Spring Fever Is Darn Near Killing Me.

It'd be great if you'd point that
camera somewhere else, yeah?

I may be the first person to actually be driven insane by spring fever.

My normal state of being is fairly tightly wound. I'm cheerful and playful, but I'm also borderline OCD. (Undiagnosed, actually, so there's a rather good chance they'd be all like- borderline? You are textbook. A neatly bound textbook, placed alphabetically and color-coordinatedly in a descending size row.)

These orderly tendencies keep me firmly planted in the day to day business of running a household, raising smallish people, and staying on task with completely unpredictable writing assignments. I make lists. Loads of them. (Those descend in size and color and stuff, too.) When I clean, for instance. Or when I section off [small amounts of] time to write (even if the writing is just "the the the pfbbbbbt"). Even stuff I do with the girls during yicky weather; I put museum free days in my calendar, make dates with pals so we can climb on their furniture as opposed to our own, and determine which days will be spent at the library (so we can also pay the unfair fines levied by power-hungry librarians. For example).

But this weather is destroying me.

It has been so unseasonably fantastic in the normally frigid city of Chicago (seriously- negative 20 wind chills is nothing new for March), that I'm not truly sure which end is up anymore.

It was eighty degrees yesterday. And sunny. At the same time. Out of doors.

During the past few months, Wednesday morning would mean some quiet activities with Nora, some writing while Susannah napped, and toilets. All things bathroom would be cleaned on Wednesday.

BABIES NEED HATS!!

Yesterday, however, it was a solid seventy degrees by 9am. Obviously, we had to go outside and marvel and try not to stare directly at the sun with our mouths agape. Actually, we went to the Nature Preserve in  Peterson Park. We were joined by our friends Angie and Emily and we had the best time ever. (Even when Suzy decided that she was DONE- ten minutes in- and Nora fell backwards off of a log...best time ever.) We came home, the girls were zonked, and I was so flummoxed by the morning's fresh air that I promptly did nothing of note until they woke up. And then I got all stressed like- darned kids aren't giving me any free time. I had time. I just apparently didn't have brain.

And it's been like this all week. We're so confused by the nice weather that we keep going outside and having a fabulous time.

And not one toilet has been cleaned.

I'm behind on my writing and my cleaning and my projects and I do not believe anyone has fed the cats. (And today's their 8th birthday! Happy birthday, Ender and Bean! I'll feed you so soon!)

You think you've got problems.
I've got no arms.

But it's pretty hard to stay grumpy about a boggling amount of unfolded laundry (and/or a potentially dangerous shower mold) when one's cheeks are pleasantly flushed and freckled, and when one's blonde children have faces that smell like apple juice and sunshine. (Yes, both of them. Even the infant. It's a long story.)

It feels like a test. Will she snap before the summer if: The dishes harden in the sink? The towel smells suspiciously like someone has peed on it? The cat hair actually stands and slinks away?


I've never been very good at tests.

But summer- that I've been good at. So I'll work on it.

(After I close these taunting, ajar, cabinet doors.)

But Who's Watching The Baby?

My favorite blue-eyed cherub...

...And her jaunts to the park...

...With her two babysitters. 

Weekends Aren't For The Weak.

Close-up of ugly door.
Close-up of blogger's old promo pic.

P.J. loves it when I start a new weekend project. No really, he just adores it. What's not to love? Go on, honey (he says), why on earth would I prefer to sit here and pound through episodes of Firefly? It would be much nicer (he agrees) to help you prep, clean, facilitate, and be the sounding board for all of your ideas and/or misplaced anger. And even though my preferred color and state is white paint/unadorned walls (he acknowledges), I can totally get on board with a Mayan red door and Cajun red walls. Since you've already begun.

I'll admit it. I blindsided him with this weekend's project. But the front foyer and door had been staring me in the face with their ugliness for close to three years. And we're not talking just outdated or just a state of disrepair.

It was both. A lot of both.

The foyer was a yellowish hue, punctuated with poorly sanded holes, poorly covered holes, and smears of pink handprinty-type things. (And/or faded bloodstain handprinty-type things. Nothing surprises me anymore.) The door was chipped, water-stained, and rather warped "original" wood residing in a chipped, rusted, brownish frame.

Super old pic of Nora.
Super discolored foyer. 

You know how, sometimes, things are so bizarrely ugly and impossible to deal with that your brain actually stops seeing them? That's the only way I can explain how this entry point into our home lasted like this for so long. (Unless you factor in exhaustion. And laziness.)

Well, the fog finally lifted on Saturday morning and I had to do something. So I ran to Home Depot. Bought new edgers, new paint (Mayan red for said door and Eurolinen for said foyer- the latter of which is just a fancy word for...cream.)

While there, I racked up a two hundred dollar bill for...absolutely indeterminate items, but that's an entirely different story. And issue. (And credit card.)

Once home, I realized that we were down to one sole paint roller. And my project would require [at least] two. This revelation- while potentially explosive- was tempered by P.J.'s cautious suggestion that we could make a run on the following day and just focus on the door for Saturday. Whatta guy.

So I sanded. And wood-filled. And scraped. (And removed Mayan Red paint from an eight-foot radius. Because I become positively Jackson Pollock-esque when I renovate.) I had literally no fear about turning the front door into an eye-catching thing of awesome...as opposed to its current life as an eye-catching time capsule from the 1970s [after some natural disaster had occurred].

And you know what? It looks awesome. There wasn't much I could do about the rather dated diamond shape window facing the street, but the door's new deep mahogany color at least says- Hey, we're trying.

