It's like Guilt Gyoza- but worse!

I'm extremely lazy. Or exhausted. Late at night, I can't tell which it is. And it's been causing some guilt. I like to call this guilt- Floss Guilt.

I know I should floss. I spent 6k on my teeth in the past handful of years alone (not to mention Braces 1.0 that was sponsored by my folks between '90-'92. It didn't "take." Some may blame a latent latex allergy; I happen to know that I have evil teeth.)

But by the end of the evening, I find that I can barely muster the energy to check items off of my usual bedtime routine: teeth, retainer (did you know that I wear a retainer? Now everyone does.), three step face 'system' (I have a thing for infomercials), cocoa butter for "problem areas" (which- ahem- is strictly preventative), *TMI ALERT* using the pump (or as Annie and Kat call it, "playing a polka-" it's very rhythmic), taking vitamins, Thermos of Dutch cocoa, seaweed wrap, chilled cucumber slices, mini mani/pedi, brow maintenance, a section of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "Sonnets From The Portuguese..."

The idea of adding 'floss,' regardless of how crucial it may be- exhausts me.

I informed P.J. that I was too tired to floss.

"Okay."

Too tired to floss? my inner adult scolded. Are you also too tired for future dental anguish? (Sometimes I don't even need anyone else with whom to argue.)

So I flossed. Angrily. Lots o' huffing and sighing. And timed it. Thirty seconds! Cheesen'crackers, it takes longer to organize Mount St. Pillows on our bed each morning! (And I never skip that.) So I added flossing into the routine.

Except for last night. 'Cause I was too tired.

And speaking of timing activities we don't feel like doing- Real Simple has a new segment called Speed Cleaning. Now, I love Real Simple more than I could possibly extol. Truly. It's a minor [major] obsession. But I think they might have overSimplified things this month. (See that right there?)

This month's Speed Clean was..."Your Porch. A total transformation in 10 minutes or less." Okay, I don't have a porch, per se (certainly not the Tara-esque one featured in the mag), but I'm feeling game. Even gamey. Let's clean:

-Minutes 1 and 2 tell me to remove everything from the porch. Done.
-Minute 3 says to wipe down all of the objects with a damp cloth. Okay, maybe I can do it that quickly.
-Minute 4- "Using an extendable duster, sweep cobwebs from high corners, overhangs and shutters." A minute? Really? It's gonna take me twice that long to locate an extendable duster, let alone use it. More if I hafta walk over to Walgreens.
-Minutes 5 and 6- Wipe down all metal and wood surfaces. Also- clean the windows. Really? Really?
-Minute 7- Sweep the porch and steps. Okay, maybe I can do that one in a minute. But I may have used up some time from whining about the windows.
-Minute 8- "Dip a long-handled scrub brush in the bucket and clean the floor." I am but one woman, Real Simple. (Have you ever cleaned any floor in a minute? Junk, it's taken me half that to complain about this step.)
-Minutes 9 and 10- Once everything is dry, I'm supposed to put everything back, then get myself something to drink on my awesomely clean porch.

Perhaps a chilled IV bag to replenish the fluids lost in the death march called Speed Clean Your Porch.

(I much prefer the game called Hose Off Your Cracked Cement Patio.)

And now, some kudos; the blog's recently been gifted with some sweet awards. Thanks to Kristin@Ellie-Town and  JoeyRes at Big Teeth And Clouds! I'd like to pay it forward as well (minus the horrid script and overblown budget), and acknowledge some fellow bloggers without whom I could not get through the day.

-My youngest sister Emma's blog: Huckleberry Flynn. I recommend not having a beverage anywhere near the vicinity of your mouth and/or nose when you read her lyrical dissections.
-The bitingly witty Caitlin Montanye Parrish and Everything Loose Will Land. I'm lucky enough to be in a secret society with her.
-The multi-talented Regina at And Baby Makes Four. She shops organically. She cooks. She has two boys. She has still yet to come make ANY of the dishes featured on her blog.
-Rick at Retired Pastor Ruminates (and also Rick's Recipes!) I will forever known him as Reverend Floyd, seeing as he baptized me and all. One blog is full of literary wit, the other teeming with truly yummy recipes.
-My pal Leah at Tin Roof, Rusted. Nora's in love with Leah's son Calder, and I'm in love with the fact that she and I are both from Western Mass.
-The hilarious Nifer and Jeremy at He Said and She Said. Contrasting views on arbitrary themes? False. I daresay they are crucial themes.
-Neato keeno Gwynne at God Spam. Trivia: We were almost roommates back at Camp Hamp. Due to a lack of follow-through, this did not occur. I think she lucked out. I am a horrid roommate.

