We did other stuff, too. Really.

The Bitsy Bug is dozing off a low-grade fever this a.m., which means P.J. and I are finally leaving her alone. Seriously. I fully realize that a fever under 104 degrees truly doesn't warrant any more medical attention than a cool washcloth, the occasional Tylenol and a vodka tonic, extra limes- hey, the whole house is dealing with the kiddo's discomfort, okay?- but you should try telling that to us in the middle of Taking Care Of Nora. We have entire, hushed convos In. Very. Clipped. Tones. Tempers flare. Books are consulted. Nora looks at us like "It's prolly just my teeth, guys," but her statements go unheard. For she is just a baby. 


Sure, people say. JUST WAIT until your kid has the chicken pox/scarlet fever/The Grippe, but no. I don't need to. I freak out when her boogs are too big for her nostril. A corner of her big toenail bent a little bit the other day and I wept. (Although, strangely, when she faceplanted on her blocks while trying to stand I actually applauded. Motherhood is weird.) Maybe I freak out about the stuff that I should directly control, the things that she clearly cannot do for herself. Clearly she's on her own for the gravity thing.


So. Weekend. There's this awesome game we play (no, it does not involve mallards or puzzles- 'cept when it does) called Neighborhood Watch. Here's how you play: Push your bed against a huge, street-facing window, turn out the lights, prop your chin on the headboard and...watch. Occasionally murmur something about informing the authorities. Mutter to each other that the Alderman should really put speedbumps on Troy- it's not a flippin' freeway! Marvel at the "kids" going out at 11:30pm on a Saturday night. (Sample dialogue: "I'm exhausted just looking at them!" "Boy, they're gonna be late for mass!") Translate angry, drunken Spanish. Giggle at angry, crazy-person English. Pretend that noise you heard was a firecracker. Yep. Loads of firecrackers. Awfully festive out there tonight! Doze off- momentarily- until you hear a car speed by. Jump back into position with a renewed zeal and an overly macho "I'm on it." Wait for your husband to laugh at you, but then tell you how wonderfully stalwart you're being. 


This game can literally go on for twenty or so minutes! 


We've also been watching a lot of Clean House: Search For the Messiest Home In the Country (2!). Remember when I said how much I hated reality TV? Perhaps I just hadn't found my niche. Well, here it is, baby! Slobs. This show is incredible. It kinda focuses in on the crazy excess of Americans. We have so much that we could actually drown in our own collections of feather boas and sequined purses. Part of me used to think that in order to get on the show, people would empty out closets, desks, and dressers onto the floors. Then they'd stomp around, all "Look how I hafta live!" Turns out, people actually do live like that. We saw one episode where a woman had never thrown out any mail. Not since '73. Another guy refused to make room in "his" house for his wife and young son, because that would mean getting rid of his long-deceased grandmother's things. (In my mind I shot him in the face.) This show inspires rage in me.


Also, concern. I have a lot of hobbies. A lot lot. Sure, I decorate them prettily enough, but I am just one color-coded bookshelf away from an avalanche of romance novels. Also, Foucault. 


That said, we've toyed with the idea of spilling stuff into a room, taking a picture and pleading 'HELP' to Niecy Nash. One part of the downstairs isn't all that far off, anyhow. That that said, on the commercial breaks we find ourselves sorting bills and doing dishes. And shivering. 


Sure didn't stop us from going on a garden walk/neighborhood garage sale tour yesterday! Okay, the "gardens" were in Ravenswood Manor, where- technically- I do not live. But I sure do live right smack in Garage Sale Central. (As one guy said of his own wares- "Eh, it's all crap." Gosh!) We bought a vintage schoolhouse desk for eight bucks and found a small wooden wingback chair in an alley. Sure, it was painted turquoise and magenta. But, if you'll remember- the inside of our house was originally even worse. Yeah, I can handle a chair. The gardens were fabulous and made me Think Thoughts. P.J. hates when I Think Thoughts. (That's usually when rooms change place and he has to bring out the Little Giant ladder.) 


And a big ol' weekend thank you to my sister Kate. She's been redesigning my blog (okay, building a new one from scratch) over on Typepad. She could also, quite possibly, give birth any second now. Seriously. Which makes her Radface McAwesome[stretchy]pants. And kudos to my youngest sister Em for giving me free access to all of her jaw-dropping photography for use on the new site. 


