It's a very real issue.

Oh, this is good.

Remember my investigative journalism regarding Lanacane Anti-Chafing Gel? (That's right, I linked back to my earlier post. It was that informative.)

So. We were watching TV the other night and a commercial came on- and it asked me if I hated that chafing feeling. I turned to P.J., perhaps a little too excited. It began in a crazy animated way, with cartooned, dancey figurines having trouble with, you know, walking and other thigh issues. Then- oh, then- the folks were given Lanacane. And they turned into the folks from the ad! That's right, remember the joggy girl? Apparently she was just doing her own chafey thing and was unrelated to the largeish woman or the jiggy guy. The woman, obviously, was still the star. She swished her skirt willy nilly, which- yes- did attract the guy doing the Running Man. I knew it. I knew they were involved. I just didn't know the whole story from one paper ad. I kinda feel like I saw the director's cut.

I cannot stress enough that I am getting absolutely nothing from the good people at Lanacane. I should. I really should. I mean, I've dedicated two separate posts to their product in a little less than a month. But no- this is a freebie. A labor of love. My way of saying- Lanacane Anti-Chafing Gel, I believe in your advertising campaign. Keep it up. And keep it coming.

*

Yesterday as Nora and I were driving to work, the radio was playing. Between having safe driving skills and convincing Nora that she was having a great time, I was trying to tune to a non-irritating song. This can be tough. Especially if one is driving during that span of time right before the hour- it's all commercials. Which can be enjoyable. But sometimes I just want to hear something nice and fun and classic rock and nothing at all resembling Creed.

We got halfway there before I realized that I was singing along with a song that, only moments before, I deemed unacceptable. So, in the span of a few minutes, I a) decided to change a song, b) forgot to change the song, and c) fully integrated the song into my driving experience.

It made me think. Perhaps more than it should have, but it definitely did. There's gotta be a metaphor in here somewhere- Maybe about my ability to tune things out?  Or the 'eh, whatever' mindset? Either way, I DON'T WANT TO LIVE LIKE THAT. I spend at least two hours a day in the car, between commutes, kiddo appointments, and errands. That's a lot of 'eh, whatever' time.

Maybe I'll become a superbly productive car individual. Or perhaps I'll take that time and zen out ('cause nothing says "relax" like an infant in the backseat.) There's always the audiobook.

Speaking of the infant in the backseat, Nora has become a stellar little person in the past few months. Mind you, she's always been a great baby, but nowadays she's getting downright kid-like. She's almost eight months old. This is mind-blowing for a couple of reasons. One is that I'm pretty sure I just had her. The second is a matter of unfairness- I was definitely pregnant for at LEAST three times this long.

She has two fully realized teeth. Her ankles cross when she's seated. When she laughs, its imbued with this sense of utter hilarity at something, or with something. Sometimes she's coy. Or furious. Her eyes light up with the intensity of a tween girl's unrequited love when she spies her cats. Meals have become Christmas morning, especially now that she can feed herself and there is virtually no distinction between baby food and really good food. The sign for "more" has inexplicably morphed into a thrice-banged fist, a la a king with a turkey drumstick. Or Mr. Ed. Nora actually plays with her toys. She has preferences and systems that I am slowly beginning to follow. She crawls. She's practically a wind-up car, what with her speed, erratic flight path and penchant for corners.

But early in the morning and right around dusk she becomes my baby again. With her left thumb in her mouth and her cheek tucked against my neck- sometimes with a frog shoved in there for good measure- she snuggles. There's no twisting away to see what the heck is that thing or any impatient gesture of I've GOT this. All she wants in the world is in her parents' bed- her Dad reading her a small mountain of books, various things attached to her mother, a kitten or two sleeping by her feet- and did I mention the frog? Or the otter, the giraffe, the blankies, the smallish bears or the bunny?

Yeah, I think I was wrong in earlier posts. This is my favorite age with Nora.

At least 'til next month.

Awesomesauce Advertising: Let's give this a go, shall we?

And now for something completely different.


Except, not so much.


I've been contemplating the idea of ads and things of that ilk for a goodly bit. Would it change my content, overmuch? Might people resent the sponsorrific nature of certain posts? Will you still respect me in the morning? (Although, let's be honest here. If you're a repeat reader even after my Michael Bolton post and with the knowledge that I can eat a bag of tamales in one sitting- you're not in it for the hard-hitting journalism.)


Then it hit me like a pile of cash: my blog postings are peppered with ads, billboards, titles and random media just because I think things are hilarious. No gain whatsoever. Except for the fact that you can't put a price tag on a smile. (Unless you mean orthodontics. And since I did that twice, that would be- oh, about twelve grand.) So what would be the worst that could happen if I posted occasionally about someone else's minutiae? And what if I kept it on a separate day from my other postings, keeping Mondays as my weekend recaps and my Thursdays for...whatever it is that Thursdays are supposed to be about? (If I go from past tags, I'm seeing a lot of soft rock and binge eating.) And how about if I only posted about humorous nouns, nouns that I believed in, or nouns for which I had a really good story? Yeah? Are we cool?


No? Fine. I'll see you on Thursday.


Yes? Let's begin.


Oh, I'm getting a really good feeling about this one. Ladies? Gentlemen? I give you- the tiki torch.


Or, as I will now refer to them: Kiki's Tikis.


Okay, apparently I "can't say that." I didn't have "anything to do with" the creation of "any tikis."


But good grief, I really love a good tiki torch. I've built entire parties around this singular idea (and by "singular," I mean that Peej has been forced to buy truckloads and line the yard with military precision. And by "military," I mean "doing exactly what I say," a.k.a. "marriage.")


