Weekends Are For Eating.

Corn dogs forever.

Okay.

So, this snow is seriously an unexpected turn of events. Especially to my ranunculus- which, yes, I realize makes me sound a thousand creaky years old- but they [were] lovely be-petaled window box beauties...and are now flowersicles.

If there is one victory, it is that the sneaky bunnies and the mammoth squirrel we've named The Don will no longer be able to pilfer my lettuce. (Ha HAH.)

Before I spiral into a depressing morning of Snuggie-wearing and tropical screen saver-watching, I'm going to reminisce on my truly wundy weekend.

Friday, we had a date night. Sure, it was raining in big ol' torrential buckets, but I wore my splash boots with a cute/borderline maternity outfit and looked JUST FINE. (Thanks to all of the pals who okayed this fashion mash-up.) We went to Raw Bar, a place for which we had been holding onto a Travelzoo coupon for a really long time. How long? Let's just say that when we purchased it, the idea of monstrous amounts of oysters and two complimentary martinis sounded like an awesome idea. (Heck, it still did.) So, P.J. got his pomegranate martini and I was offered a pretty tasty muddled strawberry daiquiri. It seemed to be missing something in the rum-esque department, but I was still pleased.

P.J., solidifying his Guy Of The Millennium status, insisted that I order the Maine lobster. This is totally true. I think it was in part because a) he knew that I would be saddened by the no oyster/raw anything deal, and b) he was afraid we wouldn't get to the minimum of the coupon. (Also c- 'cause he likes me and, thus far, I have successfully carried 1.5 of his children.) We also ordered the smothered alligator (poor 'gator) and ostrich steak appetizers. We were feeling adventurous. Or, at the very least, Meats Across The World-y. Upon ordering the lobster (steamed, thankyouverymuch), we were informed that it was "a lot of work" and the Jamaican style would be easier to eat. P.J. and I just laughed and laughed. (If this whole nanny/writer/mother thing doesn't work out, I'd be an exceptional crab-picker down by the docks. I really would.)

They even let me say goodbye to my lobster from the tank. I could've done without that part, as my guilt over whether or not he would've lived had I not dined there that night really took over. P.J. reassured me that my lobster was a bastard and had been mouthing off.

After a stellar dinner, we went to our friend Neil's big 3-0 birthday party. The shindig was complete with a keg and an ice luge for some unidentified yellowish drink. Because nothing says "rapidly approaching the thirties" like tubing drilled through ice blocks and germy mouth upon germy mouth sucking lighter fluid in a puddle of melted God-knows-what on the floor- (Oh my stars, I'm gonna vomit even in the retelling.)

I had a ginger beer.

But we saw a goodly bunch of our favorite friends and we even got to make tinfoil Rapture hats. (I love party favors.) Inexplicably, I was a Viking.

The next morning (hangover-free, ahh), we went to Ikea for Nora's first trip to the Emporium of Fabulous. We had intended to get a rug for the baby's room. We left with: a rug, two sets of curtains, a blankie, a toy bag, a hanging frog bag, some hangers, a gender neutral crib bumper, gigantic poster frames, three bellies full of swedish meatballs, and a blue soccer ball for Nora. Whilst there, I also managed to get a really full shopping cart completely stuck on the escalator track (stopping all movement until a kindly employee fixed the wheel and assured me that "it happens all the time." Sure it does). There was also some crazy rudeness going on with other customers, but I won't get into that. Besides, big savings and Swedish design just brings out the Berserker in some people.

That night was Sleepover Night 2011. I had invited my gal Julia (for whom I've nannied since 2003) for an overnight. Since most of her days are consumed with school, various activities, and constant competition for attention from her little sister and my kiddo, I thought it would be nice to have some one-on-one time together before her fam moves to London this summer.

Leaving Nora with Peej (seriously, that guy is incredible), I picked up J for an early supper at Stanley's, a Southern-style kitchen where we used to go all the time when she was a toddler. We ordered pink lemonades at the same time. Also mac n' cheese fritters. She got a burger and I got a shrimp po'boy- and we did some damage. (And can I just say how pleasant it was to dine with an intelligent 8 year-old...and not have to put a bib on anyone/keep food on a tray/lug a diaper bag? There's something to be said about having an actual kid.)

We went home to have a dance party with P.J. and Nora, watch Ponyo (the cutest Japanese movie ever), play some Mario Kart (we are evenly matched), eat ice cream sprinkled with homemade granola that Julia had brought, read some books, and have a Girls Only upstairs sleepover. (P.J. was- happily, I'm sure- relegated to his office/guest room and stacks n' stacks of DVDs.)

