Keely, you were right. Pregnancy is work! (Now, I don't want to be a Negative Nancy, nor do I want to take credit for others' hardships...but every now and again it's nice to be reminded how much of a hypochondriac I am not.)

Here's what else made this weekend deserving of a super silver star: I went shopping. Alone. For fun. Sure, it was at the Marshall's at Harlem and Irving (read: not "fancy" or "clean"), but boy oh boy, do they have clothing for grownups that aren't necessarily hoodies and sweatpants! Although they have those, too! In fact, I specifically went out for items that were cheap, pretty, and "grownup." (Is the fact that it's in quotes give away how novel that type of clothing might be?)

I filled a cart with sweater dresses, ruffled tops, skinny jeans (hahahahahahaha), and soft wrappy-type things that should not be anywhere within the vicinity of a child's hands. Even though I intended to only buy four items, I wanted to make sure I tried on everything in the Misses, Petite and Juniors section. (Shush.) When I went to try them on, though, I encountered a problem in the form of a really elderly, really non-English-speaking woman. (Seriously, I don't even know what language she spoke. She was THAT old.) She was, however, perfectly clear about the Ten Items Or Less rule. It was even written on the tag. No worries, I'd just take ten items and move the cart to- nope. That angry finger didn't want me to leave the cart anywhere near the changing room. Certainly not by the entrance. We compromised by having me shove it behind a rack of shoes, one store section away.

Now I couldn't enjoy the art of shoving myself into questionable clothing- complete with nerve-destroying staticky hair- because I kept thinking about the THIEVES who were at that very moment STEALING CLOTHING FROM MY CART.

The next problem came when two of the items actually fit me in the first round. Uh oh. Now I had only eight items that I could take in for the next bunch. Because, as the lady sorta babbled at me, I couldn't have more than ten. And they wouldn't watch my cart. (Basically, her job was to stand there and irately fling tags at people. And yell 'no.' Nora would rock that job.) Unfortunately, a couple of other items fit me as well- and though I couldn't afford to buy everything that fit, I wanted the good stuff on hand for the Lightning Round. So the next handful only contained six items. And so on. Eventually I was taking pieces in one at a time, getting fully dressed and putting my boots and coats back on, because NO PERSONAL ITEMS LEFT IN STALL.

I finally approached the woman in a Not Very Polite way, one boot half on, my hair standing up to the fluorescent lights and pointed at an empty rack. "I am putting my clothing here. I am buying them." (I lied.) "All?" "Yup." (Nope.) "And I am taking these items from my cart into the stall. I am trying all of them on, all in the same go-round." "Only ten." "I KNOW."

Tried them on, feeling pret-ty proud of my ability to stand up for myself after half an hour of abuse. That is, until, I came out of the changing room to find multiple girls taking items from the clothing rack! Again, channeling my daughter, I pleasantly grabbed the items from their arms with a big 'ol smile.

And I bought six. (Which, as P.J. pointed out, is totally fine for my once a year shopping trip.)

We rounded out the weekend by having a decidedly grownup date night after N.J. went to bed. We made Manhattans- extra cherry juice, thankyouverymuch- and put on a DVD of 'Double Wedding,' a glorious old movie with Myrna Loy and William Powell. We loved it so much that we...

...conked out and drooled on each others' sweats before the opening credits finished.

Happy Monday, grownups.

Maybe we'll just take a boat.

Nora and I are taking a trip in a couple of weeks. But this post is not regarding air travel, nor does it concern my staggering amount of arrogance to think I can wrangle a toddler solo in an airborne contraption.

No, this is about customer service. Or rather, customer disservice.

I live about twenty minutes down the highway from O'Hare International Airport. This is important to note because yesterday, whilst dealing with a booking representative, it occurred to me that it might have been easier to walk up 90/94 and throttle the agent rather than speak with her any longer. This would've proved extremely difficult as: a) I am a pacifist, and b) SHE WAS IN INDIA.

And I had to call, you see, because there was no way to add Nora on to my ticket during the purchase without speaking to United. Which has their major hub in Chicago. Where I live. But not the booking agent. She does not live here.

And even though the website informed me that there was NO WAY a lap baby could be added without speaking to someone, my helpful representative warned that there "may be a surcharge" for speaking with her. (The previous recording also told me that call volumes were "higher than average" and asked me if I wouldn't just rather try out their website.)

The helpful overseas woman asked me to spell my name and list my mileage number- despite having been forced to punch in such information before I was even allowed to hear the proper recording. (Why do they make me do this? Are they giving me brain teasers to stave off boredom/dementia?) And even though I spoke it, dialed it and repeated it, she still got the last name wrong, mucking up any hopes of pulling up the correct itinerary. (Where are you flying from? Chicago. Where I live. That should be in the ol' file, too.)