Leaving me only one thing to say to my middle sister Chel:


Slaaacker!


Insert defensive maternal rebuttal...here.


And witty sibling-related banter...here.


And comment that- perhaps- goes too far.


Additional tempering responses by the husbands.


One last jibe.


Sincere commentary on younger sister's recent accomplishments. 


Eye roll, curtsey, Arabesque, fin.


Last word from my mother.


(See if I'm wrong.)

Home is where the Swiffer is.

My Wii Fit was snarky to me this morning. We have a history, that thing and I do. Back in January it called me obese. Then the boxing instructor openly mocked me. And if it's been a bit of time between sessions, the Wii console character is all- Well howdy DO, lazy butt! 

My "trainer" is condescending. And forever changing her hairstyle. And wondering if- perhaps- I'm putting too much pressure on my toes. Or my heels. Ease up, heifer! (She seems to say.) Today she suggested that when working out, I try to use both legs. Equally. Which is a remarkably helpful tip, as I kept falling down. Using only the left leg for squats will do that.

My favorite tip ever, though? "When walking down the street, swing your arms wildly, like a pendulum." Thanks, Wii Fit! Now I'm an Orca AND a danger to others! 

I might start taking my ten minute [a week] cardio elsewhere. 

Other household items of importance. Let's start with the kitchen. I've recently upped my focus on that room- the one that, despite each of us having an office (even Nora! Okay, hers is a broom closet), ends up with every bill, envelope, pen, baby toy, diaper and potted plant on its countertops. Occasionally dishes. You'd think I would have really stepped up my game when- oh, I had a child, or maybe even when she began to crawl. But no. 

This past weekend I realized that I was tired of having stuff pile up at the end of the week, resulting in an hour long search for the paper towels to scrape bananas from the ceiling fan. I decided to make the room spotless after every meal. Which would have been a great habit to develop when it was just two of us living here, with the occasional cat and their occasional hairball issue. 

But no. I decided to overhaul my cleaning habits the moment I never had more to clean in my life. Seriously. Nora's always been a little bit of a Pollock disciple in terms of food distribution. But lately? Now that she knows where the spoon goes and thinks that perhaps someone could speed up the portioning of carrots and croissants? She's taken feeding into her own chubby little fists. She'll grab a handful of perfectly diced fruits and veggies, mash them against her forehead and then flick specks at Ender. Who always hopes that she's eating a deli meat. Sometimes she gets excited and tries to alert me of impending awesomeness. With amazing follow-through. (She could be stellar on the free-throw line. I mean it.) This results in food ending up in the darnedest places! Like IN the cabinet. Or under the Jumparoo. Sometimes down the back of the diaper. (That's only when she's being a show-off.) 

I kinda want to invent a food catcher, but so far the only idea I have is to wrap the entire highchair (and baby) in a big ol' thing of netting. Which I can't imagine will go over well. But- then again- someone invented the built in pasta strainer and that's downright absurd. ("Tired of spilling scalding noodles all over your loved ones? Have trouble walking to the sink?")

So. Yes. Cleaning after every meal. Not just loading the dishwasher, but wiping everything down, sanitizing the high chair, la la la. It's been a bit of a challenge to get everything sparkly before Nora and I leave for work, but I've been sticking with it. And here's what I discovered. That could be a full time job. Here's what else I discovered- I get really mad at P.J. if he tries to sit in the clean kitchen. Let alone use a glass. 

I've been trying to de-clutter the general area with the hope that eventually, if nothing is actually IN the kitchen, I can just hose the place down. And isn't it funny, the things you look at every day but never really notice are there? As I was washing dishes yesterday, I happened to glance on the backsplash of the sink. We keep a sponge there, some hand soap, a Brillo pad...and three pan scrapers. I so rarely even use one- what kind of catastrophic lasagna pan am I anticipating? Or- have you ever seen three people simultaneously wash the dishes? It's that kind of excess that makes me hate my kitchen. 

Also, the flooring. And the counters. The cabinets could use a little spiffying up, too.

And I'll leave you with a little special insight into my nightly habits. ("The other guards won't show you this part...") Okay. I talk in my sleep. And thrash. Sometimes walk around a bit. But I think P.J.'s favorite nighttime activity of mine is...the continuation of the dream. 

