Vodka tonic, stirred with a binky.

Today is rainy and, as my youngest sister used to be fond of saying, dank.

It's hard to get moving on days like today. I've found it's made harder when one is woken up- not by one's newborn- but by one's humongo tabby at 5am. To be fair, the cat had important business to deal with at 5am. Atop the armoire. Whining over our heads. And then shrieking as he rode the pivoting standing mirror to the floor. And by "rode" I mean "fell onto."

He may or may not have taken frames and a vase with him.

(Nora, in bed between us, slept through this! She was, however, woken up when an email on my Bberry vibrated my bedside table.)

6am: The kitchen trashcan (and thusly the kitchen) smelled like coffee and onions, not exactly one of those invigorating 'get up and go' scents.

Although, to be fair, that's probably what I smell like, too.

Thankfully, PJ took the garbage out.

I wish someone would take me out. (See what I did there?)

I vaguely remember telling PJ at 4am that I was happy the glass of water next to the bed was lime seltzer. 'Cause that's really fancy.

This joint [lifestyle] is really jumpin'  [tucked in at 8pm].

Nora, bedecked in a squirrel (sqwo) tee and yoga pants, is looking at me like "TGIT.' The mini nanny (nani?) workaday life is really taking it's toll on her. If it's possible for an almost-5 month old to adapt the facial expression of a sullen 14 year old whenever she's in the car...well, then I spend over an hour a day in the Passat with my teenage self. (Pleasant and thankful.)

I feel like Nora starts out the day with a jar of goodwill towards us all- and, without fail, I spend my day squandering it. Transit! Interrupted naps! Incorrect bath friend choices! (Always the starfish. Do not pull that orca junk.)

And it's a big jar with which to begin.  Epcot big.  (I originally felt the need to elaborate with "Spaceship Earth," but I have a feeling you were on it with 'Epcot.')

Back to Thursday.

Nora just sneezed and Lil asked if that was Nora or her. Presumably she'd  know if she had sneezed, but the plastic big band set she's rockin' IS awfully distracting.

Awfully.

And when I sang You Are My Sunshine upon request, Lily asked who it was for.

You, I told her.

"You're not thinking about Nora?"

Nope.

"Please don't look at her for my song."

Sometimes I think being almost 3 would be marvy.

9am: Seven year old J asked for colder water. I suggested ice. She rebutted that adding cubes takes too long to cool water. I begged to differ and proceeded to take her water bottle, added ice, shook it up all fancy-like (lots of extraneous elbow action) and gave her the COLDEST WATER SHE'D EVER HAD. (Her words.)


I felt awesome, until I realized that I had inadvertently shown a first-grader how to chill a martini.


And in Aneurysm Watch 2010 News: I've broken two more things from other people's fridges this week. One was a container of Greek yogurt (the only honey one, of course- there were loads of blueberry yogurts just waiting to be annihilated, but NO) and a hand-crafted root beer.


Two more signs that these situations did not occur anywhere near my fridge: those are awesome things to have in one's fridge.


And since I have a habit of not wasting food (except perhaps a fudgesicle in the freezer that I do believe we moved with as well as a tupperware of cabbage that may well have fermented) I had to finish these two items off.


The families for which I nanny would have no problem with me tossing these items- in fact, they'd probably be concerned otherwise- but it's not in my nature. Sadly.


The yogurt was fabulous. Sure, there were a couple of plastic shards that I narrowly avoided (nice try, shards) but the honey on the bottom [top] was truly delicious. Sadly.


The root beer was an exercise in stealth, for if anyone under the age of ten had seen me downing it, they. Would. Have. Wanted. Some. And I try not to push root beer for brekkie. As soon as it hit the floor and started fizzing, I rushed it to the sink and saved as much as I could- as covertly as I could- as quickly as I could. Sadly.


I think I got the one with extra carbonation. (And bourbon vanilla extract!)


There's only so much you can expect on days like today. So, you put on your Hampshire College hoodie (motto: Try To Come To Class, Okay?), make a blanket tunnel for wombats and curl up until the sun comes back out.