Note: No one has asked me to put anything in quotations. That's just kinda something new. I hope it goes away.


Back to the tiki torch. I am nothing if not prepared, so I did a little research. Okay, I Googled. Oh, God bless you, Internet. And I discovered that what we [Americans] consider Tiki Culture is actually...a made-up thing. That's right. Americans, inspired by the South Pacific and all things Polynesian, began taking aspects we dug and shoving them right into popular media. So eventually, that became more "Tiki" than anything going on at a luau. Kinda like American pizza, I imagine.


(And right now would probably be a bad time to admit that I perpetuated this stereotypical misappropriation by staying at Disney World's Polynesian Resort. Repeatedly. It was great.)
But I needed- craved- more knowledge. So I searched some more. (Because what's more factual than multiple things posted on websites?) Here's how my "research" went:


-I kept coming up with the suggested keyword "gouging torch," which apparently has something to do with building or destroying or something like that...but it made me think of Vlad the Impaler.
-And then I remembered that horrid "special" I saw on the Real Dracula. My mother most likely remembers this. I was scarred.
-So I tried to block out the images by scrolling down for more keywords. I discovered a very troubling series of comments that discussed how polluting any backyard fire is.
-Someone countered with the FACT that people were harming the environment even more by being on the internet AT THIS MOMENT.
-I began to think about my carbon footprint. I got depressed.
-Turning on all the lights in the house, I went back to the kitchen and made myself a vodka tonic.
-I sat in the yard and admired the lawn and the tiki torches, drinking the tonic, still kinda upset.
-Enjoying the atmosphere made me remember what I supposed to be doing.
-I powered through the guilt. And I found a really lovely [and expensive] tiki torch that I am simply coveting right now. Halfway down the page. There yet? Yeah. Okay. It's not so much a "torch" as it is a "tiki hut." I may have found the priciest backyard object ever, short of something sculpted by Bernini. [P.J.: No. Keely: FINE.]


So there you have it.


That's right. My investigative skills are a cross between Nick n' Nora and If You Give A Mouse A Cookie.


The description for the torch I liked insinuated that one's party will never be the same.


After this glimpse into how I "research," I think that could also be said for your brain cells.

It's only a problem if you acknowledge it.

Happy Flag Day!

I am totally kidding, Annie. Happy 30th! (This especially falls under the category of "not cool" since our dear Annie is, in fact, a Brit.) Things have changed a little bit since our combined 23rd birthday parties- the fashion, minimum wage, the "interwebs"- but she doesn't look a day over 25. (Especially not the day after 25. That was a rough one.)

Let's do the weekend out of order, shall we? First up: the season premiere of True Blood. One of my programmes. Good timing, too, as I recently found out that the last episode of The Office was the season finale. Hwa? That was no season-ender. I was feeling momentarily bereft- a gap that could only be filled by a ridiculous nude scene of Eric Northman. (Side note to my mother- remember when you asked if the books and the show were the same level of sex and violence? And I responded all- Mother, it's EXACTLY the same... Well, ha HA. I may have misspoken.) The show has also taken liberties with plot lines from the books and refused to heed my suggestion of killing off Tara- or at least reducing her to the sub-subplot character that she is in print. Oh well. Eric had a nude scene!

Back to Family Friendly.

This past weekend Nora took her first trip to Ravinia. (Those from the Western MA area can compare it to Tanglewood, sans mountain views and all of the New Yorkers.) We saw Steve Martin do some bluegrass on the banjo- actually, that's not true. P.J. and I saw Steve Martin. Nora saw the opening act as we picnicked on the lawn, then she heard kids scream "Baby!" at her while she frolicked on the grass, and finished it up by hearing sirens drive by the one main road as she drifted off to sleep. I think the city sounds follow her. 


Some highlights: 


-Steve Martin was hilarious and ridiculously good on the banjo. He thanked us for coming, especially thanking those who were dragged there by others. He imagined it came off sounding like- Oh, we're going to see Jerry Seinfeld perform an evening of songs he wrote for the bassoon.


-A woman asked if Nora was four months old. We told her no, she's seven and a half months, but she's on a diet. I AM KIDDING, MOM.


-We saw some lovely friends. It's fun to see friends. Sure, we were half an hour outside the city, but it's still that feeling of- Oh my goodness, you're in Paris, too!?

Y uno lowlight:

Nora had to buy a ticket. Yep. Because it was an "all ages" show. Sure, she's just barely beyond that age where she was actually carried internally, but she needed a ticket. I understand two and older. Heck, I get 18 months. But even airlines let you carry a baby on your lap. (And, uh, no one was handing out free snacks, thanksverymuch.) In fact, if I made her sit in her own [lawn!] seat, she'd flop to the ground or pike into supported standing. So- thank you to Ravinia for allowing me the privilege of paying money to heft my own child. (And you best believe we used alllll of the facilities. Twice. She got her money's worth.)

Yesterday morning I went to Cermak for produce. Those folks not living on the West or South sides of Chicago may not know the glory of this Hispanic establishment- everything is seven for a dollar. Or thereabouts. Really. You can have an entire cart full of mangoes, Boston lettuce, all of the hoity fruits and veggies your heart desires- and all of the awesomely intimidating, completely indeterminate ones- and it'll ring up to less than ten bucks. Always.

Listen, I do not want to know how they get their wares so cheaply. It may be some sort of Mexican magery. I'm totally content to leave it at that.

I was one of about three white gals shopping there yesterday- which is about the ratio in my neighborhood, anyhow. How could I tell, beyond the obvious skin and facial features? (And it's not always obvious, by the by. Folks often approach me with rapid-fire Spanish and are beyond disappointed by my second-grader language skills. It's gotten better. It used to be Toddler Spanish. All nouns.) So what gave it away? Yoga gear.