The next a.m. we convinced Peej to make us blueberry pancakes while we read the comics. J and I wrote a short story. Nora failed to nap, so we had an art party extravaganza (even though Nora was only allowed to use the crayons/shortie colored pencils. She's not the most trustworthy thing on two wheels). Julia and I  played Scrabble. Then, to cap it all off, we went out for corn dogs. (Seriously, Julia's one of my favorite people ever. We have identical tastes.) We even convinced Peej to spring for an extra box of curly cheddar fries.

J was sad to have the overnight end (especially since I found out it had been her first ever sleepover!) but at least now we have plenty o' memories for our scrapbook. That's right, we have a scrapbook.

I made salads for dinner, since I had been bingeing on fried fantabulousness all weekend and had been feeling like The Very Hungry Caterpillar right after he eats through seven pages of lunch meat. But, like the Caterpillar does after he eats through one nice green leaf, I felt much better too.

I promise to stop talking about food all of the time.

Back to my morning with my main shorty-pie. Maybe a cuddly day featuring the dreariest of weather isn't such a bad deal after all. Perhaps I will break out the Snuggies.

And the corn dogs.

You're driving me to snack.

Not me. Or Mii. 

My Wii Fit (Plus) and I need to talk.

Actually, it may be better if someone else spoke to him. (Her? Probably "her." No one condescends quite like a woman.)

I decided to hop up on the ol' Wii balance board yesterday- with Nora in tow. (Side note- try working out with a toddler if you ever want to really feel like you're living the good life.)

Right off the bat, the Wii's all like- Oh HI, Keely. Been a little too busy for daily workouts? I responded that I've been too busy for daily showers AND she should feel lucky that I'm squeezing in a workout between liverwurst sandwiches at all. They are not programmed to receive sarcasm, however (regardless of the inherent truth.) But boy can they dish it out.

"Seen P.J. lately?"

"Yep. We high-five before bed."

"I haven't seen him in a month...how's he looking these days?"

Choosing the on-screen option for 'more toned,' I remarked that P.J. had been training for various races.

I swear to God the thing smirked. "Well, I suppose anything's possible," she shrugged. THAT put me in the mood for a good workout. Insult my husband!

It then asked me if I'd like to do my weigh-in. No, thank you. I really don't need a cruel piece of machinery documenting my slow descent into obesity. For real- they have a weight option of whether or not you're holding your dog. But pregnancy? Impossible to chart. So I've been refusing weigh-ins. And it's making the Wii Fit console antsy. I can tell. And it feels good.

After I [randomly] selected various workouts to be mashed together (totaling half an hour), the program paused to say- "Whoa. That certainly is a LOT."

WHICH IS IT, Wii Fit Plus? Am I a lazy heifer or am I gonna keel over during my Sun Salutation? 'Cause the ten minutes you programmed aren't gonna even break a sweat, nor will they begin to decrease the poundage you're clearly jonesing to document! So I clicked Yes, Continue. THAT'S RIGHT.

Onto more First World Problems. Don't you hate it when the Wii Fit graphics don't quite match up in real time to your HD TV? (I know.) Thusly, I'm throwing punches and the thing is berating me, asking if I'm still there or not.

We moved onto hula hooping. At this point, Nora was no longer content to dance along with the grating soundtrack, nor was it enough to merely laugh at the weirdo moves her mother was attempting. So I fake hula-hooped while holding a toddler. (Now THERE'S a workout. Betcha didn't know you could rock the triceps in that one.)

A few exercises later, Nora had decided that the room had had enough. She pressed the Wii's Off button and closed the doors of the TV cabinet, saying "Bye bye, show." And it's hard to argue with that kind of logic.

So then we did that calorie-scorcher called Lie On The Floor And Put Blankets Over One's Head.

I'm feeling pretty svelte already. Don't be jealous...this once a month workout lifestyle isn't for everyone. But I'm still just a normal gal.

I put on my third-day-in-a-row sweatpants one leg at a time, just like everyone else.

I will drown my sorrows in nacho cheese.

Let's just keep on walking, Dad.

This past Friday, I suffered my first middle school breakup...since middle school. It was rough. It was also, oddly enough, with a bank.

I've long touted the fabulousness of Chase Bank's plethora of ATMs. And sure, that's about it- but for a little while, it was enough.

My first bank account in Chicago was with them, back in '02. And yeah, absolutely, back then they were Bank One. But the transition to Chase was easy enough. And I felt loved. Kinda. Even when P.J. and I started a joint account, I kept the Chase one just for the heck of it. There were a few perks. For instance, the air miles [for United, which I abhor flying. But whatever.]

They weren't the nicest to me, but they certainly looked the other way once or twice when my account suffered the back-breaking transactions that come part n' parcel with adult braces and a crippling shoe habit.

But this past month, I had twelve dollars removed from my account. Just 'cause. Upon inquiry, it turned out that all accounts without monthly balances of fifteen hundred dollars or hefty (and regular) direct deposits would have twelve dollars removed each month forever.

