I suppose putting something like "Lost" spoilers...

...in the title would drive up page views as well. But that would be unethical.

I also draw the line at "Jersey Shore." Everyone should.

So, apparently there's a plethora of incredible shows currently on the air. Despite all of that, I have my own line-up. (Or 'My Programmes,' as they are referred to in our house.)

I don't know how this happened. I've always loved TV, sure, but I've never had a weekly schedule. Other than TV Guide. But I'm assuming everyone has access to that.

When we were little, we had shows we'd watch here and there (Sesame Street, random stuff on Nickelodeon- WELL before the days of "Nick Jr." Even before 'SNICK.' Tell me you remember 'SNICK.') Later on we had Kids Incorporated (you know, at the 'Place?' 'Cause the 'a' had burned out of 'Palace?' Clever) and The New Mickey Mouse Club a.k.a. MMC (I had my letter read on the air, no big deal, just kinda made me a minor local celebrity. The letter was about liverwurst. I won a tee shirt) and anything, anything that's a Disney Sunday movie. But I'm fairly certain that, had I told my mother I had a show for every night of week, this would not have flown. (Does that phrase still hold power when used in the past tense? 'This will not fly.' 'Will not have flown.' No, I guess not. Sorry.)

And I don't even know how this happened. Apart from certain obvious television series that will alwaysalwaysalways be allowed to play on my screen (Quantum Leap, Law & Order- any of them- I know some of you have a problem with Vincent D'Onofrio's rather autistic Detective Goren, but I find him simply brilliant) I've never really had weekly "shows" that "aired." I have the misfortune of being the kiss of death for any series I truly love. The latest casualty is Pushing Daisies. No. I cannot discuss it. It is too soon.

SO.

Here is my line-up.

Monday- Men Of a Certain Age. Sure, I'm not their "target demographic." I'm neither male nor of a specific age range. No matter. Scott Bakula plays a studmuffin in this one, and as we all know, I'd tune in to watch him file his taxes.

Tuesday- Lost. Okay, technically, I don't watch this one. In fact, I kinda hate it. HOWEVER. P.J. is obsessed with it, which cuts into my after-work Ghost Whisperer reruns. It deserves a mention. (And before everyone starts harping about the brilliance, the Others, the disappearing island, the morphing character faces and panicked females gasping "Jack!"- I've seen enough promos- I'm just going to go ahead and say there was never any chance of me liking this one. I have a Lord of the Flies phobia. A big one. And sure, it's not the same thing AT ALL, but it's an island after a plane crash. Close. Enough.)

Wednesday- Psych. I may be the only person watching this one! Doesn't matter in the least! A psychic detective agency with exceptional banter and incredibly witty references? This show is my reward for Wednesdays being Wednesdays.

Thursday- The Office. AND- Important Things with Demetri Martin. That's right, a full hour of TV on Thursdays. Or, rather, a half hour followed by a snack followed by a half hour. As most of you know, I became a wee bit too obsessed with Jim & Pam and Dwight& the beet farm while Nora was brand new and eating every 12 minutes. I'm pretty sure she still has a Pavlovian response whenever she hears the opening theme. She may be sick of The Office by now. ("False.") And Demetri Martin? Waaay back in February, about a month before Nora was even a glimmer on the horizon, I watched this show. And one sickly afternoon, fevered outta my gourd and praying for the plague to end, I fell asleep while viewing this show On Demand. The wacky dream and hallucinations that ensued not only starred Demetri Martin, but guaranteed that I would develop a near-psychotic loyalty to his show. (And I'm pretty sure we're dating in a dream universe somewhere.)

Friday- Ghost Whisperer and The Soup. Fear not, there's an hour in between in which to care for the baby. I found the first on accident one Friday night (you mean they make new ones, too?) and the second has been a long-standing Date Night show for Peej and I. We do not WATCH any of the reality TV skewered by The Soup. This does not affect our viewing in the least. If nothing else, it's given us inside jokes about a show that makes fun of actual shows. Post-post-modernity? We giggle.

Saturday...is movie night. Sorry. (We used to go out, really we did. But these days, having to justify a sitter, the transit, the meal, the drinks- God, were drinks always eighty bucks at "nice" places?- and the utter, bone-crushing exhaustion the next morning...well, 'Nick & Nora' is always free. And P.J. makes the best popcorn in town.)

