I much prefer The Pogues.

The Ides of March. Wow. This is kinda serious, as far as days go. I suppose. Also, it's my cats' sixth birthday, so for me it's not so much a bad luck day as it is an awesome celebratory pet day. Happy birthday, Ender and Beanie! Tuna in smallish dishes for days! (Or for exactly one meal!)

Yesterday was Pi Day, you know, 3.14- blahdiblahblahnumbers. But as I am married to a man with the symbol for pi tattooed on his shoulder blade, this is a big deal. (We celebrate allll the holidays at Chez Schoeny.) And yes, that's right,  I still count on my fingers, but happened to find and fall in love with a math..."guy". "Nerd" is harsh..."geek" is a little too techie. Aficionado? Lover o' numbers? Drunk at Mardi Gradi, forty bucks burning a hole in the ol' pocket, way too close to a tattoo parlor?

I like that one.

The day before that (does the fun ever stop?) was the day when I decided to corn beeves and steam cabbage...and dress my infant daughter in a shamrock dress and lime green tights. (I would like to see you try to convince me that Nora is NOT one of my collectible porcelain dolls. It cannot be done.) This is how I celebrate St. Patrick's Day lately. Staying in, curing meat, watching G-rated flicks. Way before I even had a kid I had tired of the pub crawling rainy day (somehow it ALWAYS rains on St. Pat's weekend) face-painty drunken revelry/stupidity. It kinda seems like the same crowd that would be out there anyhow on a weekend- just [scantily] dressed in green.

Seriously. I bet I can tell you what happened:

a) At the dyeing of the Chicago River, someone fell in.
b) Wanting to look good/hot/Irish, someone wore inappropriate shoes/outerwear and fell/got cold.
c) Dropkick Murphys played somewhere, and someone got pumped full of pride.
d) Outside of a bar, a girl cried to her friends.
e) In a packed ladies' room, a girl cried to her friends.
f) Someone met their soulmate. Temporarily.
g) More Jameson  was consumed in Lakeview than by the entirety of Cork County. For the year.

Also, why the green beer? Real Irish beer should be...brownish. Or a dark reddish. Or a light tannish. The 'ish' does not include green.

But we digress. Back to the weekend.

Last night Pi Day was celebrated even further with warm pumpkin pie that Neil brought over (see what I did there?) and  ice-cold Chelada beer from Nate (see: pregnancy posts. I love this stuff) so that the guys could watch The Pacific miniseries and bond over talk of war. To the best of my knowledge, none of them have ever been in the service- excepting perhaps Boy Scouts of America- but apparently nothing bonds them better. You should have seen the Band of Brothers days. Or, rather, I didn't see P.J. on Band of Brothers days. (But hey, if they give me a slice of pie and a beer while I'm writing- game on.)

And now- two products that thoroughly, completely bother me.

QUIETUS. For tinnitus. I heard about this on the radio. It, you know, "quiets" that ringing, buzzing, terrible sound in your ears. The website actually has sound clips of what types of noise can be heard in the overworked inner ear. Thanks, Quietus, I couldn't really picture what "shriek buzzing" would sound like. Does it work? Maybe. And that's fabulous. However, the product comes in a dual action eardrop and TABLET? I  can't- and don't want to- imagine how if the eardrops fail, chewing on something might work to tamp out the aftereffects of "rock music." Sure, sure, chewing gum helps your ears stop popping on an airplane...but I think we [they] should go directly to the source and make the eardrop stronger. I am no student of medicine. Could someone explain this better to me?

And LATISSE. To grow eyelashes. I have definitely mentioned this before, but it still bothers me. Everyone loves long eyelashes- especially the advertising industry- but the side effect? Darkening of irises. That's right, your gorgeous baby blues? Now a muddy brown. But your lashes are...slightly longer! Not worth it, I think. And I already have brown eyes! Look, falsies are still being made for a reason, ladies.

Lashes. False lashes.

I've left you with enough to ponder for a Monday morning.

I think you should all go do the "things" you do between blog postings.

I'll wait.

Through-line free since 2008!

Sometimes I make notes on my phone, stuff I want to remember and randomly insert into a blog post. I use my version of shorthand- which is really not shorthand at ALL, nor is it terribly short- which proves confusing, occasionally.

Today's note- vmpre bathroom. (See? That second word wasn't even any different!) I was pretty sure I meant "vampire" bathroom, which made me feel good to figure out. Then I felt badly again, realizing that I still had no idea what a vampire bathroom was.