She seemed really confused when I told her I wanted to bring my daughter with me. (You're bringing your baby?! Yep. I like her. We go places together.) I then began spelling out my kid's first and last names to expedite the process- N like Nancy, O as an orange, R as in rhinoceros... She then snapped at me to use "real phonetics," as the connection was "very bad." This was said accusingly. Well gee, KAREN, I can see United's office from my house. But you're right- it's most likely trouble on Chicago's end. (Also, we are not in the Army. Rhinoceros is a perfectly fine R word.)

I then attempted to spell out Nora's names with "real" phonetics. This is awfully hard! I had enough trouble coming up with "orange," it took me darn near a year to remember "Oscar." Finally, towards the end she asked- "Oh, Schoeny? Like your last name?" YES! JUST LIKE MY LAST NAME.

Towards the end of our relationship, she had a bit of a sneezing fit. She then apologized. "I have a very bad cold." There was a weighty silence. I did not acknowledge it.

I'm pretty sure someone owes me money. Surcharge, indeed.

*

And how about this gem? I was having trouble logging into an account which I needed to close. The email was correct, but I just couldn't finagle the password. Finally, I hit the 'email password' button, which I hate doing- I'm pretty sure doing so signs you up for mailing lists for the next eighty years- and I got this reply:

Retrieved lost password: bYdRfaPxcWzQduaQMda7Mba3dtvJgjzg


Ah, there it is! My ol' password! Good old...that thing. 


I don't know what kind of shenanigans those people are trying to pull since a) that is no automated password that I've ever seen, and b) there is no way I'd ever choose that monstrosity since I've been using BillyIsHott since roughly 1991.


*


And I promise promise promise that this is last time I'll blog about this (here, anyhow): Head on over the The 2011 Bloggies site and vote for your favorite inane Blah Blah Blog in multiple categories. One ballot per email address, per favore! Here are categories that I like: Most Humorous, Best Writing, Best Kept Secret, BEST BLOG EVER...and ones I don't have crazy odds of winning: Science, Religion, Asian. Put Lollygag Blog as the name, www.lollygagblog.com as the URL...and wait by the mailbox for your congratulatory corn dog. Need rec's for the other two blog slots in each category? Leave a comment here and I'd be more than happy to help you out. I read a lot.


Sometimes there aren't even pictures.

I'm half kidding about the pine needle project.

This post, by all rights, should have been ready for publication about an hour ago. However, an incredibly cute and persistent toddler has been giving what I like to call The Adorable And Timely Awareness Of Fleeting Moments Face.

It involves a lot of belly laughs and doe eyes.

Thusly, a good portion of my morning has been spent rocking any combination of four baby dolls (rotated at will by The Empress herself) with a pointed finger and the simple direction to "La la la." That's my cue to sing the babies to sleep- accompanied by Nora's wiggling hip dance. When she stops, so do I.

She never stops.

Another of Bossy Belinda's recent habits is to protest any action or removal from a situation or transit she deems unnecessary- by twiddling her lips in a grumbly manner. (Side note- what is that called? Recent Google searches term it 'flubberdubbing,' 'wabba wabba-ing,' and any other multitude of highly improbable, slightly pornographic monikers. Side side note- Do not attempt this search on your own. Sometimes I do not feel like the interwebs are as innocent as I pretend them to be.)

Nora has also recently acquired a [hopefully fleeting] fear of nose-blowing. Not her own. She's always hated that. No, what she protests is the action of someone else clearing their nose. I have no idea why this noise bugs her so much. We live a block and a half away from a fire station. Random parades are known to break out on our cross street. She is frequently awoken by striped tabbies demanding attention from her negligent parents. But regardless, as soon as you blow your nose, there she is- finger pointing like the evil monkey from The Family Guy. If you ignore her polite request, she flubberdubs her lips like the most scorned woman in the world.

People can no longer suggest that I have not negatively impacted this poor, sweet child.

Speaking of loved ones whom I have beaten down with my crazy, P.J. was awfully busy this weekend. It was the traditional Christmas Ended Two And A Half Weeks Ago Tree-Taking-Down Festival. (Our poor balsam was so beyond dead that its needles were shedding needles. While we were cleaning the living room, I half-convinced Peej to start a new business of making pine sachets...mixed with cat hair and dust. Also some crayon shavings. Who wants in?!)