And Sunday? Well, everything we do on Sunday is merely a placeholder for the return of True Blood. June? Seriously?

But by then it'll be nice outside and perhaps we'll have finished the backyard and the patio area. I can just see it now: the flowering pear tree in bloom, the strawberries popping up along the faded brick, Nora and I playing on a blanket and P.J. flipping burgers on the grill...

...Our laptops logged into Netflix's Watch Instantly queue...

***

Confidential to CSG: Happy 2nd birthday to my favorite blond nephew! You can watch any show you want today- tell your Mom I said so.

Clearly, I need a hobby.

Yes, I realize it's Monday. No, I'm not confused (about the day.) I've decided to go forth and blog TWICE A WEEK.

AT LEAST FOR THIS WEEK!

We'll see if I can go, say, for two weeks. I dream big.

It turns out, I have waaay more questions than can be asked in a once-weekly posting. Such as:

Why, oh why is the most common email or chat smiley the wink? Why do we do this? WHEN was the last time you actually WINKED at someone? Think about it.

I'll wait.

You haven't. Do you know why? It's because the wink is slightly smarmy and more than a little creepy. Think I'm wrong? The next time you say something slightly jokey or sarcastic to a friend...wink at them.

"Hey Peej- you like that pb&j I made you for lunch?"
"Yeah, it was a good sandwich, thanks."
"Glad you liked it- you're eating it all week!!" *WINK*
"You okay, Keely?"
"Sure am! Nothing a little pb&j couldn't fix!!" *WINK*

Totally weird.

Also- and this is NOT an inflammatory 'how could you ask that about vegans' comment, I truly do not know: Do vegans breastfeed?

I'll let you think about that one for a sec, too.

I am not ashamed to admit that I do not know the answer to this one. I have an entered a No Embarrassment phase of my life (see: Michael Bolton post). Can you help me out? Are vegans anti ANY sort of mammal product or byproduct? I mean, I can't imagine they're against animals out in nature feeding their young. That would be ridiculous. And nearly impossible to enforce!

Thirdly, why do pre-teen girls (yeah, that's what it was called when I was 12- we didn't have this tween nonsense) waste all this time and energy on beauty rituals they will have no time when they actually need it? When I was in middle school, my friends and I spent DAYS putting mayo in our hair (excellent conditioner), putting masks and scrubs on nearly baby-smooth skin and indulging in twice-weekly pedicures. It was good practice, we told ourselves. We were going to be gorgeous WOMEN someday!

I should have spent that time learning Chinese or trying to pass pre-Algebra (for the third time). When's the last time you gave yourself any sort of at-home treatment that took more than five minutes? I currently possess chipped nails, sad-looking skin and split ends you could weave a basket with. Every now and then I rub the excess apricot oil from Nora's bath on my arms (sometimes with the baby as an applicator- hey, waste not, want not) and occasionally enjoy a facial steam as a serendipitous result of Nora's late night sickness-fighting shower steaming. But that is it.

I blame YM magazine for telling me that I needed all this. I blame YM for many things, actually. My mother eventually took away my subscription, which I DO NOT BLAME HER FOR AT ALL, once we realized it was a little racy for a twelve-year old; especially a twelve-year old who played with porcelain dolls for WAY longer than was age appropriate. What business did I have learning how to drive 'him' wild? (I still don't know how to drive anyone 'wild'. But, as a married gal with a mortgage and a newborn, perhaps that ship has sailed?)

And final question: who the heck ARE all you people? According to Blogger, you hail from Canada, India, Spain, Italy, New Zealand, Australia, Belgium and locales I am afraid I'll typo and thusly embarrass myself. I can guess at some of the cities: I went to college with half of Los Angeles and NYC, apparently (is it cool to say I'm "big" in L.A. and NYC? Yes? I will anyway) and am related to and/or spent my childhood with the majority of the Boston and Berkshire County following. But who do I know in Waterloo?! (Hi!)

Or maybe you're one of the folks who found me by Google-searching about the kid who played Duck Lips on Full House? (That was YEARS ago, people, I posted about that on a DIFFERENT BLOG!) But it'll probably pop back up on here now. Also, to those of you who found me by searching various disgusting "medical" techniques- have I helped?