And before this turns into a lengthier blogroll than the one featured on the side of this page, may I recommend that you seek awesome reads there, as well? Can't go wrong. They are all Keely-Approved. I'd thumbprint them if I could.

If I weren't tangled in floss.

Why yes, that was a picture at the Bean.

I just love holidays. This is no secret. So, uh, a weekend devoted to mothers? (Yes, it's a weekend.) I accept. In fact, this 30 day span includes Mother's Day, our anniversary, Memorial Day and my birthday. Cinco de Mayo just missed the cut.

With the exception of Cinco de Mayo and Memorial Day, someone around here is feelin' the holiday pressure. And it sure isn't me. (And Nora never lets stuff like that get to her.) But, so far, he's stepped up to the plate. (But it's a long 30 days, Schoeny. This is no time to let down your guard, even for a second.)

So! The weekend began with a motherly trip to...the Home Depot. Apparently neither my bathroom window nor  various things requiring adhesive realize that this is a HOLIDAY. But they were giving out popcorn. Festivities- check. Also festive? The gifts that Big and Li'l Schoeny gave me: bubble bath (yep, I still take baths. But these days it's more of a "Forget* this, I'm taking a bath") and a membership to Costco. Woot, a brick of cheese bigger than me! Also, admission into that club that acknowledges 'second breakfast' and 'first lunch!' I was also given a stunningly crayon-ed card with questionably good penmanship for a six month-old.

(*Sometimes I don't say "forget.")

After a quick car nap, Nora was ready to be bundled within an inch of her life to go play downtown. (For you see, we live in Chicago. March= 90 degrees and May= 12.) We took her to the Celtic Fest at Grant Park...where it was predominantly about Nova Scotia. And by "predominantly" I mean "four booths." The other was manned by the Chicago Tribune. So, they scaled down a bit. We still had such fabulous Celtic fare as...Irish nachos. You know, like the [Mexican] Celts used to serve up. Whatever, they tossed some corned beef on top and I had no qualms at all about saying Erin Go Brasa.

And then it rained. But it was cool because Nora was charming the aprons off of the counter staff inside one of the beverage tents= we got to stay without ordering more food. In the process of trying to rip P.J.'s cup from his hands (she loves cups) one of her squeals of outrage and dismay attracted loud 'awws' from a few 20-something gals. So we hung out for a few with our pals Natalie and Dave and his bro (Natalie of 'Get Keely Back In Shape' fame- seriously, she's faboo) and then realized we should actually, you know, see the festival. We had wanted to stay and see the Saw Doctors at 7pm but, well, rain + infant + only four booths of merchandise= we were done by 4:30pm.

We went home and took a nap.

That night P.J. and I had an inexplicable craving for meatloaf. So, we whipped up a batch and ate it while watching SNL. Yes, Betty White was great. So was the meatloaf.

Sometimes adulthood is a lot weirder than they make it out to be.

The next a.m. Peej and Nora took me to Victory's Banner, my favorite brunch place in the entirety of the world, where I ate too much food, let strangers tell me how darling my well[ish] behaved daughter was being, and was handed a lovely long-stemmed rose. (I also met a woman who was originally from Pittsfield, MA. The Pittsfield contingent can attest to how bizarre this is. For many reasons.)

But what holiday celebrating motherhood would be complete without a couple of Oh My Goodness, Please Don't Remove My Child From My Care moments? For instance. As I was rocking Nora to sleep on my lap, a YELLOW JACKET landed on her bare arm. (I have no idea how it got inside, for the record. Windows and doors= closed.) I had a moment of panic- about eighteen rapid fire thoughts rushed through my mind- is she allergic to bees? Am I? WHO CARES? And then I grabbed the corner of her towel and crushed the bee in my hand. And then yelled for P.J. And then did the exact opposite of Stop, Drop & Roll, which is Run, Spin & Panic. 'Cause I couldn't find the bee.  P.J. discovered it a few feet away from us- yep, we had traveled around the upstairs of the house with it in the towel- and he performed a Fatality. My poor nudie daughter was more alarmed by her crazytown parents than by any impending stinger. (At least bees are quiet.)

