There was also popcorn in bed. Doctor's orders.

Sadly, Blogger has still (as of 9am CST today) not reinstated Thursday's post. So, uh, maybe check back later if you're dying for a mid-week recap? (And I know you are.)

Also, Wordless Wednesday explanations? The first pic is a magnetic version of a paper doll, one that the girls for whom I nanny love to dress in ball gowns and the fanciest of gear. They decided to make one that "dresses like Kiki."  "Can't I get a tiara or a snazzy dress?" "You don't look like that." So, rainbow tee and baggy jeans it is. (Also rad sneakers.)

The second pic is Nora, clad in jammy shorts, moments after gazing at herself in the full-length mirror and proclaiming herself to be "so pretty in blue [so pitty in boo.]"  Life Skills: Self-esteem in the face of questionable attire- check.

***

Last week was a jaunt through Crazyville. Not just the extreme temps (almost reaching 90 one day and then dropping to 37 the following night. I actually wept on Saturday morning. But that could've been due to a number of things), but the unexpected weirdness that permeated almost every single day.

Monday we flew home. And even an uneventful trip with a toddler is still a numbing journey through Overly Alert What-If Town that I wouldn't wish on my enemy. (Except that one. And she has it comin'.)

Tuesday gave me the unsettling experience of having my wallet removed from my person. (And again, lots of Ugly Cry. I cannot stress enough how unnerving this cry is to the random passerby. It also renders the Ugly Cry-ee unaware of blocks of time. My sister Rachel told me later in the week that we had had a lengthy conversation on Tuesday. We did?! Was I a refreshing conversationalist? She said yes.)

The rest of the week was spent at the DMV, the Police Station, the Social Security Office, and on the phone with various companies that, at one time, had my business. To up the challenge, I brought along a child well off the beaten nap path just to see what that would look like. Turns out, our precinct is remarkably nice and helpful- and rather slow at 7:45am on a Wednesday- and the DMV is a sucker for a good sob story/attractive baby. No kidding. The guy in line ahead of me had only his passport and was denied even a place number to wait for the next seven lines. He was sent on his way with stern words and an eyeroll. I handed my passport- warily- and explained that I had been robbed. ("Oh you POOR thing- and hi there, pretty little gal!" I think she meant Nora.) We were outta there in fifteen minutes, new license in hand. I didn't even need to take a new pic! Which is good, 'cause Bloated and Tear-Stained Keely does not make for a great I.D. We even breezed through the Social Security Office in FIVE MINUTES. (And isn't it sad when one's dealings with government offices is the high point of the week?)

Because Friday brought a trip to the dermatologist (during which time the receptionist mocked my name to the billing department- two feet away from me- and also had me wait for an hour.) I had developed a rash under my wedding rings, leading me- briefly- to believe that Peej purchased said rings at the Dollar Tree. The doc told me that, nope, it was just a rash. And- GET THIS- I should avoid washing dishes and/or getting my hands wet. Sounds GREAT! (And if I must do the dishes, I should wear non-latex gloves with a new pair of cotton gloves underneath each time. And I should remove my rings, adding two separate lotions after drying my hands with a clean towel each time they got wet.) That all sounded feasible to me.

I was all prepared to go home- expensive lotions in hand- especially since I had only put two hours on the meter, when the dermatologist asked about a spot on my back. And [TMI ALERT] I had dismissed it as a weird and isolated spot of bacne. He said that, no, it was in fact a "suspicious looking cyst" that he didn't "like the look of AT ALL." Then he left the room.

Oh boy. Well, I prepared to make a further appointment and then leave, being as I had ten minutes left on the meter and it would take that long to get back down the hallways and elevator and more hallways and north a few blocks to my car. (Forgoing parking garages is how I say I Love You to my husband.)

Suddenly, the door opened again (no knock- THERE WAS NO TIME) and a team of dermatological nurses wheeled in a tray featuring some very scary instruments, (a la Hostel, if I had seen it, which I did not) and the brisk instructions to remove my shirt. Uh, okay, I thought, looking down at Nora and then at my pregnant belly. And how exactly was this gonna go down?

They advised me to lay on my side, and that my daughter would be "fine just walking about." Sure. Until they began the procedure and she screamed bloody murder, necessitating a nurse to place her in the crook of my fetal position on the table, laden with a episode of Dora on my iPhone and a rubber glove balloon puppet. (This was not the time to restate my latex allergy, I decided. I just hoped no one would repeatedly thwack me in the face with it and all would be okay.)

The doctor informed me that the local anesthetic on my back would "sting." I informed him that my previous spinal had probably stung a little harder. He proceeded.