I had been having a pretty special dream in which P.J. was yelling at me that I never let him cuddle. (Let's just take a sec and enjoy that one.) I remember- in dreamland- rolling my eyes and saying "Well, go ahead!" And he kept informing me that I wasn't doing it right. Or he couldn't reach me. (According to Wii Fit, anyone should be able to reach me from any room in the house.) So I woke up. Kinda. And saw that my actual husband was sleeping with his actual arms wide open. So, Alert But Not Really Awake Me smacked him. 

"What?!" 

"You can do it now," I crossly informed him.

"Huh?"

"Go ahead."

I waited for him to cuddle me. He went back to sleep. Dream Me was uber-ticked now. So I poked him again. But...I was falling back to sleep myself, and sorta crossed reality with a dream about a computer. Or something. Because the next thing Peej knew, I was shoving him and tapping the center of the bed, demanding that he "click" the sheets. 

"WHAT!?"

"Click it!"

"I don't know wha-"

"CLICK IT!"

And God bless Peej, he leaned over and went 'CLICK' to the middle of the bed. Then rolled over and went back to sleep. I recall drifting back off, wondering why I had ever married such a jerk.

Sorry, P.J., I'll make it up to you.

You can use a glass or a plate with dinner.

Maybe a pan scraper.

Rock n' roll lifestyle, indeed.

What a wonky start to the day.

It's Monday, it's boiling hot, it's swamptacular...and it's- quite unexpectedly- my day off. Mr. C has a raging fever (feel better, li'l man) and- even worse- it was supposed to be his first day of camp. And his counselor's name is Nora.

And he loves our Nora.

Sadness all around. Except, of course, that means Miss Nora Janie and I have a Get Out Of Responsibility Free card. Unless you count the usual crazyville that is parenting an only child. Which- strangely- I usually don't. (Especially not during the work week when she's the youngest of three and- at last check- has no individual activities, classes or appointments of her own. Our mornings home consist of Nora crawling all over me and my kissing of her various appendages. I think she prefers workdays.)

However.


Someone- and I'm not big into the Blame Game- woke up at 4:30am. Which is a completely unacceptable time for anyone to be awake. Unless you're a bat. Or Eric Northman. That would have been ridiculously okay.

Anyhow, baby girls- or whomever it was- should sleep until 7. If not later. But there the culprit was, standing against the crib rails, showing off two miniature teeth in a grin so impossibly like her father's. (I am wicked bad at deception. I think I've given the offender away.)

So, first nap of the day= 7:30am. And, being a rational person who never looks a gift horse in the mouth (or any other magical, mouthy being, for that matter)...I took a nap, too.

I fully understand that my pals in various office locales are, right now, hating me with a bit of a passion. I accept this. And I promise to be spit up on later in the day.

The Weekend In A Nutshell (or perhaps some other, non-allergenic enclosure. A peapod?):

Friday night- Lameville Central. But only for those watching. For me it was an ideal evening of fablitude. It started off a little iffy. Our commute home was hampered by gale force winds of around 80mph. And sideways rain. Plus a little green/yellow/purple sky action. Plus, by that point in the day Nora didn't want to be in her carseat. Or picked up. Or asleep. Or in her own skin. It was hard to blame her. I wasn't digging on my own car/consciousness level/body situation, overmuch. And traffic congestion (not to mention less than ideal road conditions) Makes P.J. Concerned And Raise His Voice, Not At You, You've Done Nothing Wrong, I Just Really Want To Get Her Home, Okay?

But then we stopped for a five dollar pizza! The rest of the night went smoothly from there. So wonderfully, in fact, that after Nora fell asleep we cleaned, organized and enjoyed a spiffy house for the rest of the night. Okay, until 9pm when The Soup started. When that ended we decided to watch Sherlock Holmes. Which was great! For the first ten minutes. After that, we dozed off in a pile of drool and neatly folded baby clothing. (That's right, my idea of a perfect Friday night consists of bedtime by 10.)

Saturday- Okay, this is when things got nutsy. Started out with normalcy written all over it. Kinda like a Saturday for an eight year-old (I am still fully convinced that being an eight year-old is the answer to everything.) Peej worked on the yard and I wrote outside while Nora napped. But then she stopped napping. Like, forever. Usually she racks up about 3-4 hours a day and 11 at night. She read the age-appropriate chapter in the baby book and tries to follow it accordingly. But today? Her first nap was fifty minutes. Her second nap was forty minutes (bookended by ten minutes of eyeball-popping rage.) And that was it.