I think you should let me know how you got here. It's important for me to understand my demographic. That way I can keep the stories of diaper fails, Michael Bolton and improperly-placed furniture at a minimum. Or at a maximum! If that's what you dig! So, uh, keep in touch.

Except for the guy who got here by researching "roadkill" and "puppets."

I think we should just agree to disagree.

Thanks for nothing, Evanescence.

As I was driving to work the other morning, iPod Touch hooked up to the cassette deck and wee baby asleep in the back, I found myself enjoying a nice mix of light tunes with which to lull Nora and keep her soundly sleeping. Suddenly, a track by Evanescence blared on (no, it does NOT matter which one, they are all loud)at about 800 decibels higher than the previous songs. What's with your modulation, Amy Lee?

Yes, this IS a sign that I'm getting old: ire towards goth-lite bands.

And then it hit me, I was more concerned about the volume of an embarrassing song than the actual playing of an embarrassing song. Maybe being dangerously close to the end of my late twenties (ahem- four more months) is freeing me up to admit that I love bad songs!

Don't get me wrong, I have a great, obsessive love for many exceptional artists and bands (Etta James, Lyle Lovett, B.B. King, et. al): I collect them on vinyl, see them in overpriced arenas and dissect their lyrics with reverence. But for every James Taylor there is a Kip Winger. For every "She's no lady/ she's my wife" there's a "(Baby)/ Don't forget my number."

And I love them all. All of them.

I will now come out of the soundproof closet and admit that I love Michael Bolton. Love might be too flimsy a term for the feelings I have whenever Michael Bolton hits a key change. His song Said I Loved You (But I lied)- amazing. ('Cause this is more than love I feel inside.) I KNOW!

I've spent too many years turning the volume down in paper-thin studio apartments every time Savage Garden or Rob Zombie pops up on iTunes. No longer! Is it MY fault that bad music (read- terminally unhip) is clearly the most singalongable? Okay, maybe not so much Rob Zombie, but he IS fun to clean to.

And to clarify- by "bad" music, I mean music that was once hugely popular by a demographic with which you yourself would never in a million years identify. And that was a million years ago. Rendering it...prehistorically "bad."

But if it's so "bad," why does Warrant still make me cry? Why does Def Leppard's "Gods Of War" make me wanna wave a flag? And why won't P.J. sing either part of the Aaron Neville/Linda Ronstandt duets with me? (Okay, that last one doesn't really help my case, but still. Why?)

It's not such a stance to play the newest Lady Gaga track at full blast. But it does take a certain type of person to proclaim your preference for Van Hagar over Van Halen. Or, in the case of the Guthries, Arlo over Woody.

Yes, I said it. I prefer Arlo Guthrie.

And, for the first time in my life, I feel no shame.

(Well, maybe a little. But it gets easier, I promise you.)

Thursday is the new Saturday. No, really, it is.

A brand-new graffitiesque mural has gone up in my neighborhood; it's on the side of a building near the intersection of Kedzie and Montrose, to be exact. It is great. The word "diversity" is written (scrawled?) in about ten different languages. You know, the languages that represent Albany Park. A multitude of beautiful, happy, diverse faces are looking in different directions, quite artful, and are layered willy-nilly to show the many different colors and ethnicities of our lovely 'hood. Fabulous. One problem.

I AM NOT INCLUDED.

No one even remotely white-ish is featured. Sure, sure, I hear you telling me about centuries of oppression and the White Man and underrepresented cultures. Fine. However. I'm Irish and Armenian and a smidge of Italian and have oppressed NO ONE so perhaps you could STICK ME DOWN IN THE CORNER SOMEWHERE. I do not take up much room. (Unless I bring my shoes and hoodies.)

I may have to resort to graffiti on graffiti. Extremely post-modern. Are you listening, Hampshire College? (Yeah, I took film. And strangely, pre-law. And one bizarre semester about our FEELINGS regarding science.)