Have you ever received stitches while clutching a toddler who cannot decide if up or down is the place she would best like to be? I highly recommend.

Thankfully, I have Tylenol to get me through this Cannot Lay On My Back Nor Stomach Nor Right Side Nor Left Unless I Arch My Lower Back To Not Touch The Stitches Phase of my week. 'Cause everyone knows that Tylenol is a great narcotic, akin to putting out a forest fire with a squirt gun.

The week was redeemed- yet again- by Peej, laden with Mediterranean food, enforced early bedtimes, and allowing me to purchase [more] Little People village stuff and two antique wingback chairs at the Ravenswood Manor Garage Sale- all for twenty six bucks.

Who needs Tylenol?

Stop! Thief! (Or at least gimme back my gift cards.)

Robbed.

As most of you [within a five foot vicinity of my Facebook and/or Twitter feed] are aware of...yesterday I had my wallet stolen. I'd say "pick-pocketed," but that seems way too Victorian and quaint for the ire I am currently feeling.

Fagan's boys ain't singing Consider Yourself on Kedzie Avenue.

And the thing is- I'm so mad at MYSELF for allowing this to happen. Which I realize is ridiculous. But it was my choice to go to Cermak Produce as soon as Nora awoke, and it was my choice to place my wallet and keys and phone in the stroller pocket...and it was my choice to most likely have smiled at the jackass who ripped me off.

I found myself getting all Sliders and alternate reality in terms of the what-ifs and if-onlys. WHAT if I had left twenty minutes later. IF ONLY I had kept my defensive elbows out.

And I didn't even believe it had happened at first. (Lemme tell you, there's nothing like telling the Spanish-speaking cashier that you've been robbed...especially when you have a massive amount of food on the checkout counter. And the deli loves returning sliced meats. They do.)

I even walked back and forth from my house twice before calling in the theft. Yep- I was even mentally preparing the berating I was going to publicly give myself. OH, Keely, YOU MORON, I was ready to announce. (I was hoping for it, in fact.) I was also weirdly focused on the fact that I had really wanted one of the peaches I had tried to buy, and I had NO IDEA what I was gonna do for dinner. (Nora's gonna starve, Mental Keely yelled at Pushing The Stroller Keely. And it's all because of your stupidity!)

Mental is right.

By the time P.J. had called one credit card company, (we divvied up the accounts for cancellation, you see. Teamwork!) the jerks had already spent a ton of money at a gas station and a McDonalds down on North Ave.

That's when it hit me that the wallet was actually stolen, and no amount of Pregnancy Brain (an excuse which I hate, by the by) could take away the fact that someone (with questionable taste- I'd have been halfway to Virgin Gorda with a stolen card) was sifting through my stuff...and Nora's stuff...and random stuff which I had forgotten I had stuffed into the stuff...and deciding which to keep and which to chuck like so many crumpled fast food napkins.

So then I started to cry. Ugly Cry. (The lady at American Express thought that someone had died.) Because- and this shows you where my true priorities lay- I couldn't help sobbing at the idea that these thieves were laughing at my stuff. And me. And making fun of my name. And writing down my address to come and laugh at me to my face. And throwing away my business cards and pictures of Nora and fortune cookie fortunes and a dandelion that Nora had given to me and- AND- a gift card with 25 bucks to Anthropologie that I will NEVER get to use now, no matter HOW skinny I become in two years...

That's what bothered me. More than all of the replacement fees and the fact that it would take me hours and days and piles of documentation to prove that I am who I say I am, while any schmo with a credit card can buy out Mobil. (For example.)

And, of course, it could've been worse. Way worse. It could've been at gunpoint. Or they could've taken my keys with my wallet and I'd have to change all of the locks. Or they could have tried to take Nora and I would have had to either a) kill a man with my bare hands or b) jump out a window, depending on how the scenario played out. So, obviously I feel lucky in that regard.

But it still doesn't erase the feeling of Not Right that is all around me today. I'm a decent person and I believe in karma. More than that- I believe in being good to people.

This doesn't mean, however, that I'm not fervently wishing for a swift kick of karmic justice into the face, kidney or groin of the perp. (That's right, I SAID PERP.)

But I can take solace in the knowledge that everything lost was replaceable- and more than that- I have a husband who came home with a pepperoni pizza and printed documentation for speeding up the I.D. process. (An hour later he went to Cermak and reproduced the exact shopping order that I had previously left on the checkout counter. That's right, I got my Peach of Sorrow. Or former sorrow.)