I was thoroughly, utterly confused for perhaps way too long. Was this a True Blood reference? Blade? A bathroom in my house? (No longer scary, but perhaps this was an old jot?)

Then it hit me. The night that we saw Avatar at Webster, I ran into the bathroom pre-3 hour long viewing. Have any of you ever been in this ladies' room? I thought that there were only about five or six stalls with opposing sinks and mirrors. When I went to check myself out in the full-length mirror on the far wall- I saw nothing. No reflection. My first thought- obviously- was that I was a vampire. Yep. (Apparently at any given time I am one step away from believing something supernatural is occurring. Please do not ever 'punk' me.) So what really happened?

I was looking into a doorway. That's right. What I thought was framing for a mirror was actually a pass-through for another identical set of five or six stalls and opposing sinks. And what's amazing...is that this is not the first time I'd been to this bathroom. Or had this thought.

I've probably jotted it down before and been unable to decipher. Aren't you glad we figured it out?

And now onto- pesticides.

I have never cared much about food additives, chemicals in beauty products- although I've always been staunchly against animal testing, unless it's voluntary, or unless the animal looks REALLY pretty afterwards- or harsh things in household cleaners. Heck [one of ] my middle names is 'Splenda.'

However, my mother sent me this article yesterday. It will haunt me forever. Basically, it concerns a number of household products that are slowly killing you dead. Like the rubber duck.

I've always thought mothers and fathers who were strictly organic and chemical-free were a little a)crazy hippie, probably a holdover from my Hampshire days, or b)able to throw around their copious piles of cash on the trendy new "green" product. (I put "green" in parenthesis, for most of these families do not recycle. Just spend money on expensive "green" cleansers. See? I did it again.)

I swore I would never be one of those But What About The Children parents, nor one of those who only bought free-range piles of meat to go with my macrobiotic side dishes. I guess I always felt that stating the only types of food my child could eat would kinda go hand in hand with PickyEaterdom, which- as everyone knows- is a one way ticket to anorexia. (I had a LOT of ideas before I had a child.)

So what happened? I had a child.

Suddenly, every rash is a chemical burn, every projectile vomit is a direct response to the second cup of coffee I ingested that morning (that one's probably true) and the Clorox which, months before, was okey-dokie for (in theory) scrubbing the bathroom, was now slowly poisoning my kid's lungs, brains and toenails.

I'll admit it. Having a baby has made me certifiably insane about Products and Food. And not because I want to keep up with the Joneses nor turn up my nose at People Who Hate The Planet.

It's because I'm madly in love with Nora. I get it now. I don't want things around her that will stunt her growth (she's already pretty short) or halt her brain development or give her a moments pain for even a second of her long, wonderful life. I get it. As it turns out, we are responsible for everything that happens to her up to and including the age of eighteen. This is in the booklet you get at the hospital. You nod and smile. Because she's just a person- a wonderful person, mind you, but no more deserving of a clean planet or Egyptian cotton than anyone else you know. Right?

Oh, hah ha. How we are now laughing.

Okay, too heavy for a Thursday morning.

The other day on Facebook I feel like I really keyed into a portion of the general populace's brain. Specifically, I mentioned that Mayor McCheese made me laugh until I pee. This is true. Something about that random figure with a sash (why the sash?) and ginormous burger-head gets me going every time. Especially when I think of the Hamburglar chasing after him and trying to steal his big ol' head of meat.

That paragraph took me way too long to type.

However, the comments, emails and texts that started rolling in made me realize- the majority of us have a shared response to McDonalds and their cast of lovable, wacky characters.

We all think they're flipping insane.

Apparently, everyone wanted a party at the Playland, no one gets why most of the characters run around trying to steal your milkshake/fries/burger face, and no less than two of my friends have gotten stuck in the throat of a metal burger head.

Seriously. Typing is hard when you're Ugly Cry-laughing.

This is not the first time I've posted about Mayor McCheese. (Nor will it be the last. I could write forever about this.) Also- nothin' organic in THAT last segment, eh?

I think we'll all be okay.

As long as we size up the metal burger head accordingly and wait our turns.

In like a lion, out like a...nope, still a lion.

Can we talk about Avatar?