And yes, she was clad only in a towel- we had just given her a bath and were letting her play naked due to the horrific diaper rash currently wrecking her poor bottom- and that was because of an adverse reaction to her oatmeal baby cereal. I, too, was in a slight state of- um- exposure due to nursing prior to BeeWatch 2010. Perfect for running around in front of windows, especially if you're drawing attention to yourself with yells. Happy Mother's Day!

We finished off a lovely weekend with exceptional Ecuadorian food and a viewing of that maternal classic- Blade.

Okay, adulthood isn't just weird. It's also relentlessly terrific.

As long as you're properly attired.

Enjoy while ya can!

This might just be my favorite new billboard- and that's saying a ton- courtesy of my big sis Kate:

Oh, Pittsfield. Thank you for your stellar advertising skillz.

Let's dissect, shall we?

Happy birthday, Margaret! One hundred years...wow! That's certainly something to...wait a sec. Who did you say was sponsoring this? Devanny Condron? The funeral home? Well, enjoy it now, Margaret. As Kate said- "Devanny Condron is waiting for you."

Now, personally, I'd like to be feted by sugar free Red Bull on my 100th birthday. Perhaps Spanx. Definitely Splenda, with which I will undoubtedly be preserved. Or maybe some futuristic jet pack/meal tablet amalgamation of awesome. I'm not picky. (Takin' notes, Peej?)

 And speaking of Berkshire County...I know a lot of gals from home are getting married this year. As I am still dealing with the fallout from [ahem] some vendors, I'd love to lend some advice. Sadly, I cannot. Yet. (At least not until my lawyer gives me the go-ahead. Oooh...) That said- do you like personal attention? Stand-up contractors? Stellar service down to the last detail?

If not- email me. Have I got some people for you.

Back to Chicago.

Opening this week is a show featured in the Five To See from Metromix! It stars our very own Annie Gloyn...and I shall be there Friday. Woo! Deets here.

Another big thing that happened this week: I was accused of being 23 years old. It was great. It was unexpected. It was...short-lived. You see, one of the homes in which I nanny also employs a part-time housekeeper from Poland. (Facebook friends- skip ahead if you like. I really need to stop updating my statuses prior to Thursday.) She's a very nice lady. But very Old Country. And not in the 'Buffet' way. When one of my kiddos mentioned that I was going to be THIRTY which is hardly even a NUMBER 'cause it's so HIGH, the housekeeper chimed in with- "No! You 30? No. I think 23, 24."

Me: Wow! Thanks! Nope. I'm gonna be 30!
Her: You look so young...
Me: Gee, I-
Her: But 30. That is so OLD! I did not know you were so OLD!
Me: I mean, I feel like 30 is the new-
Her: It is a good thing you had your baby when you did, no?
Me: ..........
Her: She is so pretty.
Me: Thank you.

Nevermind the fact that NONE of the families with which I work had their babies prior to 30, nor do I intend to not have any more, regardless of my perilous age. (Call Devanny Condron.) However, this is also the lady whom, right when I returned to work, mentioned my still-protruding belly. Which is never cool to mention unless it's to state how awesome you think it is. Although, when I first got engaged, she was the one who showed shock and dismay. Why, you might ask? Well, it's 'cause she thought I was only 17 and was worried about my future happiness. And that's terrific. (She should, however, have a better handle on my age by now. She's been mistaken about it no less than three times. Maybe she thinks I'm a different nanny. Perhaps we all look alike to her.)

And now, I get that unparalleled joy of having a stranger hold my infant daughter down and jab three needles into her thigh, while she simultaneously weeps and stares at me with a special mix of panic and betrayal.

Tradesies? Is it too early for a drink?

It's five o'clock in Oslo.

Bringin' the issues.