Other media that concerns me:

Have you seen the new commercial for Hi-Def Vision Ultra sunglasses? Take a minute to really chew on that one. These sunglasses. Make. Things. Hi Definition. They're practically making objects 3-D. Almost like real life! Actual quote: "Other sunglasses just make things darker." (Darn sunglasses!) And now, according to a special offer, you can get TWO for TEN DOLLARS (if you call now.) So basically, I'll get a five dollar pair of sunglasses that make objects look like real life? Where do I sign?!

Also.

The new ad for Aciphex: a pill for acid reflux that takes care of 'burning, bad taste & belching.' And please say the name aloud. Everything about this commercial is gross. An entire ad featuring closeups of people's mouths while they writhe in pain, dislike the taste of their own tongues and attempt to cover up burps. Poorly. "...So nasty!" And all from a product whose first syllable is 'ass.'

And finally: those Cash 4 Gold people are starting to make me really suspicious. Why do they want my gold so badly? *I* want my gold! Why doesn't it matter what condition my gold is in? Do they know something I don't? Does my gold have new healing powers? Is all the gold disappearing? They're sending me a BOX in which to ship all my gold? Why not a company car? I think I'll hang on to my gold until I get some more answers.

***

Confidential to PJS: Thank you for not letting that scenario with the middle-of-the-night-car-honker-layin'-on-the-horn-for-what-seemed-like-hours go all 'Gran Turino.' As we both know, I've never seen 'Gran Turino,' but I'm fairly certain from the previews that it involves an angry Clint Eastwood and a wielded shotgun and the phrase "Get the hell off my property" or somesuch. I know how you get during these moments. Kinda like The Hulk, if The Hulk had an infant daughter sleeping in a room facing the street.

So, thanks.

Housewivery, unfortunate pants & inconsequential rage.

Things that bother me this week (settle in, we could be here a spell):

Pants.

I tried to buy my first post-preggo pants this past weekend. It was an epic fail on all fronts, mostly the posterior. Silly me, I'd thought it was high time to ditch the elastic-waisted maternity jeans. It is clearly not time. It may never BE time. (Sure, some of you keep telling me that it'll HAPPEN, you just HAD the baby! This is false. She is two and a half months old. Do not give me these kind of excuses- it just paves the way for stretchy pants and oversized 'Hang in there, Kitten!' sweatshirts until she's of school age.)

Anyway. I tried on seven pairs of jeans. Two were the next size up from what I usually wear, two were the size up from that, and two were even the size up from that. One was this shapeless pair of what I derisively labeled 'Mom jeans.'

The first two came up to my knees (PLEASE tell me that the width of my knees has changed- that would be perfection) the next two fit over my hips but wouldn't button (I wanted to take the extra material from the wide legs and add it to the laughably tiny waistband), the two after that buttoned just fine but left a cavernous amount of room in the behind and were somehow too short. Even the 'Mom jeans' left me cold. (Not from lack of fabric, mind you. There was plenty of that.) Apparently, to wear 'Mom jeans' one must be shaped roughly like an onion. Bulbous, pointy, sassy writing on the butt. You know, an onion.

I ended up buying two pairs of yoga pants from Old Navy- because nothing says 'my body is not yet a real size' like stretchy pants. (Hang in there!)

And, ok, I am angered at Tupperware.

WHY does Tupperware never dry? It never does. You can leave it in the dishrack or the washer for days and STILL there will be a few stubborn droplets firmly attached to the lip or ridge or whatever the heck that place is called that makes the lid go sqoosh. You can't even reach it by dishtowel- oh no- I think the only thing that could reach it would be a Q-tip, and I AM NOT ABOUT TO Q-TIP MY TUPPERWARE, thankyouverymuch. I barely manage to clean the dryer's lint trap (do NOT get me started on the lint trap.) But why does it retain water so well? (Or, rather, so badly?) Is Tupperware actually part water? Does it biodegrade? I'm a terrible housewife- I do not have these answers.

P.J. would tell me that this is because I am NOT a housewife, despite my best efforts to not work outside of the home. Do you know how many salami sandwiches I make for him each week? Regardless of whether or not he even LIKES salami? Or how many socks I match up in evenly folded pairs? (No balling-up of socks here, lady!) I do not vacuum- but I DO start the Roomba with my foot. I rearrange furniture under the pretense of Feng Shui- (I'm Irish, what do I know from Asian arts?) and light appropriately scented candles to mask that...whatever it is...that wafts from the downstairs bathroom's pipes. I watch copious amounts of 'The Ghost Whisperer' which, admittedly, has little to do with housewivery but is something I'd commit even further to, were I allowed to remain in the actual house. AND, most importantly, I rear his child (which makes it sound like I lead her backwards throughout our home. I do not. That is how I sprained my ankle in eighth grade. Solo. Not with Nora.)