That's right, I'm the gal who posts about a movie the day AFTER the Oscars. But, as I'm not invested in the Oscars at all- weird for a writer n' actor, no?- I feel no shame. Heck, I rarely even see movies in the theater. As stated before, we [P.J.] are [is] a strictly Netflix home. 


That said- Avatar. We saw it in 3-D over at Webster Place. Peej really wanted to see it in 3-D, and since Alice In Wonderland was going to replace it in a matter of days...of we went. Nora had a party with her favorite [only] sitter Teeny. Whom I was in the Vivian Girls' show with in 2008 when I understudied every female part, including those of people just walking in front of the theater. AND for whom I got a nanny gig a couple of years ago. Thusly priming her for the occasional Nora (or whomever)-watchin'. (Alllllways thinking.) 


Anyway. Avatar. It was...long. Fun, but long. I still possess a child-sized bladder and pregnancy has done nothing to help this condition. (Plus, we had just downed a humongous soda to "split" with our quick burgers at Five Guys- I wanted a Diet Coke and P.J. wanted something decidedly full-sugar. He compromised by doing half and half. I'm gonna go ahead and say that the irony was intentional.) Of course, once we got to the theater he raced through the line to buy a popcorn, a gargantuan Cherry Coke and an industrial-sized box of Raisinets. I am married to a fourteen year old boy.


So. THE MOVIE. Here's what I came away with: humans are bad. Very bad. Also, for all its talk of saving energy and worlds and such...I couldn't help but be overly aware of the mammoth carbon footprint being all stomped by the production, the tour circuit, the trailers, the craft service table, etc, etc. This was no indie shoestring budget jobber. Ohhh, Hollywood. Also, as Teeny put it, "I've already seen Pocahontas and Fern Gully." Although that did inspire her to Netflix Fern Gully for a repeat viewing. A venture for which Nora and I totally want in on. And yes, the movie was gorgeous. And now I want a dragon-like being. Again.


Friday brought a very exciting milestone to the Schoeny household- food! Nora tried her very first bowl of beyond-bland rice cereal mixed into just the right kinda mushy consistency. Mmm MMM! She didn't care so much for the cereal as food, exactly, but in terms of a new toy or activity? Game on. 


Friday night is also, as everyone knows, when P.J. and I watch The Soup. That's right, this half hour program at 9pm Central Time is something I look forward to all week. It means: Nora will be asleep, work is done for the week, I won't be starting any new projects before 7am and a beer/lemonade/embarrassingly herbal tea will be in my hand. <---lame, I know. However, as we got Nora ready for bed (jammies, sleepsack, sleep cap, sleep mittens- it is chilly in her bedroom- two books, five songs, sponging of her gums under the guise of toothbrushing, monitors on, humidifier elephant on, mini spaceheater on- it is COLD!- and noise machine on- her room faces the Kedzie alley, woot woot!) I noticed that Peej was extremely tired. His rendition of Corduroy was, shall we say, sleepy. By the time Nora fell asleep in her crib (I think the bedtime routine wears her out, frankly), P.J. had also faceplanted on a giraffe blanket, a copy of Goodnight Moon and one of the cats. 


Boy, was I peeved. 


So peeved that I downed a Newcastle and half a box of Girl Scout samoas (no court in the land would convict me) and watched the show By. Myself.


Peeved.


And faceplanted into a pile of folded towels, a monkey blanket and a fleece with ears before the show ended.


The next day was ungodly warm for March in Chicago. We celebrated by going outside and walking around the various neighborhoods that are SO close to being on the Albany/Irving Park line and yet so much nicer. So so much nicer. Nora had her first stroller walk not bundled to the eyeballs and celebrated by...falling asleep and shoving a giraffe blanket into her face to block out all the fresh air and sunlight. We kept removing it and exclaiming things like "Nora, look! Birdhouses that haven't been vandalized! Breezes that don't smell like [delicious but NON-STOP] Columbian grills!" She responded by squawking like a howler monkey and holding the blanket even tighter to her face, thankyouverymuch. Ah well, at least we aired her out.


On Sunday night we went to the Harris Theater and saw The Magnetic Fields in concert. (Two dates in one week, you ask? It's true. We are very much in love. And Teeny is making bank on our impulsive decisions.) The show was superbly awesome and our seats were kinda incredible. However, the crowd, as indie crowds are wont to be, was dressed so much better than I was. Not nicer, mind you, just better. The Old Town School of Folk Music crowd, as Peej so aptly calls them, has a knack of out-whatevering me. Dressy event? I wear a dress. They wear a 1950s housedress from their grandmother and a perfectly ironic bob. Casual event? I wear jeans. They wear jeans that, while not marketed as "skinny" jeans, come off looking rather skinny anyhow. And while I try to shove my unruly falling-out mane into something resembling the ol' I Took A Shower Today look, THEY get to tie their hair up with a rubber band and look like a trillion bucks. 