Now, since arriving here in Chicago, I've been a bartender at a crappy bar, a cleaning lady, a nanny for various families around town, and a freelance writer. None of those leave a balance of fifteen hundred dollars, unless you're going by per year. And direct deposit? Uh, okay. I'll deposit it directly from my fistful of tens.

I explained this to the smug banker the other day. He nodded and told me that a lot of their customers are closing accounts due to low balances(!) and maybe I should "ask [my] husband to bring the account over to Chase(?!)." Indifference AND condescension? Sounds like a seventh grade boyfriend to me!

When I asked to close my account, he shrugged and didn't even TRY to keep my business. (Or my love.) He made a big show of handing me the last forty five cents in change (there were a few bills, too) and then stared at me, indicating our business was done.

It got real awkward.

I hate moments like that, which is probably what prompted me to perkily say that maybe I'd see them again in the future.

"Yeah," he [almost] scoffed. "Maybe."

But you know what soothes a bad business breakup? A stellar weekend with a husband who thinks my forty five cents are just GREAT. And who tolerates my Supermarket Sweep through the garden section of Home Depot, nodding in agreement when I scream that these ranunculus blossoms ARE AMAZING.

The 80 degree weather yesterday didn't hurt, either.

And cheering Peej on for the 8k Shamrock Shuffle downtown yesterday was pretty fun, too. I don't know how he did it. I was wilting standing by the two mile marker. And sure, I was corralling a toddler who celebrated her Dad's race by peeing directly through all of her clothing and soaking the stroller...but who can't be appeased by a bag of munchkins and a session with the backyard splash table? (NO ONE.)

P.J.'s folks zipped through town for an overnight, having just enough time to cheer him on, spruce up our yard, stock our fridge, and play with Nora while I showered.

It was GREAT.

Today is a true spring day. Which, normally, would bring rejoicing in our city. But due to yesterday's August-y weather, I think everyone's a little sad. There might be a few tears. At least one person might still be defiantly wearing a tank top.

She should probably go change.

After she checks the fridge for leftovers.

Is there a statute of limitations on stealing music?

Last night, as I was driving to Target (and thoroughly enjoying the alone time; I think it was Louis C.K. who deemed the walk from putting the kids in the backseat and getting to the driver's seat as a mini vacation), I flipped through the radio stations. Happily for my solo singin' time, the song Rosanna came on the radio. (I love Toto. Have since I was six, which is roughly when that song came out.)

Inexplicably, hearing it made me think of college. More specifically, downloading buckets of music in my friend and frequent hallmate Wilder's room. He always had a) better computers, b) newer software, and c) a jug of Carlo Rossi wine. More importantly, he possessed an extremely new invention called NAPSTER.

Now, kiddos, keep in mind that this wasn't just a new way to get free music, it was the first time this kind of thing had ever been done. Before that, you had to buy entire albums, at the store (or with a BMG circular, thusly signing away the rest of your credit- because really, no one ever bought one album at list price.)

And Napster had everything. EVERYTHING. I'd type in a random track or band I half-remembered from my childhood, and I could choose from eighty sources within a minute. I didn't care (or really know) about copyright infringement. It was just music on some kid's computer. It was like a stranger was making me the best mix tape ever!

Some days Wilder would return to his room to find me at his desk, downloads going for hours. Sometimes I wouldn't be there at all, but he'd find a queue of songs fifty deep, all one percent downloaded.

"Keely?" He'd call across to my door. "I might need this computer today."

To keep his PC moving beyond a crawl, he'd burn songs onto CDs for me, sometimes tapes- if you can believe THAT whackness.

Sometimes the mixes were so fabulous that I'd stay in his room for hours, and we'd blare the music straight out into the quad. (We were doing them a favor.) Other times I'd start an impromptu dance party. (Once, we jumped on the bed to an 'NSYNC song. True story.)

Sure, I had my own computer and stereo and plenty of places to jump during parties...but my window faced the loading dock.

I still own all of those mixes- one of which boasts the track Rosanna. I play them for Nora, who revels in grooving to anything with a beat (and pressing 'stop' and 'pause' on the stereo's tape deck.) They never fail to bring me back to the early Aughts, a time when my most pressing early evening issue was getting to Saga before the wok was rendered unusable by burnt stir fry.

But not before lining up hours' worth of Def Leppard and Lyle Lovett for downloading.

So this is where my mind went on the four minute drive to Target. It was pleasant, that jaunt through nostalgia. In that moment, it was late Spring on the Merrill quad and there was plenty of veggie pizza and Lucky Charms for everyone. And it seemed like it could've been yesterday.

Then the song ended and I glanced down at the radio station.

And it had been on the oldies channel.

Ouch.