I've spent the morning g-chatting with my younger sister Chelly- her weekend was consumed with the taking of the SATs. No, she's not 18. She's just a tutor of said test. I can't imagine accepting any job that would make me relive the longest nine hours of my life (I took it three separate times and got the exact same score. No, I will not tell you what it was. Let's just say that I was lucky to be such a good college interviewee.) 


Here's what I've learned about how the test has changed: Frida Kahlo is apparently a pinata. Or giant, pinata-shaped metaphor. The test-makers are racist. If you do really well on the essay part, they create a new grade for you. (Gonna call 'shenanigans' on that one, Rachel. Regardless of how Nadia Comaneci-esque your performance was; apparently it combined scene analysis from 'Angels in America' with a lyrical breakdown of Ke$ha's 'Tik Tok.' I'm starting to understand my score a little bit better.) 


When compared to a weekend like that, one can't help but measure the success of their own Saturdays and Sundays. If I had to sum up my weekend in three words, I would choose these: Derby, Walgreens & Jorts. 


Before you are consumed with jealousy (and, likely, more than a little confusion), lemme add three more: Boppy, Sports Bra (two words?), Weed Whacker (okay, five.)


I will elaborate on the first three while I prop my laptop on a nursing boppy, wearing (among other things) a sports bra that I donned before Pilates yesterday- and has subsequently become painful to try and remove, so I haven't- and am listening my neighbor do yard work outside my front window. And, so help me God, if the whacking o' the weeds wakes up the wee one, it may get ugly. 


I'm ready for anything. I am wearing a sports bra, after all.


SO.


The weekend began with a Kentucky Derby party at the home of some rad pals. There were juleps. And televised horses with phrase-y names. And babies in hats. In fact, there was a competition for Best Baby Hat. And, oh- didn't I mention? NORA WON. I have succeeded in making her awesome. That's right, my infant daughter is being shoved to the floor by the weight of my adolescent hopes and dreams. Winning a competition. Based on something having to do with looks. Call up Toddlers n' Tiaras- someone's ready for her spray tan and infant stilettos.


Okay, or it may just end there. Because- Nora is a little bit of a barefoot hippie. (*Cough*LikeHerDad*Cough*) I had put these miniature pink patent leather Mary Janes on her feet before we left the house and, by the time we parked the car, her toes were poking out of the middle, rendering the footwear a really awkward set of ankle bracelets. So the shoes went. And the hat was a glorious monstrosity of ribbons and curlicues. She hated that, too. So, after the initial parading of Baby With Hat, she became Barefoot Baby with Bald Head. (Sigh.) And, after the blue sundress became too constricting, she dropped that as well. It was that kind of party.


Also, the horse that P.J. was gunning for- and the horse that won- was named Super Saver. Who saw that coming? Coupon humor!


Next word. Nora and I walked over to our corner Walgreens to pick up some photos yesterday. On the way we were stopped by a man collecting money for feeding the homeless. He looked at Nora, clad in a romper covered in rosebuds and a purple hoodie, and asked- "How old is he?" 


I need to put a wrapping paper bow on her head or something.


The prints I had ordered were a mix of old photos; my Nana as a young woman, my Dad as an infant, etc. Basically cool photos for our front wall. They were so cool, in fact, that the guy ringing me up exclaimed "I loved looking through your pictures!" (What? Isn't that kinda something you're not supposed to admit?) 


He followed that up with "I wish I lived in your time." (Um, that actually wasn't 29 year old me in those grainy, black and white pictures of babies in buggies and such. 'Cause that was the 1950s. As stated by the scrawled words 'April 1953', for example. Or maybe he means the non-Walgreens vortex. That makes sense.)


Then he proceeded to tell me that the name on the photo slip was incorrect. 
"Is this how you spell it?"
"Yep." 
"But there's two 'e's." 
"Uh huh." 
"But it's wrong on the front." 
"Nope." 
"That's not how you spell Kelly." 
"In fact it is not." 


Pausepausepausepause.


"What is your name?"
"Keely. Like on the front."
"Oh, I didn't know how to pronounce it!"
"No!"
"Now I know."


Which is awesome. Because now we can definitely avoid such exchanges in the future. 


He also tried to sell me on the rack of dollar DVDS up front.


"You like movies?"
"Yep."
"You should get some from over there. They're a dollar."
"Awesome!"
"Can't have this one, though, [holds up a copy of 'Wolverine.'] 'cause I got the ONLY ONE."