And peeing. Why must I use the bathroom throughout the day, especially during working hours?

It's made especially tough when trying to use the facilities if a newborn baby, say, is slung across your chest, fast asleep. Put her down, you say? Certainly! The two options available on Wednesdays and Fridays are a) on the floor of the pocket bathroom or b) in the living room with the two year old who deals with any sound Nora makes by trying to shove a rattle directly up her nostril. ("She LIKES this, Kiki!!")

Thusly, sling-peeing. It should be an Olympic event. The precision, the tension, the crowd-pleasing humor. (The back story, the interview, the killer soundtrack- I love the Olympics.) One false move and it's all over. The Russian judge scores harshly. (I could make a European In the Bathroom joke here, but I won't.)

Another reason to leave the baby strapped against me today? The two-year old gal chose to test the deepness of Nora's sleep (result- not very) by screaming "Are you sleeping, Baby Nora?!) into an electronic voice-changing bullhorn. Set to Darth Vader. Inches from Nora's head. After being informed that little-littles need quiet tones AND that yelling near the baby earns a time-out, I was told that Nora LIKES voices. (I fear that before long the babe will be hearing voices.)

Mom. Of. The. Year.

To cement my Mom-ness? (Momity? Mom-ocity? Momitude? Ok, momitude.) I actually just uttered the phrase, "We don't lick napkins." ("Why, Kiki?") I actually don't know. It just sounded like the thing to say. So go ahead, everyone. Have a happy Thursday.

Lick the napkin.

A new year, a new pack o' Pampers.

Week ten, back to work!

Armed with a diaper bag the size (and shape) of Guam, Nora and I set out to see what needs doin' in the world of two to seven year olds. Apparently, a lot lot. Eggs need scrambling! Hair needs to be braided- evenly- and/or clipped back with appropriate bows (but not too matchy-matchy.) The stegosaurus' tail needs to be found...on a puzzle piece the width of pencil eraser. Stories need to be performed with the correct accents and correlating hand motions. Tents need to be blanketed, boats need to be shored up with cushions, lunch needs to be CRUST-FREE, and naptime needs to become a one-strike-you're-out-offense-yes-laying-there-with-your-eyes-closed-counts endeavor.

Not to mention the poops. You wouldn't believe me if I did. I think everyone within a five mile radius of me has pooped their diaper or potty seat off in the past four days. AT THE SAME TIME.

I do, however, think Nora's getting the hang of this nanny business. She's strict but fair. And veeeeery cute. (Believe it or not, this helps. To get one kiddo to brush her teeth I simply turned Nora around in her sling so her chubby cheeks were facing outwards. The 'aw' that it elicited was perfect for reaching molars.)

The hours for a couple of the days are superbly early- I'm getting ready at 5:45am and WAKING my daughter (something the books say you should nevernevernever do) at 6:20. The first morning when I put her in her carseat, fully jammied and sleepsacked, she actually laughed at me like I was insane.

Maybe I am. So far this week she's taken the business end of a hard juggling ball directly in the face and made that startled newborn OMHMYGODOHMYGOD wince at least three times. She may also be part possum, as her favorite new sleep position is facing my sternum while in the sling, hands gripping the sides of her head.

On the plus side, I've never held her more!

On a more negative side, I've never held her more. The left side of my body where the sling places the most pressure may just give out one of these days, rendering my arm eternally noodle-like and reducing my authority to ineffective flopping about.

Thankfully, Tuesday was my day off.

That is, until the upstairs furnace broke Monday night, turning our bedrooms into an Artic tundra. (Thanks, negative-degree Chicago!) At least we had the first floor bedrooms, which were on their own, oddly-zoned boiler system! The boiler, of course, being stuck on SAHARAN temperatures! Nora slept in a diaper, sadly not for the last time, given her parents' obvious ineptitude at adulthood.