After the house was cleared of all our lovely decorations (dead and/or alive), the natural progression of the afternoon was to move my office from right off of the living room to the third floor nook. Obviously. P.J. was less than convinced that this had be done on free weekend...but I bribed him with a solo trip to Home Depot. He could get all of the thunky, bangy, pipey Man Projects that his heart desired. (Shameless!) But, boy- did that desk move up those stairs!

Here is what the nook between the bedrooms looked like in July of '09:

Pretty spectacular, right? I personally enjoy the fact that no doors were on any frames during this time period. And forget about what's going on in the bathroom to the left. (It was three months before I would be alone on this floor.) Up until this past Saturday, the nook had hosted a miniature library of Nora's books...and Nora's friends' books...and a gigantic giraffe, courtesy of my mother in law. You've seen this giraffe before.

Here's what My Office Of Awesomeness looks like now:

You'll notice how spectacularly clean and organized my new office is. This is partially due to the fact that, during the move, I failed to relocate any of the clutter which had disenchanted me from my previous office space. I have no plans to amend this.

It is also not usually this pink nor is it quite so vintage. But I've found that the Hipstamatic hides dustballs and cat hair quite nicely.

Am I giving away all of my housewifely secrets?

You're the welcomest.

***

And now, random begging. If you stop by the Bloggies and feel like casting a vote for Lollygag Blog for any ol' category which you see fit (and Mama Moderne- mamamoderne.com- for Best Parenting and Design), well, that would just be great. Sure, you need to nominate a few others for each category, but that's not too hard, is it? Heck, you're on the internet right now! Clearly, you enjoy some websitery. The nomination process ends this week. After that, it's just a hop, skip and a jump to piles of cash and corndogs for all.

Which, just a reminder, you love.

But not half as much as I love you.

It's also All You Need.

I could use a little Valentine's Day.

Now, before a horde of angry and over-holiday'd anti-consumerist solo flyers attack me for my God Awful ways like so many rabid geese...

...lemme 'splain.

The kind of Valentine's Day I want is of the second grade variety. That's right; first-rate, second grade. And here, in no particular order, are the five best reasons I have for wanting such a thing:

5. There is nothing in the world quite as awesome as having a cute boy write your name on a love note/paper with a piece of glued-on candy. There are people who will argue that there are many things better than this but they are WRONG. (And they are also probably: a) of the aforementioned first paragraph group and b) bound to see this little list fail.)  And sure, these days I'm pretty limited to which cute boy brings me what kind of paper...so maybe this is all a thinly veiled request for my husband to bring me something to eat. And to write something on it first.

4. Cellophane and shiny red paper makes my heart flutter. Who couldn't use a good heart flutter? (Except for people with pacemakers.) There's something about really fancy paper that makes even the dreariest, froziest, Chicago-for-seven-straight-monthsiest day seem a little more special. And maybe- just maybe- during the midseason break of my programmes, I need something a little bit more special than sugar free pistachio pudding. (That last comment was aimed at no one. I'm sure he meant well.)

3. No mailbox has ever been as special to me as the one that I folded and taped to the front of my particle board desk in Mrs. Hodsoll's classroom, Highland Elementary, Pittsfield, Massachusetts, 01201. There was a feeling of anticipation that could not be matched- certainly not by any city mailbox attached to a chainlink fence in any part of Chicago, 60618. I don't know what the heck kind of missive I was expecting- I don't think I even kept any of them past Valentine's week. (You didn't celebrate the whole week?) Maybe it was just the notion that something mind-blowingly wonderful COULD find its way in there. When's the last time you stood and anxiously watched your mailbox, knowing that today, SOMEONE was going to DELIVER something WONDERFUL. (They had to! It was a classroom rule that you had to give out Valentines to everyone!) I guess what I'm saying is that I'd like my mandatory overwhelming correspondence. And I'd like it to be a surprise.

2. Love is a many splendored thing. It also keeps us together, lifts us up where we belong, can't be hurried, will lead you back, will never do without you, don't cost a thing, is a rollercoaster, a hangover, a power, a glory, a vision, a dream, all around, everlasting, hot and justified. (And yes, sometimes it bytes, stinks, hurts, won't wait, is tainted, fools fall into it, and it makes you a prisoner.) You'd do anything for it- but not that. And sometimes- only sometimes- it grows where my Rosemary goes. (And nobody knows it but me!)

1. And lastly- though not leastly- the best declarations of awesome are of the found art and free material variety. They always have been. It's January 6th. You officially have five and a half weeks to find a doily and glue a Hershey's kiss to it. You've all been given a pretty decent heads-up.

Although...come to think of it, if you find a piece of candy on the ground...leave it be. Really. Just a simple doily will suffice.

A simple mammoth one with questionable amounts of glitter.