In the city of Chicago, I've found that the majority of white women wear yoga gear on the weekends. To run errands. Embarrassingly enough, I was part of that cliché on Sunday. No longer. Because seriously, what part of poking an avocado requires clothing designed to wick away moisture?

I decided to put myself out there for further humiliation on the walk home. I stopped at the Tamale Stand. Oh, there's so much history here. This elderly guy and his wife are known for stopping by late night bars with coolers full of freshly made tamales. Sounds sketchy, yeah? Of course it is. AND UNBELIEVABLY DELICIOUS. So, when we moved near this Cermak and saw that there was a built-in tamale stand, I mentioned to P.J. that we'd have to stop there sometime for middle-of-the-day tamales. And we haven't. Which is crazy. Because, again, they are SO good.

So I ordered a bag. Yes. A bag of tamales. (Individually wrapped, of course, I'm not an animal.) I even ordered in Spanish. Poorly. And got the slightly condescending second grade Spanish 'look.'

And then they asked if I wanted mild or hot.

And I have an allergy to super hot foods.

So I ordered mild.

And Tamale Guy and Tamale Wife exchanged a look and snickered an old-person, 'inside joke' kinda snort. Which leads me to pose the question- WHY DID YOU EVEN ASK? I am a [sensitive] person. I am deserving of respect. It is my right to have food that will not close up my lungs.

So I seethed. I felt sorry for myself during the block and a half walk home. And then I ate a bag of tamales.

And became totally cool with my new moniker of Whitey WussMouth.

Pride=0, Belly= 1. Okay, it was more like- Pride= -2, Belly= 6.

I am such a puppy and I deserve everything that's coming to me.

Like more tamales.

'Binge' is such a harsh word.

I wasn't kidding about the Hidden Mallard puzzle.

Way back on Monday I was explaining the significance of the puzzle on Birthday Day (very different than Birthday Week, etc, etc) as crucial to the briefly rainy portion of the afternoon. Some people laughed- Oh hah, aren't they being quaint- doing a puzzle with a mallard! Others might have thought I was playing up the dork factor for effect and never actually engaged in any sort of cryptic mallardy activities.

The Mallard is real. And, as I have recently discovered- the mallard has babies.

We set up this diversion on our front room coffee table and played with it for the requisite ten minutes. And then the sun came back out. So long, panoramic duck.

But that night...long after the birthday dinner of Pinot Grigio and cupcakes eaten on paper towels (to be fair, it was the fourth "dinner" of the evening), I found myself standing over the table (probably getting crumbs everywhere, too) eyeing the purpley waves hitting the shore where the gently lit cabin rested. I started searching for my duck, recently discovered and set aside. But...there were more feather pieces lying about. What kind of madness is this, Master Pieces Puzzlemakers (Having Fun One Piece At A Time)?

So I went to bed. But I think we all know to where my mind drifted.

Not to the dishes crowding the kitchen counters, nor my daughter- unbathed since Friday afternoon- not even to the stacks of books and magazines (ahem, periodicals) that I say I'm trying to work through.

It's the Mallard.

All through the work day on Monday I felt my mind slipping back towards that bright pile of strewn puzzle pieces- waves and down and impossibly electric flora. Between securing diapers on wiggly smallish humans, jotting notes on the back of my hand, and extricating stickers from hair...I allowed myself to daydream about a puzzle.


That night, P.J. joined me. Oh sure, he pretended to be working on his laptop, poking around with files and "finances," but I saw him seeing me looking at the puzzle. And he took a section of foliage. And I kept up with the serene mallard of lore.

And that's when I saw it- the "mallard" had three ducklings trailing behind "him." (I also finished enough of "his" body to realize that the coloring was all wrong.) The MALLARD was a HEN- or, as we commonly call them- A DUCK.

There is no actual mallard in the puzzle we've been referring to as the Mallard Puzzle. (But ask me if I'm gonna stop calling it that. No really, ask.)

And I'm ashamed to admit how late we stayed up that night, just long enough to "finish this end section here." The next morning I was shocked and more than a little rageful to discover that one of the cats (maybe both) had decided to sleep on the coffee table amidst the pieces. (It is comforting and all.) But in their quest for legroom they knocked entire [recently finished] end piece sections onto the floor and under the couch. That night the name of the game was 'Catch Up.' We were a mean, green [purple], maintaining machine. And we moved the puzzle to the dining room. That's right, friends, the next time I invite you over for "dinner," you'd better make some alternate arrangements for actual places to put your food.

Thank goodness for the outdoor patio set. (That's riiiight, al fresco!) We are seriously in danger of becoming that couple. The one who shows you their Mallard Puzzle. The one taking up entire room- or worse yet, framed on the wall. Of your guest room!

I'm hoping that once we finish the soothing, slightly Impressionistic (which makes it nearly impossible to differentiate between pieces) ducky puzzle- the extra lengthy, panoramic delight for the senses that it is...that my craving will be quelled. I'm hoping so. But I'm not too optimistic. I am, after all, the person in this house that ate an entire cantaloupe (saving for one skinny slice that P.J. stole) the other morning. And my friends would be quick to tell you about the time I had to be pulled in out of the rain and the dark, away from the picnic table and my beloved crawfish, where I had been sitting. Alone. For multiple hours. And I can just feel Nat about to jump in with a tale of 'Cakey,' the birthday cake that I wouldn't allow anyone to pitch- oh, months after my birthday.

I sometimes find that I am-  let's just use the word "focused." And miraculously under 300lbs.