Weekend= near to ruined.


And that brings us to...Jorts.


My big ol' project this weekend was taking the rest of my maternity clothes and putting them into storage- and getting all of the spring-y, smaller sized clothing out into the light of day. Being as I was fairly preggo last year around this time, some of this clothing hasn't seen any action since I was but a carefree newlywed with nary a mortgage and possessing pockets of time in which to be bored. (Sigh.)


I tried it all on. And 75 percent of it FIT! I was so excited that, naturally, I updated my Facebook status with this phrase: "just tried on cutoff jeans from three summers ago. And they fit. This should probably not elicit the amount of excitement that I am currently experiencing." 


People responded, as I knew they might. Fourteen females 'liked' it and responded positively. Three guys questioned the style choice, the possessing of 'jorts' and whether or not it was 1993. 


But here's the kicker: they're a size 4. That's right. Ridicule away, boys, I'm too busy dancing around in teensy-tiny knee-length shorts to devote the amount of tears that a Facebook-trouncin' would normally require. 


Which is a lot.


Although not nearly the volume elicited by the SATs. 


Maybe I should have worn my Jorts. 

Wanna try for seven?

And now- An Open Letter To My Daughter, Currently Crawling On My Lap and Chewing On My Hoodie:

Dear Nora Jane,

Happy six months! We [you] did it! In honor of this momentous occasion, I'd like to point out a few key things that you've done to make us better people/grownups/housecleaners.

1) Since I found out about "you," and since the date of your arrival, all of my fears and nervous energies and unfocused creativities have channeled themselves into a new superpower. It's called The Ability To Write On A Deadline. (I was surprised, too.) At a period in my life when I've never had less alone time, I've suddenly never needed to write more. This is awesome.

2) Your Dad and I never quite knew just how filthy of an abode we kept. We sure do now! The squalor in which we dwelled (and with which we were fine, thankyouverymuch), suddenly is NOT COOL FOR THE BABY. Plates on the counter? Ants are gonna come and crawl all over THE BABY! Now we douse everything with industrial-strength Lysol, which- OH MY GOD, WE HAFTA USE BETTER PRODUCTS, WE'RE KILLING NORA'S PLANET! So- cleaner and way more neurotic. I'm still gonna call these "plusses."

3) And that guy I married? You know, your Wonder Twin to whom you gurgle "Hi?" Before you came along, I'm pretty sure he wasn't as adept at changing diapers (with or without "girl parts") in the middle of the night, nor was he so cheerful at 4am. Trust me, sister. You skipped into this world and tangled his thumb right around you. I'm not jealous so much as impressed. Also- singing and crawling around the kitchen floor before dinner? That was not part of his nightly routine. Not every night, anyhow.

4) Before you became the MiniMe strapped to my hip, I never realized my capacity for violence. I was a bit of a pacifist and had more than a little fear of confrontation. However, I almost ripped a woman's face off for poking you. Sure, abject brutality is rarely a 'pro,' but I'm kinda proud of my emerging Mama Bear instincts. (My coffee mug says so.) While never shy, I'm certainly done with politesse- at least where you're concerned. Maybe this will manifest itself in my next telemarketer convo! Although probably not.

5) Ironically, now that I have zippola "down time," I've never napped more. At least once a week, you'll scream like a banshee, become incredibly "difficult," and I'll crawl into bed with you to "calm you down, just for a minute." Then we'll sleep for three hours and it won't matter a bit about dishes, laundry, dinner, projects or whatever the heck it was that was making me [you] crazy. Well played, Bitsy.

6) Multitasking has become less of a concept and more of a synonym for "the day." Nannying with you in tow has made me quicker on the uptake. And the downtake. Which is a synonym for "catching things one-handed."

7) You've made your parents a better couple. I know, this shocked me as well. I already thought we worked pretty well as a team. But being shipwrecked together and/or the art of trust falls aside- few things bond people like holding a person who is equal parts Me and equal parts Him. Also in that bondy mix- Look At This Milestone/Good God, What's That Smell/Quick, Get Me A Towel/High Five!