But the show was still terrific. 


And on our way home? Realizing that we never ate dinner- it happens more often than you'd think- we stopped by the grandest of restaurants on Clark Street...the Weiner's Circle. Friends here will tell you that my love for the Weiner's Circle has only gotten stronger over the years, even though I can no longer wait outside at 3am to get my fix of a char-cheddar red hot with everything except sport peppers as well as an absolutely horrific talking-to by the underage and sassy as heck counter girls. (An actual overheard tidbit- "Nice pleather." "As nice as your weave.")


It was delicious. Obviously.


But now it's Monday, and before Nora and I head off to work we must attempt to destroy this pile of laundry (I swear that people are stopping by and adding their laundry to my machine- I can't possibly own this many towels) and bat at surfaces in an attempt to say that I cleaned. 


Maybe I'll shower. Once again, let's all dream big this week.

We are still drowning in scones. What a way to go.

Nora is currently not speaking to me.


This is incredibly hard for her to get across, seeing as she is all of four months old. 


Her success in doing so makes it even more harsh. So, why the cold onesie?
I let a [relatively] complete stranger hold her down and jab three needles in her thighs, after subjecting her to the humiliation of sucking on a bitter dropper full of something supposedly medicinal. Then I blew in the direction of her face to ensure she swallowed the vile stuff.


AND THEN I dressed her in a side-buttoning shirt proclaiming that she was "Just Ducky!"


I'd ignore me, too.


We just came from her four-month checkup- and, without bragging, I'd like to inform everyone that Nora is the smartest, most alert, strongest and cutest baby...in the 10th percentile. (Which is Just Ducky as well. Smallish duckling-y.)


The vaccines, while a terrible experience for her, are absolutely horrific for me. I am not the bravest of adults. Being wheeled into surgery to have Nora, my own husband had to remind me to be a Brave Little Toaster. (Anyone?) I cry at Campbell's soup commercials and the Sleepytime Bear has brought on the Ugly Cry more than once. The night light in the hall is NOT for our infant daughter, but in fact to stave off my intense fear of the dark. And those mealworms that appear in old boxes of pasta have given me the shakes.


That said, I'd take all of Nora's shots for her. Heck, I'd take them in the eye if it meant she didn't have to get jabbed (and subsequently give me the Look of utter betrayal and abandonment.)


Wait. I'm tearing up. And not from imaginary needles in my ocular cavities, either.


Okay. We'll be okay.


Please talk to me, Nora. When you wake up, that is.


In other You Should Totally Have a Baby, It Won't Change A Thing news- all of my hair is falling out. I've been assured that this is normal- but remember when I freaked out when N's tresses fell out, leaving her with what I like to call The Ed Asner? Yeah, this is worse. Apparently my vanity trumps the vanity I have for my daughter. (Whatever. She's stunning. She doesn't NEED my projected vanity.)


This could be dealt with in the usual way (hats) and forgotten, if not for the unfortunate side effect called: toe tourniquets. Did I mention this in an earlier post? About a month ago, lint from Nora's sock got wrapped around her toe, cutting off circulation and forcing me to hack at a miniature piece of string (and some skin, too) with an impossibly small pair of "safety" nail clippers. It was traumatic. For both of us this time.


Now, imagine that my hair is falling out in crazy bunches of strands (it is) and my newly dexterous kid is helping that along. And let's pretend that these hairs are wrapping themselves around fingers and toes with wild abandon, requiring that each outfit change have the tension of a bomb being diffused, lest I yank off a digit in my hurry to swap pastel Mary Jane socks. She even pooed out a tiny hairball recently, furthering my suspicion that she is, indeed, part kitten-cat.


SO.


In non-bodily function-related news: the house has seemed to settle back into place since the past weekend's baptism (or, as 2-year old Lily refers to it- "When Baby Nora was appetized.") I just removed four bags of recycling from the house. (Yay- planet Earth! Boo...consumerism.) We also moved Nora into her nursery for night sleeping. Last night she slept a whopping 8.5 hours on her own- this would have been more awesome if I hadn't felt the crazy need to check on her three times. She was fine. I am tired.