And I apologize for the way this duck puzzle has butted in and taken over today's post. This was not my intention. (But you see? You see how it gets you?)

Poor Nora. Poor, poor, un-mothered Nora. Here's what I intended to write about today: the gal is crawling. Like, hands and knees, motoring across the room, getting that THING from you and putting it directly into her toothy mouth. Which is making way for a third tooth. Helpful, as she's plowing her way through all sorts of fruits and veggies and edible awesomeness (new favorite- a spoon of hummus. My people!) We went to the Farmer's Market yesterday with Lily and picked out some turnips and summer squash to add to her collection of yums. I was going to post about that, really I was. And how, even though I started out really carefully, blending the life outta anything with skin or texture, now I mash things slightly, letting her grab and feed as she so pleases. 'Cause she likes to feed herself. Things like broccoli and smashed blueberries (although I think we need to ease up, as her last diaper looked like she sat on a Smurf) and bites of chicken while I'm preparing Lil's quesadilla. (My Mother: Be careful/ Me: I am, Mom!)

Yep, I was going to praise my Bitsy N.J. for being quite the biggie these days- but no. I went on for a page and a half about a puzzle.

A puzzle that...even now...seems to have me in its seductive grip.

We are home today, after all. But I have writing to do. And we should leave the house. It's beautiful out. Maybe we'll walk to the Lebanese bakery.

And I can eat my way through their entire case of spinach, cheese and onion pies. That's totally better than wasting a day on a Mallard- er, Duck puzzle.

But first I need to go find the cupcakes.

Thirty...and hurdy gurdy

Thankyouverymuch, Mr. Blogger. You have officially sent my mojo off-kilter and skewed my groove. I like to blog at 10am. Today, apparently, you like to confuse me at 10am. And then refuse to let me post. Well, har de har to YOU, good sir, for I have a pal in Cali who can somehow get around this No Blogger For Chicagoland thingie. (Thanks, Wilder.)

Back to the blog.

I think we might be onto something with this whole birthday [thing that I’ve been cultivating for the past three decades].

And Facebook? Facebook is crazy. Where else in the known universe (besides MySpace, Friendster, Tribe, etc, etc, etc) can one have hundreds of birthday greetings flicked at them throughout the day? Regardless of the fact that Facebook guilts you into acknowledging such events every time you log in (and, uh, they mash two days together on the sidebar, making everyone think it’s one’s birthday a full 24 hours beforehand- which is not a problem) it still makes you feel kinda cool to have greetings from all different time zones, cities, portions of your life, that guy on the couch…

…And even if some of the wishes are a lower case, unpunctuated ‘happy birthday’ smashed onto someone’s wall willy-nilly, I don’t care. I accept. And I thank you. And I counted.

I might be growing up. Yesterday was the first year whereupon I did not go out to public locales simply to have the opportunity to exclaim, “Yes, it IS my birthday. You want to give me a free drink/ice cream cone/ComEd sweatband? Okay.” But I did wear a purple tank top from my mother in-law that proclaimed me to be “30…and flirty.” In rhinestones. It matched my purple and white skirt, a poor attempt to recreate the Birthday Outfit of my youth. (Not a birthday suit, thankyouverymuch. I have officially hit the age where No One Wants To See That.) I have plans for the “30…and flirty” tank. It involves numbered stickers for the years to come. Oh my goodness, I love running jokes.

Maybe I’m not growing up so much. I did, however, get past the abdominal vice grip that was the rollover into 30. Barely. It was more intense than Y2K and the ending of the Mayan calendar combined. (We’ll see, anyhow.) Nothing much has happened, thus far. But you know how people always ask if you feel different on your birthday? And you always answer no, kinda wishing you had something cooler to report? Well, this year, I feel different. I can’t put my finger on it yet. I might be taller.

And I gotta say- my husband Philip is pretty darned clutch in this transition into a new decade. He’s seriously like the cruise director of my birthday ship, or Mickey Mouse waving me into the Magic Kingdom, perhaps even that Walmart greeter who hands out smiley face stickers…

Friday night was heralded in with Middle Eastern goodness from Sanabel, our gem of a bakery/warehouse/addiction down the street. Our entire dinner (including a box of fresh macaroons) cost less than ten bucks. And there was a lot. Then we watched The Soup. Then we did laundry, which is not quite so awesome but quite important. (I believe The Flight Of The Conchords acknowledged the importance of recycling and such chores quite well in their smash hit “Business Time.”)

Saturday was neato, as I got to spend it with a handful of close friends- all bearing baked goods. There are honestly seven different types of desserts- most of them cupcakes- in my kitchen. And not just any desserts. These are all top notch edibles of the baked persuasion. Rhubarb apple crisp pie. Sweet Mandy B’s red velvet cake. Sugar cookies lighter than air. Trays and trays of miniature cuppycakes, all with their own neat trick (whipped cream INSIDE, for example.) Remember back when I was so worried about the baby weight? Well, apparently that was just a big ol’ panic button for the Big Day. Now that I’m safely on the other side of 30- Party on, Garth.

And the day itself? I had made a proclamation (to Peej and Nora, a very good pair of listeners) that I wanted my actual birthday to be lazy and kinda like summer camp. They obliged. The two of them conspired to let me sleep in (past 7am!) and then they fixed things so that I didn’t change one single diaper until 8pm last night. (I have no idea what kind of sorcery was going on there.) Nora gave me a miniature sterling typewriter charm for my bracelet- and it moves! (My mother had a similar one when she was younger- I’ve always, always wanted one of my own.) And so as not to embarrass P.J., I’ll just say that he outdid himself. With bling. Blingity blang bling. And let’s just say that he won. Forever. And left me speechless. (For at least an hour!)