So, Tuesday was the day that our heating and cooling guy came and quoted us 600 bucks (to fix a part) or 2.2k (to replace the since-discontinued furnace.) Oh yeah, and they'd have to rip the wall apart to get it out- apparently the wall was built AROUND the furnace. Of course it was! We chose the 600 buck option, telling ourselves we'd upgrade to an A/C and furnace unit soonish. (Of course we would!) Then the guy left, saying he'd try to replace it soon, maybe by that night, maybe by Thursday.

WELL. Knowing I couldn't face another night on the surface of the sun downstairs, I started to move my main floor office around to accommodate the bed in P.J.'s office. Two hours later, I had just finished hooking up all the computer plugs, lighting and anything else needing an outlet...when the heating guy came back with the repaired part. Rendering the afternoon spent swapping things about needless, ha hah!

But at least my office looks fabulous.

And, sadly, Nora is now in the thick of her first real cold. It is tragic. For those of you who have never experienced the magnitude of an infant's first real sickness- it's a treat. I highly recommend sitting on a bathroom floor in the middle of the night, shower-steaming a baby into a miniature wonton and alternating between suctioning each impossibly long boogie with a bulb aspirator and cleaning up the diaper blowout as a direct result of the ensuing freakout. (Apparently, they do NOT care for this action!)

And somehow, hours later, she still smiles happily at me. Making me feel like even more of a jerk for bundling her into the dark, frigid, Chicago mornings.

There was more I had planned on noting about the previous week...but my darling baby gal, the angelic infant in the aquarium bouncer on the floor beside me, has just chosen to have another poo-splosion in the carefully selected outfit for today's workload. Sometimes I think she plans these. Maybe she's taking orders from a higher baby authority. Like an evil cartoon villain, clad in a diaper and clutching a cigar. I'm slightly tempted to poke a finger into her chubby cheeks and demand WHO ARE YOU WORKING FOR, a la Jack Bauer.

But then she'd just smile that famous Schoeny smile.

You know, the one that got me here in the first place?

Y2k10! That seems more like a 'captcha' than a 'year.'

In honor of the impending new year- and in consideration of the wee babe in an aquarium bouncer by my knee- I shall jam out a brief review of the year that was '09:

January- We failed to buy a house. This was sad. I began taking Pilates lessons to combat the "extra ten pounds"- ha HA. (I would KILL for an extra ten pounds right now. Well, not exactly. Rather, I'd kill to only have ten pounds to lose. If I had to lose the baby weight on top of an extra ten pounds, I might actually kill someone BECAUSE of it. Maybe we should forget the ten pounds altogether.)

February- I became pregnant! Although, since I didn't find out until it was almost MARCH, maybe we should place this sentence in next month's blurb. (This could explain why it was really, really difficult to lose the aforementioned never-to-be-mentioned again ten pounds.) Traveled to Boston for my nephew Cole's first birthday and came back to a week where the temp surged to 70 degrees, only to be immediately followed by -30. Thanks, Chi.

March- Realized I was pregnant. Had fun with that for awhile. Immediately changed plans from "Napa trip" to "San Francisco trip." (Less vineyard-pressure.) Threw the annual St. Patrick's Day Party O' Corned Beeves. Also may have let slip the fact that I was pregnant to fifteen of my closest friends. Here's a fun way to see if you've got a "social drinking" problem: if you fail to pour yourself a drink at your own party and people ask you every ten minutes WHY you're not drinking, you may have a social drinking problem.

April- Spent a goodly bit of this month gripping the couch, housing Italian ice, lemonade, tacos and onions, marathoning Law & Order and Harper's Island. But the beginning of the month? Oh my- I hugged Scott Bakula. Hi-fived Donald Bellisario. Won an international novella competition. Rode a bike across the Golden Gate Bridge and almost yuked over the side of the Alcatraz ferry. Best month of '09 (so far.)

May- Jaunted back to Massachusetts for a weekend of pretending I attended Harvard/Williams with Rachel/Emily (and Kate- woo, college!) Nothing like pretending to be an undergrad with two little dudes in tow and one obviously preggo twenty-something. Then, upon my return, P.J. and I purchased a house that may or may not have been haunted. Also celebrated our first anniversary! And they thought we'd never make it...(Who's been saying that?! Stop it.)