Also, I bought my blog. Why? Who knows? These are the types of sleep-deprived decisions that I make EVERY DAY. I guess I had a fear that it would either a) be randomly deleted- this has been done to me before- or b) someone might try to buy my blog's name. Don't ask me who. Maybe one of you guys? Which one of you wants my blog? I could delegate. I think I'm at a point where I could happily ghost-write. (Remember Ghostwriter? The show, not the movie with Ewen McGregor. That was a terrific series.)


The new addy, as you may have noticed, is www.lollygagblog.com. No more Blogspot! However, as Blogger has lovingly agreed to forward readers to the new address, it really cuts your hands-on work down to a negligible amount. In fact, there is literally no change for you at all. I really shouldn't have even mentioned it. You have enough on your plate. Forget I said anything.

(The address for which to send appropriate headwear, Xanax, down comforters and Lady Rogaine has not changed. I leave the frequency of such care packages up to your discretion.)


And now, naptime with my favorite Valentine-hatted, Otto-clutching, Tylenol-dosed main gal.


Happy Thursday.

Non-heathen baby? Check.

Nora Jane was baptized yesterday and she was kinda okay with it.

Kinda.

Actually she was superb during the processional (yep, she got to proCESS) and great through the readings and the homily.

And then she woke up.

To be fair, she couldn't have been the comfiest of gals. She wore the Schoeny family lace christening gown, complete with Puritanical eyelet bonnet (as my sister Rachel exclaimed- "I saw Goody Proctor with the devil!") and there were more than a few itchy, constricting layers. And turns out, she does NOT care to have water splashed on her head, nor oily crosses traced on her forehead. She expressed this displeasure by screeching and sobbing for the rest of mass. My mother said it was the Holy Spirit entering her. My mother is kind.

The service was nice and it was a delight to see everyone who came to watch. (I realize that 'delight' is rather a rather dusty term, but that's what it was. Delightful.) I had a good time watching my sister Kate (and Nora's godmother) pretend to be cool with a Catholic ceremony- my family's Protestant- and as she put it, "fake her way." God didn't strike anyone down, so I think everyone was easy like Sunday morning with it. (See what I did there?)

I did, however, express joy at seeing someone in the congregation by making the 'rock on' sign at them. You know, the ol' devil horns? (Again, nothing happened- we must be cool.)

Another moment etched into my memory will be the image of P.J.'s ol' roomie Nick (and former groomsman- it's pretty much the same cast of characters, like a Christopher Guest movie) taking photos on the altar after the ceremony. With the priest. Directing the priest. Repeatedly. ("Father, I need you to step down and go beside Keely. No, can you scoot over more?")

Again, no Heavenly displeasure was shown.

When we got home (you know, to the after party?) I changed Nora into her party gown- a silk kimono, of course. Why, what did YOU wear to celebrate your baptism? It was a hand-me-down, but still uber fancy. Basically we went from Kelly McGillis in 'Witness' straight to "Memoirs of a Geisha."

And Nora got some sweet loot from the party! (Had I but known what a cash cow the "christening" could be...) Among them were items of bling that I'm "keeping safe" for her, enough puffy bibles and children's stories to open our own Vatican library...and a mammoth-sized giraffe. Yes. Not exactly life-sized, but closer to an actual giraffe than any standard stuffed animal size. We've decided to keep it in the front window. That way, any crazies on our street (and oh, WILL THEY EVER be emerging from hibernation shortly) will think that a) someone is doing a spiffy neighborhood watch or b) the Loch Ness monster is alive and well and in the Midwest.

That was the second Loch Ness post I've ever made on this blog. This is at once funny and sad. We can do better.

And now, if I may, a little commentary on the Olympics' closing ceremony?

What the heck happened?

It was all well and good until Shatner decided to be all, well, Shatner about his speech- and I'm sorry, light comedy does NOT play well in ice arena. They might be laughing...but you'd never know it! (And they weren't laughing.)

And Michael Buble. Which, at first, we didn't realize WAS Michael Buble. Except for the voice. As Rachel said (she was highly quotable this weekend) "That's either a very talented Mountie, or Michael Buble is wearing a stupid outfit." The latter! Suddenly it was a stereotypical 1940's Canadian radio hour. You know, the kind that Canada made famous.