I felt quite proud. Prouder still once I managed to finagle the doorknob and dead bolt back into place. Whimsical poll: Do you know what makes a doorknob incredibly difficult to secure? Previously stripped screws and/or painted hardware. COME ON, PEOPLE/PAST OWNERS. I AM NOT A MAGICIAN.

Close-up of door at night
(in incredibly poor lighting.)
No artistic blog awards, here.

The next day- once the paint rollers were secured- I began the spackling and sanding and priming and painting of the foyer. It was a time of discovery. For instance, I discovered that the wall underneath had previously been teal.

This part was really easy. In fact, at one point I proposed marriage to my paint edgers. (P.J. yelled from the other room- You can HAVE her!)

Then, I touched up the trim and baseboards with white paint. (See, P.J.? Compromise.) However, it's a slippery slope from painting the trim in one section and not letting it drag you all the way around the house. Because where in a home's identical trim do you stop and say, "Nope, this area can remain dingy even though it's attached to the other twelve feet of newly shiny baseboard?" But seriously, that conversation needs to happen, or else you're painting the staircase railing and adding another layer of tar to the roof.

But it was when I was wrapping up the foyer/door project when I noticed the interior door frame. Perhaps, even moreso than the previously ugly door, the rusty spikes by the doorknob would act as a Feng Shui deterrent. (Maybe also burglary?) So I sanded and painted and hammered down spikes. (It'll just take a sec, I told myself. And P.J. And Susannah, who had now been waiting for someone to just feed her since roughly 8am on Saturday morning.)

New door, new trim,
new walls, same ugly tile,
same crazy miniature person.

During this time I was kept company by my next door neighbor's attempt to sand a bike that may or may not have been his. The weather, however, was so warm and pleasant that I paid no heed to fact that the potentially hot ten-speed was being stripped of colors that may or may not signify a certain gang. And across the street, my neighbor blared an incredibly loud homemade mix tape that consisted solely of Linkin Park and Nickelback.

If nothing else, it really drove home that I needed to hurry up and finish this frickin' project.

So I did.

And, at the end of the day, the walls were one color, the trim didn't extend onto the hardwood floor, and the door actually latched. And locked. (Twice.)

You can't be too careful.

After all, there are Nickelback-lovers right across the street.

Keely Forces Culture Upon Her Children.

Off to discover!

In my ongoing struggle with WHY I LOVE CHICAGO and UGH, CHICAGO (not quite short enough to be tattooed on each knuckle), yesterday's activities warranted a check in the plus column.

We went to the Art Institute- free the first and second Wednesday of each month for Illinois residents- and even scored free parking on the street. (I'm not sure how I wasn't towed, because I do not believe that former Mayor Daley left any inches of non-billable street parking in the city proper at all.)

And it was close to seventy degrees. In March. The windows were open on the drive and Nora, Suzy, and I enjoyed fresh[ish] air on the drive over.

There wasn't even a line to enter the museum, so we didn't have to stand outside and make conversation with the lion sculptures (which may actually be a minus in Nora's column).

It was Nora's fourth or fifth trip to the museum. But it was Susannah's first, thankyouverymuch.

We had our run of the Thorne Miniatures Room- allowing us [ahem] to see the English Drawing Room, circa 1930 and Cape Cod Room, circa 1780 unobstructed. (Also California Living Room, circa 1940 and French Boudoir, circa WHY DON'T I HAVE THAT KINDA TUB IN MY HOME?!) Okay, we love them all. For the unfamiliar, the Miniatures Room is a gallery of teensy rooms behind paneled glass. Artists have painstakingly recreated impossibly small bowls of fruit, woven rugs, even ambient lighting for beyond the wee windows and doors. The Los Angeles room features a darkened sky and twinkly lights beyond a terrace. The Cape one beckons through an open door to the beach grass-lined path. (To the ocean! I know they have an ocean back there!)

Anyway, as cool as it is, I realize that not everyone is as loony for dollhouses as I am/was. Thankfully, I have created at least one more person who agrees that this room is boss. (And I was slinging the other, for whom the jury is still out.)

Nora had a really good time peering into each room- repeatedly- and occasionally begging to be picked up to better spy each small dog and glimmering chandelier. (Ever try to wear one child in a Baby Bjorn and hoist the other on your hip? Squiiiiiiish. We pretty much guaranteed that Nora's favorite memory of the day was easily Susannah's worst.)

Some other Nora-isms from the afternoon:

-Upon seeing Renoir's Two Sisters in the Impressionists Gallery: (pointing at the younger one) "Oh there she is!"

-Viewing Seurat's La Grande Jatte: "THE MONKEY IS IN THE CORNER!"

-Entering the Modern Wing's Picasso exhibit: "What is he DOING?!" (Me: Who, Picasso? Nora: YES.)

-After I explained that one of the Miro paintings was a circus horse: "I don't see it." (I pointed at it again.) "I DO NOT SEE IT."

We had a good afternoon. And I'm sure that Zuzu will hold fond memories in the deepest corners of her tiny heart- among them when I finally sat down and fed her in the prairie garden across the street from the museum.

Because nothing says Bonding Moment like publicly nursing a baby in a winterized lot in full view of art students and/or the elderly, during a gusty windstorm that upends a) the bag of crackers that had, moments before, held crumbs for sprinkling on the feeding child's head, and b) the blanket keeping one from public nudity.

But the check for the plus column stays.

Because if nursing debacles/implied nudity were a reason to leave Chicago, I wouldn't have lasted nearly this long.