Of course that was it. For you see, P.J. and I had plans that evening. And, while Nora usually adores her sitter, the moment she walked in Nora began screaming like the zombies were attacking. (They weren't. We have alarms for that kinda thing.) Against my better judgement, I went out. But we drove, so that I could Be Home At A Moment's Notice- Call For ANYTHING. Also, I left instructions to Let Her Do Whatever She Wants, If Need Be, Buy The Kid A Pony, Just Tell Her I Love Her. (And I'm usually a bit less of a soft touch. There are cries that I can- easily- ignore. But the One? That's a toughie.)

I was a messy wreck of a mess-wreck. Until I got the text that Nora had fallen asleep at 6:30. For the night. I'd worry about the ramifications of that later. We were out and about!

And 'out and about' in this scenario= on a trolley. A party trolley. (Is there any other kind? Except maybe The Land Of Make Believe one. Why is everything capitalized today?) Our darling pal Nick celebrated the big 2-9 over weekend and wanted his craziest friends to come play. And P.J. and I went, too!

And my my, how things have changed. Not just because I'm married, a homeowner, or thirty years old. Or even because Nora. It's because of all of those things together. And- this is the kicker- I'm out of practice. Granted, I was never an out of control party girl, but I have been known to wear a lampshade or two. Sometimes together. But boy oh boy- give me a beer and a view of the lake (whizzzzzzing past on Lake Shore Drive) and soon I remember just why I put down the ol' lamp.

Actual convo:
Keely to P.J.: It is SO late.
P.J.: Yeah. Really. What time is it? It is SO late.
Keely: Can you believe we're out this LATE?
Everyone else: It's 8:30.

But a good time was had. Beer was consumed from a [glass] boot. And from a can. I even got to cement my status as Lame when I jumped out of the [stopped] trolley to go find a bathroom. Yep, couldn't even wait the extra five minutes until we'd actually be in that bar. Not to play the 'Mom' card, but uh, ol' bladder ain't what she used to be. (Okay, it was never stellar.)

And did you notice that a lack of "Nora" from a story does not mean there's a lack of "pee" from a story?

So the night was really fun. Pictures were taken in front of Buckingham Fountain, in a fountain in Lincoln Square, and- strangely enough- only in front of the word Willis at the tower f.k.a. Sears.

And that car parked up in Edgewater? Remember the one so that I could get home to a distraught kiddo quickly after a burger at Moody's Pub? Yeah, P.J. picked it up the next morning. We didn't quite feel up to driving- when we got home at 11:30pm.

So...Sunday was lower key. Nora gave him a silhouette of her head. She's big into 70s kitsch and made me frame it on green-patterned fabric. I Feng Shui-ed the downstairs family room for optimal movie-watchin'. (And it's now a massive room. I really should have my own design show. As long as all of the rooms I redo are in my house, with my own things.) We took him to Susie's Drive-In to get malts, burgers and fries (our ground beef quota for the weekend was more than fulfilled.) He took a hammock nap. And a bed nap. And- briefly- a floor nap. Surprisingly enough, so did Nora! She slept twelve hours overnight and pulled a good four hours of sleep total during the day. Happy Fathers Day, indeed!

Part of The Sting was viewed- we really only watch movies in miniseries form. Dinner was sushi from the Lawrence Fish Market. P.J. wanted it. No really, it was him. And it was consumed on the patio after Bitsy Bug crashed out for the night. And then True Blood. (Isn't it funny how "his" perfect day kinda mirrors "my" perfect day? I guess he's just exceptional at planning out a special holiday.)

And then...bed by nine thirty. By choice. Blissfully. Peej conked out as soon as he had a sight-line of his pillow. I talked to my big sis on the phone for a few- but it was still blissful to be in bed.

Because I am old.

Again, not in age. But in lifestyle. Activity-wise, I'd be better suited to a mallard puzzle and a plaid blanket on my lap as you wheel me down to the seaside. Unless it's time for my programmes. Then I'm as spry as a...

...slightly younger Old Person.

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.