And then...then...a kind of poor man's Macy's parade/Chutes n' Ladders/acid trip where what may have been actual Mounties "performed." (Rachel- "If they start dancing, they're not real Mounties."/"No, they must be real Mounties- if they were performers they'd be dancing better.") And the giant moose and beaver! They had sweet faces, sure, but I did not get it. I think Canada just spent the entirety of their tourism revenue on this IceCapade rave.

We also decided that whatever the heck going on with the gigantic butterfly/Little Mermaid/pod people redheads suspended 400 feet above the ice were SCARY (and the one with the crazy close-ups was clearing dating a cameraman) and we all feared for the kid dressed as a giant hockey puck.

And whatever was supposed to happen with the end of Michael J. Fox's routine DID NOT happen. C'mon, A/V Club! Fail. Alex P. Keaton is being charming and Canadian! You let us ALL down.

And pretty much, that's what happened with the Olympics. I think. Although I don't believe that watching a half hour of the closing ceremony makes me an athletic expert. Or even an athletic supporter. (Ha- see what I did there?)

Now I'm off to shove all the glittery plastic flatware back into the dining room, wash n' dry a small mountain of infant party outfits, eat a second cheddar chive scone (my current raison de bread) that was leftover from the party...and nap with my holiest of holy daughters.

Happy four month birthday, Nora Janie! We love you to the moon and back...even without the slick duds and rockin' ragers.

That's what parents do.

Oh boy OH BOY!

After the psychotic terror of last week's escapade, I think I was due for some good luck. And what's luckier than someone else cleaning your house?

NOTHING!

I've always [since 1988] been excellent about keeping a room/ bed/ secret-detective-office, etc/ decently clean. I still do. But there's just something about that one area of the bathroom/kitchen/couch that always needs cleaning. And you always clean it. But every now and then (say, every five months or so) that you have an stark realization: if you must scrub that one terrible locale once more this week you will go frothingly mad.

And so you call in the experts. And they make your house look like the cover of Real Simple, Martha Stewart Living, even the Target circular. And things feel manageable again. For the next five months.

And Mom- I totally get it now. The pre-clean before the cleaning ladies arrive? I get it. When I was twelve I totally had a field day with this one- why should I have to clean if we're paying someone else to do it once a month? Maybe I should get paid!

No. I shoulda shut the heck up and moved my porcelain dolls. The idea of the person I hired not being able to clean every inch of dusty, spitty-uppied space is horrifying. I WILL MOVE THE SINK IF SHE NEEDS ME TO.

And my house is currently being cleaned. Which is why I am deliriously happy and incapable of the type of ire usually associated with Thursday posts. Okay, usually Monday is the bitter day. But I really really can't do it now.

Especially since Nora has recently started doing these gleeful belly-laughs accompanied by face-splitting grins. Really levels the playing field, mood-wise.

SO.

What do you wanna talk about?

How about the other night when I was putting Nora down for a nap? As I came back out into the hallway I smelled the unmistakable scent of men's aftershave. And not P.J.'s. (He occasionally wears Obsession, which I am not at all ashamed to admit- I am obsessed with. The irony is not lost on me.)

My FIRST thought- of course- is that we were haunted. (Why is that always my first thought? One of these days I'm actually gonna be haunted and then I'll be all like- this is NOTHING like what I was fearing. What a weirdo I've been!)

My SECOND thought- of course- was that P.J. would return home and think I had been cheating on him. (What is up with my linear thinking these days? Okay, fine. Years.) And I would certainly hope that P.J. would immediately know I could NEVER be with a man who smelled like dime-store eucalyptus. And, you know, that I loved him best.

I did what I usually do when things tweak me out: my mind plays possum with the idea and refuses to resurface until the following night.

I mentioned it. Casually.

"Oh," he said without blinking. "New AirWicks in the hall. Eucalyptus."

Ok, ONE) it never even crossed your MIND that it might be someone's signature scent/we're haunted? TWO) Why are you going and all changin' up the AirWicks? We're a strict lavender/apple cinnamon household! THREE) Thanks for refilling the AirWicks.

Also.

Children's programming- more dangerous than we had previously thought? Discuss.