Maybe even let the children join you.

Gonna need a bigger Mama Bear mug.

Okay, the weather was amazing on Thursday. And Friday. Like, 70 degree amazing. Open the windows, happily spring-clean (when it's so gorgeous out, it doesn't feel like cleaning. More like moving stuff around so the breeze can hit everything) and force my child out of doors- that kind of amazing weather.

I took Nora to our neighborhood park and met a woman who had perhaps just been handed her baby. She was incredibly impressed with everything I was doing for Nora ("What's that on her HEAD!?" "Uh, a hat?") and straight-up told me that she didn't know how to do anything for her kid. Oh boy!

Seriously. The gal was asking me about feedings, bedding, sleeping...and, contrary to how I may appear on the streets, I am not Dr. Spock. Or Mr. Spock, either. My knowledge of All Things Child is only so-so (and I am excellent at showing and feeling emotions.) I was like- Look, lady. I put my sweatpants on one leg at a time. Motherhood, insofar as five months has shown, is about intuition of your child. But maybe pull the sun cover over his eyes? He's on fire.

Later, while Nora napped, I took the opportunity to change all of the sheets in the house. The windows were open, sun was streaming in, a gentle breeze was billowing the curtains...I felt downright Donna Reed. I love feeling like Donna Reed. Of course, it was right around then that I realized the sheets were NOT fitting. I had started with the wrong corner and didn't have enough length to fit it to the bottom. Ha HAH! So I rotated. Now, there are four corners on a bedsheet, right? Two are for the top and two are for the bottom. Usually. You have a fifty-fifty chance of getting the correct corner. Unless you are me and over-zealously rotate, skipping the corner you desire and instead leading you (me) to believe that you have somehow ended up with a miniature perfect square. Maybe a wall hanging?

Don't pretend you've never done this.

However, it was during this sheet kerfuffle that I noticed Bean, the smaller of the two cats (and the one that a friend has deemed as having fur inside of his head as well) staring, frightened, out of the bedroom window. He's a bit of an 'indoor kid' as well. The sudden sounds and gusts of wind from the street were a little much for him after a winter of hiding underneath blankets and piles of laundry. Seriously, every passing car and child running by elicited the same deer (cat?) in headlights look. I know that look.

Maybe I should sign them both up for chess.

The next morning, of course, we awoke to blustery flurries, grey skies and chilly temps. I staved off a temper tantrum by hibernating with Nora and Peej- I think we watched about five hours of TV and movies, including but by no means limited to The Wizard, Jeopardy and at least three episodes of Clean House. At one point P.J. was sent to the Middle Eastern bakery down the road for spinach and cheese pies, string cheese, and honey balls. The honey balls were an impulse buy- and an exceptional one at that.

The rest of the weekend was an embarrassingly domestic and dull (read: perfect) time. I emptied medicine cabinets. Threw out expired makeup and products (quite possibly for the first time since my YM subscription ran out.)  Started a Facebook group extolling the virtues of proper grammar and punctuation- but, oh, HAHA, went overboard on the punctuation. (My name is Keely and I love to hyphenate.) Some people had a field day with that one, which reminded me of the time I errantly mispronounced 'Linux' in a room full of Dungeon Masters.

I still think I came out ahead that day. When all was said and done, they were still Dungeon Masters.

But now, apparently, it's Monday. And as Jay-Z says, 'We on to the next one.'

I think he was talking about oil changes and packages o' pampers, don't you?

Hoodies, hoodies, everywhere.

Okay.

This weather.

It's been pseudo-springtime here for a couple of weeks and it's been fantastic. Sure, it gets chilly again at night, but it's been quite the welcome reminder that spring is coming.

Earlier this week, however, the weather people told me that it was gonna be close to 70 degrees today (noaa.gov- that's right, I use NASA's weather people). I have been so excited for this day to get here that I [mentally] planned out three or four different hoodie/yoga pants combos. Last night I checked once more before bed- to find out that it would be mid-fifties at best.