Apparently I have no problem losing, now that I’m thirty.

Crosswords were penned in the hammock. The Sunday “paper,” (Parade, the Trib mag and the funners) were enjoyed on the couch- or the jumperoo, depending on one’s level of mobility. There were brief periods of crazy thunder that inspired us to do one of those thousand piece puzzles- which we did not own- so Peej ran to Walgreens and got the saddest, strangest looks. (One guy asked if he was bored.) The puzzle, by the by, is majestic. It involves- to say the absolute least- a panorama and a hidden mallard. Then there were naps. And lunch from my favorite place in Roscoe Village. And more starches and sugars (I felt hungover and beaten up this morning- eating this much is a serious thing! I don’t think I properly warmed up!)

We took a walk through Ravenswood Manor- where we consistently pretend that we live- and got caught in a bit of a rainstorm. (We were a wreck. Nora thought it was great.) When we got back, we found our lovely pal Nat waiting to give me a gift- I was pretty excited about both things. I don’t see him enough. But the gift certificate was pretty rad, too.

And then- Underworld, the extended, unrated, unbelievable version. Twelve extra minutes of never before seen footage! Turns out, twelve minutes in a movie like this equals out to a whole ‘nother plot. It was really great. Also great- the fifth helping of baked goods and wine out of our wedding goblets (we forgot all about them during our anniversary travels- hey, a holiday is a holiday.)

And tonight P.J. is taking me to see She & Him at Millenium Park, followed by a surprise dinner. I am superbly excited about these, but dearly hope that the “surprise dinner” doesn’t mean “Surprise, there’s no dinner.”

With the way I’ve been carbo-loading, my blood sugar would simply plummet.

I have to worry about these things now.

You might wanna hit the bathroom before this one.

I'll be 30 in three days. This is a very real and very definite thing. So I decided to post about what I've learned over the past thirty years.

Then I realized that I know nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Except.

Perhaps I know a little bit about the music that has shaped me, be it a favorite song, a theme from a period of my life or songs that just wouldn't leave my iPod. So I made a list. A CD, really. Okay, it's a double CD. (It was almost a triple- some serious cuts have been made here, people. Do not think that tears were absent from this process.) What started out as "Ooh, I'll list some songs that I've always liked" became a military operation of razor-edged precision. There were few [40] survivors. (These forty songs fit nicely onto two discs. I've checked.)

And one last [set of] disclaimer[s]: I only included one, awesomely representative track per artist. I HAD to. This was hard. And I omitted tracks that serve a single purpose (or I really, really tried to), i.e. Jay-Z's "On To The Next One" (thanks, Emma!) for when Nora and I just need to dance a little bit, or anything in the Stabbing Westward category (thanks, Nat!) for when we're a little, say, angry? Also gone are the tracks and artists that, sadly, had no staying power. I loved Tiffany and the Annie soundtrack when I was nine. But that's about it. No Songs I Love To Sing, either. That would be crazy. And lengthy. Sorry Linda Ronstandt/Aaron Neville. And the albums that I love as albums, but without any singular track to define a year (a la The Black Crowes' Southern Harmony and Musical Companion) are out. Maybe I'll do a 'best albums' list for my 40th. It's gotta be easier. SO- without further ado, the songs that rocked and defined my world- and, amazingly, still do. (Chronologically as to when they affected my life, not when they were released.)

Okay. Settle in.

1) 1983- You Shook Me All Night Long- AC/DC (Back In Black, 1980): This is the first song that I remember. (Aside from You Are My Sunshine- my duck mobile blasted that one.) My Dad played it on his basement stereo of our house on the Cape. I vaguely recall red carpets and sonic speakers. Since then, both Kate and I have danced with our sisters to this at our weddings. I guess you could call it the Flynn Sis Anthem.

2) 1988- I Want To Know What Love Is- Foreigner (Agent Provocateur, 1984): It was ridiculously hard to not include any other tracks, or even anything from the Lou Gramm canon. But this was my first and the best. It was included in my favorite episode of Quantum Leap (Temptation Eyes- the one with the psychic? Yeah.) and was Side A of a cassette with two songs that helped me fall asleep each night.

3) 1990- Life Goes On- Poison (Flesh And Blood, 1990): And the last song of Side B. (So basically, you could keep flipping it over and over and never have to fast forward or rewind. I was incredible.) This album was my very first cassette. My godfather Joe gave it to me, and since he was the drummer in my Dad's band, I respected every single thing (musical or otherwise) that he's since told me.

4) 1990- Open Up The Door- The John Hall Band (Search Party, 1983): My parents have had a love affair with John Hall and Orleans since well before I was a flicker in anyone's cosmos (that's 'cosmos' not 'cosmo,' Mom.) Both this and All Of The Above are two of the coolest albums to listen to straight through. This is my favorite, though, as I've always liked desperate love pleas. And at age nine? I was kind of an expert.

5) 1990- Mary Mary- The Monkees (More Of The Monkees, 1966): There was a very real possibility of hair-pulling-out action for Davy Jones. Heck, there coulda been some Seppuku. I loved him. Waaay missed the boat on this one.

6) 1990- Oh! Darling- The Beatles (Abbey Road, 1969): Okay, toughest one here. I chose Abbey Road because my sisters and I would scream this one on the way home from soccer games. (The twins were strangely obsessed with it, too, even as babies.) I love the story of how Paul screamed his lungs hoarse in an alley before recording this track. I always wanted to do that. That was kibosh-ed. Also, I lived really close to Abbey Road as a junior abroad. 'Tis a happy place. (Runner up: I've Just Seen A Face. Divine.)