I'll start. Now, some of you may know that I have a very real and very visceral reaction to the KidzBop(!) compilations. The commercial for the newest one, I believe it's number 17 (Good God), is currently airing. The track listing is INCREDIBLE. "Use Somebody" by Kings of Leon? Really? How about "Say Hey (I Love You) by Michael Franti? I adore this song. But there is definitely a line in there about 'druggies on the corner' and how they're 'calling [his] name.' And something a little unclear about 'ghetto games.' And how about Paparazzi? There is seriously some adult content going on around here. Singing them in high-pitched tones does not make them Disney. (Although, admit it- who among you played around with audio speed to make your favorite songs sound all Chipmunky as a kid? No?)

Also.

Have you watched the Noggin channel lately? The kiddos for whom I nanny dig a bunch of the shows, but I must ask- why the show disclaimers? I guess 'disclaimers' might be the wrong word, but there is definitely a thing before each show that says what each one provides, i.e. "Go, Diego, Go" teaches kids Spanish, problem-solving skills and educates them about the rainforest. Have they always done this? To whom are they preaching? You've clearly already DVR-ed that thing and have pressed play. It was gonna be watched. Maybe it's meant to be a "You're a great nanny and parent, go ahead, let them watch 25 minutes of TV. It's fine." Which is all well and good...except then I start to wonder why they're trying to allay my guilt. And then I get all defensive. Who are they to tell me what to do with my guilt? Maybe the kids shouldn't be watching a show right now, don't tell ME it's fine, this is the second show they've watched today and they're crabby to begin with! Great, fine, kids, turn off the TV, we're gonna papier-mache. THANK YOU, DIEGO PROGRAMMERS.

And then I weep and then the kids turn on a show for me.

Maybe Nora and I should unplug for the rest of the day. Maybe go all Laura Ingalls Wilder and read aloud by candlelight. Sure, it's the middle of the day and bright as anything...maybe just a blanket tent.

Can't touch the furniture, after all. I'm afraid to mess anything up.

Best. Fear. Ever.

Not for the faint of heart.

Remember that hilarious post about the rats in the wall? And how they'd soon "take care of themselves?"

Optimistic homeowners are completely blitzed on stupidity.

Lemme paint another picture:

Friday night= fabulous! Had a good friend over for some tacos and baby-snuggling. Mario Kart Wii was involved, as was The Soup, a lovely Zinfandel and a minimum of scratching in the walls and floors.

Saturday= just as grand. Breakfast, home renovations, more baby-snuggling, some quality television and again, an absence of scratching.

HOWEVER. I jetted out to Target for some [at the time] super-important supplies. Was gone less than an hour. Stopped at Walgreens on my way home and called to check in with Peej and the Little. P.J., thinking I was in the garage, walked into the kitchen to peek out the back window. Turned around.

SAW A RAT BUTT SCURRYING UNDER THE OVEN.

Was quiet on the phone.

I asked what was the matter.

Still quiet. Then...

"Keel? I think I saw something."

Silence.

"A...thing?"

"A butt go under the oven."

"A rat butt?"

Silence.

After a cartoonish frozen moment in the middle of the Walgreens photo department, I alternated between insurmountable horror at the idea of facing my biggest ever fear AND the throat-gripping panic at the notion of my baby being IN THAT HOUSE. And, you know, Peej.

I dropped my purchases and ran. Upon entering the house I saw P.J. holding the baby waaaay up high and brandishing multiple household weapons with the other. He was also on the phone with the exterminator and pacing the kitchen with his eyes never leaving the oven.

"Should I-"

"I'm on it," he said with that edge in his voice. You know that edge. The one that justifies the use of all-caps in his name? That one. ("Get in the house" and "These are two-for-one in the circular" are also indicative phrases.)

I took the baby and acted like one myself for a good half hour. P.J. wanted to head out immediately to Home Depot and get enough traps to fell a bear- but I didn't want him to go yet. And since it was so close to Nora's bedtime (and since she'd been sick) I didn't want her to spend the next hour or so in the car- I was ready to CAMP OUT in the car, but we must think of the child.

And then we got the mail.

And Nora's social security card came finally, and P.J. wanted to add her info to our tax return...and then we realized we'd get an extra 1k back just for having a kid!

But back to the rat.

P.J. was about to head out to the store when I ventured back into the kitchen for- something. My mind was promptly erased.

Because.

The rat, the one who hated the light, wouldn't be around people, who certainly wouldn't make an appearance twice in one night...was standing in front of the dishwasher.

I am not ashamed to admit that I shrieked like the woman in the Tom & Jerry cartoons. Except louder and with more counter-jumping.