So, enjoy your fries, thieving stupidhead. You don't have a P.J. and you don't have a delicious pizza and you'll never have this head of green leaf lettuce. Unless you buy them with someone else's card.

But you do have a pretty sweet red wallet.

And Lollygag Blog business cards.

Be a doll and pass 'em around, willya?

I'm really bad at this.

Semi-Wordless Wednesday.

Any idea what the haps are in these two gems? Hint: The first one made me feel poorly about my self-image and the second is the sign of an overly adored daughter. (I'll explain later on the F'book page.)

Stop! Thief! (Or at least gimme back my gift cards.)

Robbed.

As most of you [within a five foot vicinity of my Facebook and/or Twitter feed] are aware of...yesterday I had my wallet stolen. I'd say "pick-pocketed," but that seems way too Victorian and quaint for the ire I am currently feeling.

Fagan's boys ain't singing Consider Yourself on Kedzie Avenue.

And the thing is- I'm so mad at MYSELF for allowing this to happen. Which I realize is ridiculous. But it was my choice to go to Cermak Produce as soon as Nora awoke, and it was my choice to place my wallet and keys and phone in the stroller pocket...and it was my choice to most likely have smiled at the jackass who ripped me off.

I found myself getting all Sliders and alternate reality in terms of the what-ifs and if-onlys. WHAT if I had left twenty minutes later. IF ONLY I had kept my defensive elbows out.

And I didn't even believe it had happened at first. (Lemme tell you, there's nothing like telling the Spanish-speaking cashier that you've been robbed...especially when you have a massive amount of food on the checkout counter. And the deli loves returning sliced meats. They do.)

I even walked back and forth from my house twice before calling in the theft. Yep- I was even mentally preparing the berating I was going to publicly give myself. OH, Keely, YOU MORON, I was ready to announce. (I was hoping for it, in fact.) I was also weirdly focused on the fact that I had really wanted one of the peaches I had tried to buy, and I had NO IDEA what I was gonna do for dinner. (Nora's gonna starve, Mental Keely yelled at Pushing The Stroller Keely. And it's all because of your stupidity!)

Mental is right.

By the time P.J. had called one credit card company, (we divvied up the accounts for cancellation, you see. Teamwork!) the jerks had already spent a ton of money at a gas station and a McDonalds down on North Ave.

That's when it hit me that the wallet was actually stolen, and no amount of Pregnancy Brain (an excuse which I hate, by the by) could take away the fact that someone (with questionable taste- I'd have been halfway to Virgin Gorda with a stolen card) was sifting through my stuff...and Nora's stuff...and random stuff which I had forgotten I had stuffed into the stuff...and deciding which to keep and which to chuck like so many crumpled fast food napkins.

So then I started to cry. Ugly Cry. (The lady at American Express thought that someone had died.) Because- and this shows you where my true priorities lay- I couldn't help sobbing at the idea that these thieves were laughing at my stuff. And me. And making fun of my name. And writing down my address to come and laugh at me to my face. And throwing away my business cards and pictures of Nora and fortune cookie fortunes and a dandelion that Nora had given to me and- AND- a gift card with 25 bucks to Anthropologie that I will NEVER get to use now, no matter HOW skinny I become in two years...

That's what bothered me. More than all of the replacement fees and the fact that it would take me hours and days and piles of documentation to prove that I am who I say I am, while any schmo with a credit card can buy out Mobil. (For example.)

And, of course, it could've been worse. Way worse. It could've been at gunpoint. Or they could've taken my keys with my wallet and I'd have to change all of the locks. Or they could have tried to take Nora and I would have had to either a) kill a man with my bare hands or b) jump out a window, depending on how the scenario played out. So, obviously I feel lucky in that regard.

But it still doesn't erase the feeling of Not Right that is all around me today. I'm a decent person and I believe in karma. More than that- I believe in being good to people.

This doesn't mean, however, that I'm not fervently wishing for a swift kick of karmic justice into the face, kidney or groin of the perp. (That's right, I SAID PERP.)

But I can take solace in the knowledge that everything lost was replaceable- and more than that- I have a husband who came home with a pepperoni pizza and printed documentation for speeding up the I.D. process. (An hour later he went to Cermak and reproduced the exact shopping order that I had previously left on the checkout counter. That's right, I got my Peach of Sorrow. Or former sorrow.)

So, enjoy your fries, thieving stupidhead. You don't have a P.J. and you don't have a delicious pizza and you'll never have this head of green leaf lettuce. Unless you buy them with someone else's card.

But you do have a pretty sweet red wallet.

And Lollygag Blog business cards.

Be a doll and pass 'em around, willya?