7) 1991- The Thunder Rolls- Garth Brooks (No Fences, 1991): My Dad used to play this one, really softly at first, then would crank the volume as the thunder amped up. We'd all run in (from wherever we were in the house) and scream. And then sing.

8) 1991- Keep On Loving You- REO Speedwagon (High Infidelity, 1981): Neck and neck with #2 for best love song. Even though it's about a cheatin' woman. And even though I later found out what a 'speedwagon' was. Seriously a sucker for a wit's end love song. I was 11.

9) 1991- Disappear- INXS (X, 1990): Okay, for anyone who thinks that the little things go unnoticed in a young kid's life? My parents let me have a phone radio in my bedroom (the phone wasn't connected, but I dug the idea of having there, anyhow) and this song played every morning as I got ready for school. Anytime I hear this song now, I think about how awesome that radio was and how cool my folks were to let me have it. I know.

10) 1991- Photograph- Def Leppard (Pyromania, 1983): Second favorite band of all time. Favorite song in their catalogue. I become Tawny Kitaen when I hear this one and have to be forcibly restrained from dancing atop cars and counters.

11) 1992- Here I Go Again- Whitesnake (Whitesnake, 1987): Speaking of Tawny Kitaen, David Coverdale didn't stand a chance. He literally spends the whole video staring through the dashboard at his car-prancin' gal and giddily thinks: I got to MARRY her! (For a short time.) This song would later resurface in college when a few friends and I half-heartedly wrote a rock opera based around this song. It would have been massive.

12) 1992- Cowboy Man- Lyle Lovett (Lyle Lovett, 1986): I love every single thing about Lyle Lovett and always have. But since my entire family (including Peej and NJ) concur, I'm in excellent company. And this song? I've always wanted to be some cowboy's Cinderella. Dream= attained. (Sure, he's from Ohio, but I think it still counts.)

13) 1993- Everything I Do- Bryan Adams (Waking Up The Neighbours, 1991): Fine. I had to. I've always loved B'adams (and, uh, Prince Of Thieves- best epic EVER), but my family will never let me live down the time that I auditioned for the 6th grade talent show with this song. And so did Brian Jakacky. And the teachers made us duet. And it was GOD AWFUL. (It's even on tape.) Yet, somehow, whenever this song comes on, I can't help but smile. (I also get a lot of phone messages from my sib with just the song playing on the radio.)

14) 1993- Love Lies Bleeding/Funeral For a Friend- Elton John (Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road, 1973): I hafta thank my Mom for this one. It was on a drive back from the Cape one summer where we listened to this album at least three times. It may be one of the coolest-constructed songs ever penned. It's magical. And it makes me appreciate my Mom's musical tastes- because, to be fair, my Dad is one of the most music savvy people to grace the planet. That's some tough competition. But she holds her own.

15) 1993- Make Me Lose Control- Eric Carmen (Single, 1988): Again with the soft n' lite angsty love. This is a wonderfully screamy love song with a CRAZY awesome modulation towards the end. Just perfect for the girl who, as yet, had not received so much as a handshake from a boy.

16) 1993- American Girl- Tom Petty (Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers, 1977): Sure, it's a bit cliché,  but as I was 13, so was I. Reminds me of taking the twins to the pool at Ponterril, eating nachos (it's been a lifelong addiction) and dedicating this song to myself on Live 105.5.

17) 1994- Magdalene- Boston (Walk On, 1994)- Yup, I lied. THIS was the hardest to narrow down. Most people within yelling distance know that Boston is my favorite band on the face of any planet, ever, and has been so since I've had ears. Heck, I walked down the aisle to More Than A Feeling. And Third Stage as a whole gets played- oh- once an hour. But this track? Magnificence. Listen to it the first time with headphones. Peej did. And then [2 years later] he asked me to marry him. Also- little known fact. This is my Catholic name. Littler known fact? I'm Catholic.

18) 1995- Kyrie- Mr. Mister (Welcome To The Real World, 1985): Really, at no point in my life has this song not affected me. The overly earnest lyrics, the travelin' sentiment, the best key change in the business? Musical royalty.

19) 1995- At Last- Etta James (At Last! 1961)- There are SO many Etta tracks that I adore. She is easily my favorite female singer to whom I am not related. But this one was the first (thanks again, Uncle Joe!) and kinda encapsulates every single thing I dig about this woman. My Dad took me to see her in the summer of '95 when I was being all weepy and dumb- and it was transcendent. In related news, I named my first car after her. (She was spunky and black, too.)

20) 1997- Your Love- The Outfield (Play Deep, 1986): This was a cross-country running song. Specifically, on the back of the bus on the way to meets. I hated the races. I loved the bus trips. Also- one of my best pals Jen and I were convinced that the first lyric was about a girl named "Jenny" who was "on a vacation far away." This was false. (Oh, Google, how we coulda used you. 'Cause it was Josie.)

21) 1998- Intergalactic- Beastie Boys (Hello Nasty, 1998)- I've always liked the Beastie Boys, but the Fall that I entered college, this song was everywhere. Everywhere. I'm pretty sure it was handed out with our rainbow-colored lanyards and copy of Non Satis Scire. When I think back to the first few weeks of college, I think of that creepy kid on my hall, my unfortunate predilection toward overalls, and this song.

22) 1998- Always On My Mind (Willie Nelson, 1982 AND Pet Shop Boys, 1988)- The version with Willie gives me chills, but the Pet Shop Boys bring their A Game, too. This song is also a bit of a "check in" with my younger self to make sure we're all still feelin' the tragic love songs. And yes, yes we were.