THING WAS HUGE.

P.J. found me in record time.

"I knew exactly what it was when you screamed," he told me. (I can't imagine what other kind of catastrophic house event would have happened in the same hourlong span- but then again, maybe I shouldn't venture there with this house.) He stuffed a beach towel underneath the oven- this should either deter the thing or keep it cozy.

So THEN P.J. left for Home Depot, leaving me with Nora. I got her pajama-ed and fed (with a broom, steak knife and hammer within arms' reach- not TOO close, mind you, I am always aware of my child's safety.)

He made it back in record time. He also stopped for a pizza. We hadn't eaten in ages and CERTAINLY were not about to cook. It was half pineapple, half pepperoni and black olives. Exceptional. But who had time to enjoy it? We had a sting operation to prepare.

By this time Nora was asleep in her bed (God knows how with her stressed, amped-up parents emitting vibes that could power a small town) and I was free to, you know, "assist."

P.J. began laying out glue traps in the perimeter of the kitchen (while I stood on a stool and wielded a hammer- helpfully)...and then we began to hear a familiar scratching sound under the kitchen sink. (Is this house made of swiss cheese? Discuss.) Our crackerjack team of kittens were suddenly on the job. However, they had to sit this one out- locked in a bathroom. After all, glue traps are not a cat's friend...and any rat that makes three appearances in two hours is most certainly damaged in some capacity. Bean has enough constitution problems.

So, after making sure that the child and the animals were protected at all costs, P.J. began the fun task of pulling items out of the cabinet one by one. (I think our original "plan" was that the rat would kinda jump out onto the glue traps by himself. This did not happen.) Once the cabinet was cleared of anything, including rat, P.J. lined even MORE glue traps near the hole around the pipe fitting. (Oh, so holes "let in" rats? Gotcha. Also- by this point the rat could've done a sweet art project with all the glue. Or maybe re-tiled the under-sink area.

Peej closed the glue-trappy cabinet. We sat back to wait.

Not five minutes later the scratching at the door began again, this time accompanied by a thud that sounded an awful lot like a gluetrap stilt. This when it got interesting.

P.J. instructed me to leave the room (I love him so much) so he could sweep the critter into a bag and carry him outside.

Except.

The cabinet has a wooden lip that prevents glue traps from being swept anywhere. P.J. was gonna hafta lift the thing up.

Except.

It was hissing. (Wouldn't you?) After various attempts at thwacking the corner of the trap to get it to do...something...P.J. realized that the rat was actually freeing itself.

"I have to kill it," P.J. told me with a level of angry panic I've never heard in ANYONE'S voice. I couldn't even reply, though I imagined an exclamation point was actually visible above my head. And apparently his extra surge of adrenaline kick-started P.J.'s Can Do attitude. He somehow distracted the rat from the front and GRABBED the tray from the back, flipping this beast into a Williams Sonoma bag. (Do you know what the term "bobo" means? Look it up. Sigh.)

Back to the rat. P.J., grasping the squirming bag o' rodent, walked it into the alley and Took Care Of The Situation.

I love him. In fact, I've never loved him more. I thought I was above blatant shows of machismo. False.

My hero then came back into the house and cleaned the kitchen, removing all traces of awfulness. Apologies were made to the cats, assuring them that we never doubted their mouser prowess. Side note- (this whole blog should be called 'side note')- Ender, the tabby, had been waking us in the middle of the night for about week, yowling and knocking things over in a very un-Enderlike manner. We, of course, yelled at him and hurled epithets like "bad" and "sleep-hater," not realizing that our long-suffering Good Cat was trying to tell us of the Chihuahua-sized beastie in the kitchen. We'll believe him from now on. Last night was the first night in weeks where he slept on our bed. We took that as a good sign.

Oh, and the stove towel? P.J. picked it up, post-Benny Hill episode, to find a HOLE THE SIZE OF LAKE ERIE. Yep, eaten through in an hour.

Crisis averted, we checked on the baby (still asleep), checked on the cats (pride wounded but blood disease-free) and settled in for some Mario Kart. Nothing soothes the nerves like Toad n' Yoshi.

I guess all's well that ends well- the lower level bathroom is really pretty AND rat-tunnel-free. Plus, if rodents talk- and we KNOW that they do- then we've just secured our place as THE home with which not to mess on Troy Street.

Actually, scratch that.

With our neighbors? We'd probably come in fourth.