June- Turns out, it wasn't haunted. Just falling apart. But once we made the decision to replace the boiler, water heater, roof, appliances, light fixtures and five of the windows, WE WERE REALLY IN BUSINESS. Also, this was my birthday month. And the month where we saw the 20-week ultrasound of OUR CHILD kicking, flipping and opening a terribly wide mouth. We also went to Myrtle Beach with P.J.'s family, where I had the distinct pleasure of scaring a group of hoodlum teens into permanent celibacy. (What the heck was I thinking? A red-checkered tankini, while sweetly "country" on a toddler, looks positively "picnic table" on a pregnant adult.)

July- Bought a car! Signed the papers on the house! Had my parents come for a week to fix...everything...in the new house. Moved into the house with the help of Peej's dad. Realized that the new master bedroom had neither mastery nor a bed. (Or a window that would allow "air" to "circulate.") Cried.

August- Had a superbly fun baby shower in Pittsfield, MA, thrown by my Mom & sibs. Enjoyed floating in the pool like a beached whale and eating about thirty of my favorite dishes that my Mom kept placing in front of me. Back in Chi, built a bed in the sweltering heat of my "master" bedroom. Later that night went to the premiere of my one-act at 20% Theatre's 'Snapshots' Festival. (Yes, I HAVE been writing, thankyouverymuch. Practically every month at Chicago Dramatist's Instant Theatre, where I am allowed the exquisite joy of being the most pregnant woman in the room and thusly the recipient of the most "pity clapping." I care not.) Also, this was the month where a man FINALLY came and removed our wedged sectional sofa from the stairwell. With a saw! It took its rightful place in the living room, freeing up the stairwell for such important tasks as "allowing passage up the stairs."

September- Had a terrific Chicago baby shower, thrown by my Mom-in-law and attended by my Midwestern besties, my Mom and my big sis. Less awesomely, sat through four of the scariest childbirth classes known to [wo]man, due in no small part to the extremely graphic videos depicting the majesty of labor and delivery. And the entirely unnecessary bit on c-sections? NO, THANK YOU.

October- Had a c-section. Turned out to be a small price to pay to get to KEEP this glorious little gal, Nora Jane Schoeny. The wily, wedged-one was born in the same month as her Daddy (two days apart!), which will forever go down in history as the Best. Month. Of. My. Life.

November- Began considering this month for nomination as Best Month as well. Took more naps and watched more episodes of "The Office" than ever before. Kissed my child perhaps too much. Enjoyed visits from my folks, Peej's folks, my big sis, and a slew of fabulous friends bearing meals, Starbucks, books & toys. (And some were for Nora.) Attended a reading of one of my plays, produced by 20% Theatre...and gave the least intelligible "talk back" afterwards. My mind was NOT on star-crossed lovers and bantery humor, but instead on a pint-sized ball of grins and snuggles that I left at home with her Dad, LESS THAN A MILE AWAY. (So what if I cried? It's the hormones. I will rock this excuse until her wedding.) Held a real Thanksgiving. Cooked a turkey. Panicked. Succeeded in not burning the house down nor tweaking out my child. Subsequently amended my standards of "success."

December- Prided myself on successful car trips and flights with my infant, not to mention exceptional visits with both sides of the fam for Christmas gloriousness. Ate more than was wise, slept more than was expected. P.J. and I enjoyed the heck out of our first holiday season in Chicago with the gal (who are we kidding? We enjoy EVERYTHING with her now.) And to all the folks who paraded the pre-baby "enjoy it now" mantra around like a...parade, I can honestly say that I don't remember having this much fun when I was left to my own singular devices. (Except for maybe that one time. But this is a family blog.)

And to the year that brought me a successful first year of marriage, house, trips around the country, car, kiddo and a few writing acknowledgements- thanks.

Hopefully 2010 will bring glorious things as well: an end to that SMELL in the downstairs pipes? A cease-and-desist for the neighbors- the puking on the stoop one with the slight drinking problem and/or the seventeen-year old autistic dude who is simply IN LOVE with Peej? A bit o' cash for the writing ventures?

Dream big.

(Happy New Year!)