23) 1998- Poison- Alice Cooper (Trash, 1989): This one resurfaced in college. My bestie Vicky and I enjoyed screaming it out of Etta's [the car] windows as we drove around and looked for mayhem. Before everything closed at 7pm.

24) 1999- 7- Prince (Love Symbol, 1992): Originally, I wanted this to be a contender for the Darwin's Kids (the rad episodic comedy on which I worked for about three years) theme song. It wasn't chosen. But you can't stop me from thinking about the series whenever I hear it. So I think we all know who won.

25) 1999- Do You Believe In Love- Huey Lewis and The News (Picture This, 1982): In a word? Yes. I have always believed in love, especially in three part harmony. My bro in-law Tom can rock a version of this a capella. Go on, ask him. You probably won't hafta ask twice.

26) 2000- Rosalita- Bruce Springsteen (The Wild, The Innocent and The E Street Shuffle, 1973): This was another hard choice. Little bit of trivia- every boy that I've ever truly loved has been crazy for Springsteen. So, I guess I do have a "type" after all. (That type would be "awesome.") Other close contenders: Brilliant Disguise, Tunnel of Love, She's The One...but this perfectly describes the kind of love I was looking for- giddy, carefree, a record deal, all of it.

27) 2000- Why Worry- Dire Straits (Brothers in Arms, 1985): One of my favorite albums of all time, and easily the prettiest, saddest track about love that Mark Knopfler penned. I am getting so predictable.

28) 2001- I'm Sticking With You- The Velvet Underground (Loaded, 1970): This makes me think of London, of new beginnings, of taking on the world...all encapsulated in a pretty little love song. Sigh.

29) 2001- Smile- Weezer (The Green Album, 2001): I think Weezer is the bee's knees. This album was considered by many to be their least impressive album. I disagree. People say the album is one, 38 minute long track? Fine. But I LOVE that track. Also, the phrasing in this song makes me think (and think and think and overthink) about sentence structure long after the song ends. That's pretty cool. Nerdy, but cool.

30) 2002- Sweetness- Jimmy Eat World (Bleed American, 2001): This song was everywhere when I graduated from Hampshire. As much as I tried to not identify with a song just 'cause it was on the radio at a crucial time in my life, I couldn't help it. I was "spinning free." I have no idea what the "sweetness" business was all about, but I was most certainly "spinning free."

31) 2004- Galway Girl- Steve Earle (Transcendental Blues, 2000): Sure, my family hails from Counties Cork and Kerry, not necessarily Galway, but close. Besides, when the person who gifts you a new song is cool enough, you'd change your middle name to make a song better apply. Tragic love song? Okay, I'll try it.

32) 2004- Love Is Only A Feeling- The Darkness (Permission To Land, 2004) They were so flippin' cool. No one could tell if they were earnest or making fun of earnest rockers. Either way, the album worked. And this track was a love song about not really accepting the fact that you were in love. Criteria= met.

33) 2005- Gypsy Woman- Martin Sexton (Black Sheep, 2000):  P.J. introduced me to Martin, and we've been fast friend ever since. Martin has no idea, but oh, we're friends. There were so many to choose from here. Happy was our wedding song. (With Peej, that is.) But a song about a gypsy who stole everything and you still want her back? How could I NOT?

34) 2006- Waste- Phish (Billy Breathes, 1996):  Okay, I've never really dug Phish before. But as I am now married to a bona fide hippie (I don't care what you do now, P.J., you wore tie dye in high school. Hippie.) and have a sinking suspicion that I'm raising a mini one as well. And the lyrics speak to every single thing I think and feel about being at home with them, wasting time, not wanting to spend even one second on things that take me away... Sigh. I guess I like Phish.

35) 2007- Carolina In My Mind- James Taylor (James Taylor, 1968): My family has a rabid obsession for Mr. Taylor as well (Tanglewood, woot!), and this one tops them all for me. I've always appreciated it, but the older I get and the more I travel, the harder it is to be away from those people and things from my youth. Okay, the maudlin portion of the narration has ended.

36) 2008- Book Of Days- Enya (Shepherd Moon, 1989): Bet you didn't know this was our wedding recessional! 'Twas a strange choice, and one that the organist (the one whom we thought had kicked it during the first hymn) raised an eyebrow at. But since we had spent the majority of our wedding planning trying to finish the movie Far And Away in teensy, episodic form before passing out each night (it's barely an hour and ten minutes in length), this was a little nod to how ridiculous[ly cool] we were.

37) 2008- I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend- The Rubinoos (Back To The Drawing Board, 1979):  I listened to this on repeat for the entire time it took me to write my latest play, which was- oh, about five months. I also dig that they sued Avril Lavigne for ripping it off in "Girlfriend," and it got thrown out of court when it was proven that THEY ripped off the Rolling Stone's Get Off My Cloud. I live for this kinda stuff.

38) 2009- Can't Hold Back- Survivor (Vital Signs, 1984) Has anyone heard me talk about this one? This album is perfection. This song starts it off. This was blasted at the apartment on Oakley as well as helped us warm the house on Troy. Nora and I made dinner to this every night during maternity leave and it's currently gracing our summer CD mix for the car. I cannot recommend this song enough, people.

39) 2009- Timebomb- Beck (Single, 2007): This song was featured on an episode of True Blood. It also came at a point when, with my third trimester, brand new home with no nursery (as the LEAST of it's problems), and awfully new marriage...my life WAS a timebomb. (Then, just as suddenly, it became the cover of Goodnight, Moon.)