8) And finally...I get my mother. And hers. And Peej's. And our sisters. And our friends with kiddos. Prior to you, doll, I had all sorts of Thoughts about Motherhood. And how everything people did was Different Than How I'd Do It. And now I get it- in that I don't get it at all. But I get what it is that I'm supposed to "get." And I can't explain it any further to you, Nora. For you do not yet (to the best of my knowledge) have children. And someday, if you have children, you'll kinda sorta understand me and the bizarre things I do. I hope. But for now, it's totally your job to look at me and wonder why I'm so ridiculous and angsty and pushing these weird wooden toys on you.

It's because I love you.

And am trying to be a Good Mom.

And, besides, the wooden toys are good for your brain.

"Well, um, actually a pretty nice little Saturday..."

I have Mount St. Laundry in my stairwell. And it cannot be scaled.

The tumbleweed cat hair is the size of the actual cats.

So of course on Saturday morning I told P.J.- "I need to paint the upstairs bathroom."

He responded to this the way he generally reacts to any major change in the household; with complete and utter dismay. A little stonewalling. Perhaps a half hour of ignoring (which never, never works). He asked me why.

I wanted to tell him that the aversion I have to that corner of the house is disturbing (I pretend that I know feng shui- I do not), that the "master" bathroom is essentially a few pieces of sheet rock propped up against a shower fitter- you know, the kind your Grandma has?- and that my hatred for the dingy walls represents everything that I hate and fear and want to change in the world...

"Because I want to," I told him.

After a few moments, he came back with this- "You want to paint it white, right?" Yep! Because when I crave change and pop and a new lease on life, I choose...white. Sure.

I told him that I wanted a deep brown, a color that has been chosen by folks for whom I've worked (and it's rocked.) He said no. I got so mad that I went into the backyard and pretended to mulch trees. Later, I was much too tired to think about painting a bathroom- and our excellent friend Jamie came over to shower us with gifts, Ecuadorian food, and lullabies for Nora. It was a fantastic evening, and one that gave Peej a false sense of security that the bathroom "thing" was over.

The next morning I left for Home Depot ("Where everybody knows your naaaame...") and picked out paint- I took into consideration P.J.'s trepidation towards dark colors and tried to temper my choices based on that. Bought one I dug and that I thought P.J. might actually...be okay with. I did not tell P.J. the color, nor did I let him see it until it was already slopped on the walls, rendering it DONE.

Turns out, he loves it. Or said he does. Which is wise. The color is Adobe Straw (Rachel: Ooh..! Keely: You have no idea what color that is, do you? Rachel: Nope!) And it's actually a variation on brown. (Shh...)

And here it is:

This is the best angle and lighting I can get, given that this bathroom is essentially the size of an escape pod. But as of last night it's an Adobe Straw escape pod. Maybe we can start to take the air quotes out of "master" bathroom. So now: The lower level bathroom has a soaking tub and new tile (and is rat-free! Woot!), the main floor bathroom is no longer teal and has shelving, and the upstairs bathroom doesn't make me cry any longer! Who says I can't have it all? (Whoever says otherwise will be argued down. Ask Peej.)

And here's a freebie li'l cleaning tip for you! Want a sparkling bathroom in five seconds? Take everything out of the bathroom, ever. It works wonders. Sure, your husband will search for months for his toothbrush and there will be no actual "soap" on the premises...but it'll look like a million bucks.

Or at least $23.47.

It's wick!

This past weekend we jaunted over to the Elston Farmer's Market Garden Center- don't let the "farmer's market" part fool you, it was more "garden center" than anything else. Although they had a really sweet selection of stone mushrooms to decorate one's yard- but I guess that's pretty "garden," too.

We walked away with, among other things, marigolds, a rose bush, a peony and a raspberry plant. The reasons (besides the fact that it's really fun to buy things) are as follows:

-My Nana actually used to have "prized marigolds." This makes me feel warm and fuzzers inside to [have P.J.] plant something that she used to "prize." Also- the yard rabbits (much like garden gnomes but more dangerous) cannot stand the smell of them. This way, we'll actually get to eat the stuff we [P.J.] plant[s]. We don't want to go more proactive against the rabbits, since, as everyone knows, rabbits have overtaken the rats in the city. This is true. And awesome.

-P.J. actually did promise me a rose garden. And I'm collecting on that.

