She Really Wanted To Go On Pharaoh's Fury, Though.

 One of my best friends in the whole wide world (and her equally fabulous husband) spent the weekend with us. Vicky was one of my college modmates- like roommates but awesomer- and my how things have changed since Hampshire.

For starters, I have a kid now. And this was their first time meeting her. Our activities have been- ah- slightly different since Nora came along, and this was Vicky and Dave's chance to see what a "typical" weekend with Miss N.J. looks like.

This weekend, it involved a street carnival on Irving Park. And it was Nora's first one. But since it had a petting zoo, we felt that she'd really dig it and not be too overwhelmed by the rides and noise. Nora, not Vicky.

So while Dave was busy getting culture downtown (the girls initially skipped out because we wanted to nap while Peej had his matinee)...              

...We had some street fair time. And boy, did we misjudge on the petting zoo. Despite housing some of the world's smallest and cutest animals (baby goats, ducks, lop-eared bunnies, a calf, a donkey, and a confused piglet), Nora hated it. Cowered from the bun. Had to be rescued from the advances of the calf (thank you, Vicky)! Denied eye contact to the goats (which were literally half her size). We moved on.

So we tried the carousel. Despite its shockingly fast speed (maybe I'm just getting old), she definitely wanted to try it out. And she chose one pony. And then another. And then applauded them. And applauded us. And her Dad. 

So we went on it again.

We would've stayed on it all day, if one of us had gotten her way.

So we tried the baby Ferris wheel. (Looks like Peej has found his amusement park partner in crime at last.)

And no, Ferris Wheel, I wasn't thinking about riding, due to my "exceptionally large" size.

But it's always hard to leave a ride.

Really, really hard.

But thankfully, there are always gonna be corn dogs.

Best. Résumé. Ever.

I [try to] make it a habit to not mock people. Truly.

But every now and again, something simply amazing crosses one's desk. Namely mine. And even though I cannot say whose impressive stats these are- nor how I received this gem- I felt that I had to share.

I give you Julia: 
 
But Keely, you say. That's nearly impossible to read! I know. Apparently in whatever region of the world in which this chick resides, the mimeograph machine is still alive and well. Adding to the background distortion is the unfortunate stationary choice of small, grey, musical notes.

I shall sum up.

Julia is looking to be a secretary. Or something in the "sales/manage" field. (Very lucrative, that.) She offers to furnish recommendations, but they are not attached- oh no, not our Julia. Keep 'em guessing. This seems to be a skill that has served her well in her past TWELVE FULL-TIME JOBS. And considering that she has a newborn son (we'll get to that later), I can't imagine she's geriatric.

She offers to work weekends- with notice. Don't go pulling out the last minute phone calls here, no sir. That will not play.

However, she was let go from her first listed job because she had to care for the aforementioned newborn son. The manager wouldn't accommodate her. Those fragrance counter bosses are jerks.

Her second most recent job was as a server (where she "served food to customers"- ah) which had to end because she wanted to work nearer to home. Also, "business slowed." Legit.

The next server job ended when she moved- this happens.


The restaurant job right before this told her she was "not needed." Right. Okay, Julia, I'm on your side.

Listed after that one was a restaurant where she she "served food and beverages." Emphasis mine. Good for you, J! Except- oh man- the cook "served too hot a plate- reheated" and you were "burnt and hurt." I would've quit, too. (Except my Dad would've told me to wear long sleeves and buck up. Whatever. Different styles, that's all.)

Then comes a waitress and bartending gig that turned out to be too far to drive in winter. You're killing me here, Julia.

This was preceded- incongruously enough- by a UPS job as a loader where you lost your job because of pneumonia. This sounds...improbable. BUT I WISH FOR HER TO SUCCEED so I continue reading on to...

...Another restaurant job where she left to- "care for son." Hmm. This wouldn't be the newborn, would it? Did she have all of these jobs within four months of giving birth?!

Then we've got bartending at Applebee's. And the reason we left- again- is "childcare." I'm starting to doubt either that a) Julia desires to work outside of the perimeter of her yard and b) that these "children" are real. Photographic evidence, please.

Another server job- except that this place was closing. I hear that. And she wanted to "work closer to home." JULIA!

Right before this was a semi-successful stint as a server and "inline dancer" that was abruptly ended when she was "hurt at dishwasher broke glass cut deep and manager not aware of problem in restaurant." Was he inline dancing? Was he also aware of the grammar problem in résumé ?