40) 2009- Just Breathe- Pearl Jam (Backspacer, 2009): Liking Pearl Jam was a given, being that I attended high school in the mid-nineties. But this track was gifted to me as we prepared for Nora's birth. Oh, we had it all planned out: P.J. made a CD of songs for the hospital and it would be this serene, lovely experience wherein we would welcome our child with- what? C-Section? Over in 17 minutes? Well, we'll always have this song. (It stayed in the car until she was around six months of age.)

And I cannot believe that I ran out of room on the discs. Already my mind is a big ol' Regret Stew of songs I should have added, things that may not have needed to make the cut, and, and...I'm not gonna worry about it.

Until my sisters begin hassling me.

Perhaps Monday will be an 'addendum' day. Or maybe I'll just let this be a sweet li'l time capsule of my first thirty years. Something I can look back on someday and think to myself- Really? Whitesnake?

Hopefully I'll have some actual knowledge to impart by then. But it'll probably just be some more love songs.

Delivered via hoverboard.

With my mind.

Better than what it usually smells like.

For one brief moment, even before I opened my eyes, I thought I was at the beach. Sure, it was 6am in muggy, slightly overcast Chicago- but the air had that heavy beach quality.

Nora clearly felt it, too. That's why, when she joined me in bed, she fell back to sleep. The sea air does that.

All morning long, even as I looked into my backyard and peeked around to Kedzie (most definitely not the bastion of seaside quietude), I could not be convinced that it wasn't a "beach day." I could even smell the salt.

Perhaps something has happened to the Morton salt factory downtown and that is certainly something to look into- but for now I'll just pretend that I am a coastal being. And not a landlocked Midwesterner tendin' the Back 40. Don't get me wrong- I really dig our lake. And I never knew how hard I'd fall for a small, Wisconsin town and kayaking in its picturesque waters. (Also- apropos of nothing water related- I really and rather inexplicably adore Indiana. That was surprising as well.)

But nothing compares to a body of water comprised of salt. Maybe I just like to be buoyant.

And speaking of the Back 40, we've [P.J. has] spent a ton of time priming the yard on Troy Street. He's seriously so good. Of course, he'll tell our friends and family that we work out back and we've figured out where to place such unruly beasts as the Hosta plant (seriously, they're a bit intimidating)- but he's just being a good sharer. As I've told him many times, the garden is his. But the yard is mine.

It's like that part in Dirty Dancing: "Our Baby is going to change the world." "And what's Lisa going to do?" "Oh, Lisa's going to decorate it."

I'm the Lisa to his Baby.

And baby, can he garden! So far, he's managed to keep alive the following: lilacs, roses, hosta, lilies, tulips, azaleas, holly, clematis, peonies, strawberries, raspberries, tomatoes, peppers, grapevine ivy, lavender, geraniums, petunias, impatiens, a pear tree, a birch, a maple, a slew of decorative grasses, and a jade plant. But the jury's still out on that last one. It looks like it went a few rounds with a Hosta.

And me? Oh, I pretend to garden. I am excellent at pretending to garden. Gimme some gardening gloves and potting soil and I will poke, water, and stomp around the backyard like a true [five year-old] professional. I have no green thumb. I have a black thumb. Really, a black stump of a hand. (Which sounds terrible.)

I over-love. I'm taking copious notes on my gardening style, because these are traits I fear will transfer over to my parenting skills. Really. I just can't leave the darned plants alone. If Peej asks me to water them (which he has sorta ceased doing, lately), I'll waterwaterwater them like it's my sole mission on Earth. Or- I'll forget about them. For weeks. (Which I can't imagine reflecting on my parenting style, overmuch.) Or I'll prod them. And move them. And smother them (with love.)

P.J. is kind. He tells me that I'm a GREAT gardener, that I'm doing JUST FINE. He gave me the job of potting some flowers in the backyard...and now the yard is covered with more potting soil than could ever be in a planter. And potting soil is NOT cheap. (Nor are any of the materials that I squander with my over-loving.) But I needed extra soil to get the darned plants to stand straight! They kept giving up and flopping to the side like wilty little children having tantrums. I showed them! (Some lost their heads. This was unavoidable.)

I swear I am good with kids.

I was, however, clutch at placing backyard-y type furniture. That black, wrought-iron glider between the trees? That was all me. The big, stripey hammock (thanks, Nat!) swaying by the back brick wall of  the house? Yep. As was the fabulous patio set with green paisley umbrella that may be in the mail as we speak. (Thanks for nothing, Home Depot. I don't mean that. I love you.)

And just wait for the fairy lights. And the Tiki torches. And the miniature Enchanted Forest's worth of garden creatures: the bunnies, the frog prince, the helpful gnome, the decapitated turtle (always a big hit. P.J. has promised to "see what he can do" about that one.)

After all of this "gardening," I was fully covered in potting soil, poorly applied sunscreen and a few other questionable substances. So I took a shower with the windows open and lights off. I pretended that it was the outdoor shower in Cape Cod- the one we'd look forward to all day, to rinse off the salt and sunshine and stickiness, the one that was a private oasis of cool water, ocean breezes, heavy scents of roses and food being placed out on the deck. The shower in which you were rarely alone- swimsuits on, of course, this IS a family blog- and would have to fight one's sisters for the Dove shampoo and the single towel not covered in tree bark. It was so pleasant an experience that sometimes we'd finish a shower, jump back into the ocean and then barge into someone else's shower moments later.

My shower at home was good. Not as good as the one in Onset, MA. (But very few nouns are as good here as they are in Onset, MA.)

I'm grateful to be going in August. And I'm thankful for the lovely home we're creating here in Chicago. And I'm indebted to those who protect all of these special places...

...And allow me to live the kinda lifestyle where I get to blog about the difficulty of potting soil.

Which is seriously still everywhere.