-We believed that peony bush I received for "free" from the Arbor Day Foundation (card-carrying member, baby) perished over this past winter. As some of you may recall, this was the plant which beat our new house to the finish line in the race of Things We Actually Own. I illegally planted it in the yard well before any passing of any keys. (But, if you consider all the illegal things this house had been used for in the past handful of years- I feel that guerrilla gardening falls well under the radar of punishable offenses.) Anyway, while the peony flourished last summer and early fall, we [P.J.] may or may not have forgotten to winter it. (I don't even know what that means.) But to quote Dickon in The Secret Garden, one of my favorite books ever: "It's as wick as you or me!" I say this a lot. Even when something isn't necessarily "alive." Like I've mentioned before, P.J. is the gardener. (Also- we now have two peony bushes that are "wick.")

-The raspberries will join the strawberries which we- ahem- borrowed from our lovely garden on Oakley. My hope is to eventually have enough backyard fruit to open a jammerie. Jammery? A place for squashing berries. Kate and I used to pick raspberries and blackberries from the neighbor's yard (see? I come by this stealing naturally) and sell them in little Dixie cups in our lemonade stands. Also- I used to make leaf rubbings for which we had the gall to charge a dollar. It was a one-stop emporium. However, the extension of Hancock Road had very little traffic to speak of- although the occasional biker (motorcycle, mind you) would be convinced to slow down. I'm sure the chalk drawings and notifications of LEMONADE AND BERRIES AND LEAF RUBBINGS down the block helped. Kate would make the hard sell of fruit and beverage, and, like Jojo the Idiot Cirus Boy, I'd shill some rubbings. We cleaned up.


So I've done my part. Now it's up to P.J. to plant, to maintain, to seed some grass, to water, to mow, to weed, to mulch...you know, his part. He has a green thumb. Perhaps a whole hand. Since I over-love, my thumbs are, sadly, black.

Which sounds like a circulation issue.

And speaking of discolored appendages, I spent the better part of this week in excruciating pain. Since I'd recently been led to believe that my pain tolerance is decently high, I was concerned. Okay, not "concerned" so much as "whiny." (But let's be honest here: I was unaware of bursting ovarian cysts and my c-section recovery was kinda peachy. The last time I whined about pain was when Nora was wedged on my right lung. So that's where pregnancy fell on the scale of things.) Anyway, I couldn't lift my left shoulder any higher than my mid-section, it couldn't be touched- and, since I can't take anything stronger than Tylenol whilst nursing, nothing helped the pain.

Whine, whine, whine.

I finally got in to see my fabulous chiropractor and discovered that I had a) a pinched nerve in my neck, b) a popped shoulder, and c) a slightly dislocated rib. A couple of adjustments and one stellar wellness massage later-(Thanks Dr. Bouvin, Dr. Vargas and Kelly!)- I'm starting to feel better. So how did I get this way? No idea. I sling the baby girl a lot, plus I lift multiple children up multiple staircases, but you wouldn't think that would equivocate the loser in a bar fight. (I never lose bar fights.) It must've been one of those awesome, happenstance, increasing-strain injuries. The kind that happen rather often to me. Since my joints weren't amazingly well-formed by the time I was born.

As my Dad is fond of telling me, "You weren't fully cooked."

My Dad used to have to make emergency trips to my elementary school playground to pop my elbows back in their sockets. This is true. It is an art and a skill. I was so proud of my Dad's abilities that I'd brag to school nurses and ER doctors that "my Dad pops my elbows in and of out of their sockets all the time!" Which I'm sure indicates a troubled home and not a troubled musculoskeletal system.

Sorry, Dad.

This is also the Dad, however, who taught us to makes crepes (always separate the egg whites), the importance of a brilliantly timed key change, and why the Three Stooges are clutch. He's the guy whom I'll associate with the scents of sawdust in a house and chicken on a grill. A stellar guitarist. The ultimate handyman. The kind of Dad who would watch the X-Files every Friday night with his fourteen year-old daughter- and, later that year, take her to see Etta James to help her get over a particularly tragic break-up.

So, in honor of my Dad's impending birthday, here's a clip that he and I will always, always find funny. Because he's just that awesome. (And this clip is really, really funny.)



(Happy birthday, Dad!)