The oldest job was- yet again- a waitressing job gone bad. (Where the heck did UPS come from?) This time she had to leave because there weren't "enough computers to get work finished for serving." Which is compelling. Yet I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that maybe one's kids were involved. Or the proximity to someone's home. Maybe they made her dance.

She sums all of this up in a tidy paragraph reiterating that the aforementioned are all places at which she has worked. Adding to this list of skills are the curiously capitalized Secretary, Engineering Science, Architecture, Piano, Saxophone, 4-H, Modeling, Manager, and Assistant Manager (at a Mall.) Of lesser importance- and thusly not capitalized- are drafter, estimator, sewing, crafts, and makeup.

She has [unlisted] "retail experience."

Oh, and that year of Saxophone? She was privately tutored by someone who "graduated the Julia rd [sic] Music School."

I think she'll be just fine. How could she not? After all, she was a model.

And an estimator.

I have an estimation or two right now. More an "odds" kinda thing.

I've always been good with numbers, especially if they're of the two-step variety. But before you get too excited...

...I'm no Julia.

The Emo Swing.

He also wears dark socks with shorts.

I love a parade.

I love The Fourth.

Specifically, I love any holiday where you hafta take a day off (in a good chunk o' industries). More specifically- when P.J. has to take day off. We didn't travel. There were no houseguests. (And don't get me wrong, I've blissed out on having some favorite friends and family here...and will continue to...until August...but our good sheets are gonna be threadbare by September. And for those who have yet to see my home? This is the time. Place is CLEAN. This is also the time as I most likely wouldn't know you're here amidst the chaos. Win/win.)

So, good chunks of Saturday and from Sunday late afternoon until Monday evening there was no work. No theatre. Minimal yardwork [for me. Peej was SWAMPED]. We did spend the majority of Saturday fixing up the new kid's room. Like Nora's nursery, a couple of months before she was born, you ask? Nope. For you see, the house already has a roof, [most] windows, a floor, and running water. But I did have to get rid of a nice cross-section of my hoarding. And then I had to do some spackling while Peej hung awesome curtains at a dizzying height (to create the illusion of vaulted ceilings. Or at least Higher Than Eight Feet Ceilings). And why the spackling? Because I am an incredibly lazy person. It's true. I work really hard to keep this in check but, left to my own devices, I will hang a 4x6 frame with drywall screws. Out of curtain brackets? I will make one out of twisted metal found in the recycling bin. The key to my laziness is this: if I don't have to leave the room to complete a project, it's a success. Even if we don't have all of the materials. Especially then. The end result is golf ball-sized holes in crumbling plaster whenever we need to redecorate. (Which of course, I never think of. My laziness lives in the present.)

But I think I've learned my lesson this time. Because after spackling and sanding and [having P.J. do some] paint-retouching, I actually found myself cursing the moron who had hacked into the walls. Baby steps.

We also finally matched the master bedroom wall color (Gold Dust) to cover up the sample that I had lazily thought would be just fine (Marigold.) This was difficult, as all paint samples remind me of the colors in my room. As do the names. But thanks to a little detective work (our electricians used an old piece of dropcloth to clean a project and it miraculously had a splotch of the correct paint color- and not the erroneous one I had written down) we were able to match the sample. Making us stupidly proud of ourselves (and our yellow room).

The age old holiday tradition of selling a bed on Craigslist was also acknowledged, complete with no-shows, price hagglers, 'round the clock emails, requests for headshot-like photographs (of the bed, sadly), and a culmination of a non-native English speaker and his newly hired moving guy who- I am not kidding- instructed the former to grab onto the sides of the mattress like "a pair of t**tties."

There were also naps. Which did not include anyone in the previous story except for my husband, my curlicued kid, and my stompy midsection kid. Also two utterly confused cats.

And as we enjoyed no fewer than seven unobstructed firework displays from the comfort of our front stoop, living room picture window, back kitchen window, and upstairs window, I feel that I am well-qualified to offer up this advice to the city of Chicago: Out of money for the annual explosion gala? Ask each pyro in my neighborhood to donate five bucks worth of explosives to the town. You'd have a show to rival the denouement of Independence Day. (The movie, not the actual holiday.)

And to the parents of the Power Wheeled five year-old setting off bottle rockets (!) solo at 1am, I offer up this advice to you: Stop it*. Please.

(*Having kids/ letting them run willy nilly/ not setting bedtimes/ driving to Indiana to purchase said detonating things. Any or all.)

Or I'll have P.J. come out in his socks and sandals, turn on the sprinkler, and shake his fist at the darned hoodlums. I'll do it. And so will he.

With the slightest provocation.

Really.