A fine temperature for March. Heck, tropical for March in Chicago.

I [mentally] added another layer for the day's outfit.

Woke up, checked again- back to 70.

Stop playing me like a lute, noaa.gov. I live here all year 'round, and the changing of the seasons is really all that keeps me going at the beginning of the year. Unless you count the Irish parade stuff. Which, clearly, I don't.

Look, meteorologists, I have an infant daughter who thinks 5am is a spiffy time to talk about our feelings, enough active and activity-laden children to fill a minivan, and, ridiculously enough, some writing I plan on finishing before Nora gets braces. I need to know that if you tell me crazy amounts of sun are coming, then CRAZY AMOUNTS OF SUN ARE COMING. My Vitamin-D intake is getting to be a desperate situation, here.

Maybe I'll start checking accuweather. They're awfully optimistic.

I'm currently wearing my mustard-yellow vintage Converse- which I love- but I'm getting the "first real sneaker of spring" callous on the back of my heels- which I do not love. After a season of winter boots followed by a few weeks of rain boots, my feet have gone soft. Kinda. It's weird to try to re-train your feet to accept athletic footwear...but if it means I'm actually out of doors wearing my shoes (and not crying because of it) we'll sally forth.

Also- Sally Forth. Not an exceptional comic strip.

SO.

I took Lily and Baby NorNor (as Lil has begun emphatically calling her- sounds vaguely Martian, but trying to get a two year old to unnickname someone is pretty darned impossible) to the library in our spring sneakers. Have you ever gone to a public library with a biggie and a little-little? I highly recommend it, as long as you like loud noises to go with your daily helping of guilt. Also- modulated observations about patrons from the Division/Clybourn neighborhood and checkouts with everyone helping with every.little.book.and.card.and.scan. Which, thankfully, I do.

And on the walk home we saw this sign in a store window: Boxers Draws (Underwear!)...which is extremely specific, if not marginally incorrect.

That's right. Draws.

I am so tired that, when I just yawned, my eyelid flipped up. (Gettin' too 'real' for you? Like all MTV 'real.') This is probably because Nora (and thusly, her parents) cannot adjust to the time change. Sure, it's an hour. Sure, infants can't tell the difference of an hour, especially when her nap schedules aren't carved into any sort of nonporous rock.

Still, she knows something has changed. And it angers her.

A lot.

She shows her displeasure by refusing to nap for longer than twenty minutes, which is, oh- the amount of time it takes to actually close the door and take the stairs. Maybe pee, if one is ambitious and extraordinarily fortunate.

I hope today's that kind of day. I feel lucky enough to pee.

And- just so you don't think I live in some sort of idyllic parenting-magazine-cover-sitting-with-a-cup-of-tea-watching-the-children-play-beautifully-typing-on-a-laptop-for-hours-and-hours kind of world- I'm gonna come clean. I start my blogs the night before.

And type before I wake her for work. Usually on my Blackberry while I'm brushing my hair. (And tossing out miniature wigs from the pileup on the brush- I will be bald by May.)

And then again in the car if Peej is driving. (I am law-abiding, thankyouverymuch.)

And during the first nap- if I don't hafta pee.

Perhaps again during Lily or Scout's naps...as long as Nora isn't awake and sweetly yelling directly into my nostril.

And try to finish it up before "lunch." (I don't think it can be considered a real meal if you're hovering over the sink and choking on a grape.)

Oops, I think I've gone too far from Don't Think My Life Is Plush directly into the territory of Please Don't Pity Me.  It all evens out by the weekends. Nora gets to chomp on P.J.'s chin, I eat lovely meals while sitting on all types of furniture...and I get to pee. A lot.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to read a chapter of Encyclopedia Brown and The Case of The Secret Pitch.

To Nora. We got it for Julia from the library.

Neither are here right now...but I'll just have it out and ready. Maybe open.

Oh! Good! Nora's up.

Storytime...

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.