Now you're thinking about the taco spoon, aren't you?

There's something quite special about waking up on a Monday morning- and feeling like you're already way behind. Here's the problem: On the weekends, I like to play this game called I Have No Responsibility. It's true. I don't know where this bad habit came from. I've never in my life had more to do on the weekends and have never been better at disregarding it.

It's strange. Most weekend mornings, Peej and Nora let me sleep in 'til the 7 o'clock hour (= Disneyland n' puppies n' sunshine) and he gets to be the one covered in all things breakfast. Sometimes he puts her down for- not one- but two naps! You'd think all of this would free me up for things like cleaning, preparing meals, maybe writing? Nooope. While he's wrangling the Bitsy, I can usually be found lying on the living room floor, balancing my second mug of coffee on my chest (I hope someone out there is enjoying the benefits of my half-caf experiment, for my system sure isn't) and whining about how much I have to do. And then not doing it.

And then P.J. works on the yard. And I follow him out to kick at the dirt and ask him what he's doing. Over. And. Over. It's almost like I expect this sudden help/freedom to immediately equate an 8 year-old's summer vacation. Take away the mad rush of stress and I am utterly useless.

P.J. suggests that I go rest or read. I snap at him that he's trying to make me go away.

P.J. [carefully] states that I sure have been wanting some time to write. I'm not in the Right Mood, I tell him. Obviously. (I kinda wonder if he thinks that Right Mood needs to go hand in hand with a sparkling clean house, a fully caffeinated beverage, and a foot rub. At the ocean. With someone else recording my thoughts. And a small but respectable crowd applauding politely.)

And then Nora wakes up and I snap back into Busy Mode. Because- and this has always, always been the case- our summer weekends start booking up in March. Not because we are popular. Oh no. In fact, most of our friends dislike us greatly for our inability to hang out- so we make one on one plans with them. On the next free weekend. And when someone has a shindig or a non baby-friendly event (totally their right- sometimes I feel downright PG-13 myself) we try to ease the sting of our lameness by giving them the NEXT free weekend after that. And, because we're a couple between the ages of 20-45, this is "wedding season." Making it sound like people are shooting at married people. (Which, being one, I also totally understand.) On top of that, P.J. and I have a combined seven siblings, five sibling in-laws, four parents, and ten nieces and nephews who do really fun things like a) get born, b) vacation in boaty places and c) like to see us on non-holiday-esque weekends. (Which, when the others' hear about these jaunts, they join on in. Making it a holiday-esque weekend.) And THEN- oh then- on weekends when we could feasibly stay in the place where we toss all of our savings (Home Depot), we hear about Festivals That We Love.


And here's a little secret about Chicago. In the summer, you can't win. There will never be a weekend where you can enjoy one great event and not completely miss out on another. The weather is so rotten here for so much of the year that the city decides to cram as much amazingness as possible into ten short weekends. ("Please stay one more year," they seem to implore.) This past weekend, for example, was the Folk and Roots Festival. Which I missed. Because the Roscoe Village Garden Walk/Burger Fest was going on. (Hint- if you ever wish to locate the Schoeny family, check out local Garden Walks. We cannot resist them. Also, burgers.) 


We got to give in to two of our favorite cravings yesterday; street fair food and pretending we still live in Roscoe Village. Nora had her first cheese curds yesterday. Not surprisingly, she dug them. (Actual overheard conversation at a vendor: Girl returning her cheese curds- "Uh, this is just fried cheese!?" Vendor- ..."Yeah?" Points to sign: Fried. Cheese. Curds.) 


Also, I love that Nora chows on grilled bok choy and sautéed rainbow chard during the week...and eats like a frat boy on the weekends. (Although I did bring her a baggie of peas which she much preferred to her Stilton burger.)

I tried to bake yesterday morning- even though baking requires precise "math" and usually, my eyes glaze over when I try to follow detailed directions. But there was this fabulous-looking recipe for lemon and sour cream muffins in Parade magazine (Pah-rahd) and it seemed simple enough for a preschooler to follow. Perfect. Sure, the sour cream had been compromised (a taco spoon had been dipped- oh, maybe two weeks ago) but that sure wasn't gonna stop me. And yes, the magazine forgot to include that pesky little detail of how hot to make the oven, but- those two details aside, they came out tasting like MUFFINS!  P.J. and Nora each had two. I had four. Which brings us to...

...Last night I went to Pilates, bringing my non-Wii workouts for the past two months up to...once.

And last night, after the obligatory (for Peej) viewing of True Blood, I experienced the manliest channel surfing experience ever. Alien vs. Predator/The Godfather (Part 1)/Alien vs. Predator: Requiem. Some thoughts:

a) Could this be the bloodiest three hours of television ever viewed?
b) What about the last one makes it a "requiem?" That sounds like an awfully fancy way of saying "we did it again."
c) Why was Appollonia never again acknowledged by Al Pacino- or anyone else in the movie- in Sicily, America or otherwise? This hampered my movie-viewing experience. Then again, the baby being carted around in The Hangover had a similar effect. (It was WAY too long for that kid to not have eaten/napped/been in the shade.)

So. Right. Monday.

From the hours of 6:30am to 8am I fed Nora, cleaned Nora, mopped the floor (not out of any virtuous desire- I was kinda stuck to it) and did a load of laundry (same reasons). Played with Nora's toys- she did, too- and read a dozen animal books, making appropriate sounds. Got packed up for this late morning/afternoon's work and, realizing that Nora had a nose full of boogs- wiped it on my shirt. (Why? Why do I do this? And not even on her shirt- mine!) Started another load of laundry.

In short, I got more "done" around the house in an hour and a half than I did all weekend. There's gotta be some lesson or moral in here.

And I'm totally gonna think about that.

After one more muffin.

Day three of kiddo fever= rage about The Issues.

Oh my goodness.

Now, I'm not usually one for "current" media. I read the Sunday paper, of course- the trifecta of the Sunday Mag, Parade and "the funners." Always. I try to keep up with environmental, health and local political stuff. But no, I'm not a rabid news follower. (Then again, I kinda don't have to be. I'm married to a guy who has The Huffington Post tattooed onto his corneas. He likes to tell me The Issues right before bed.)

However. This morning's Trib had a feature story about the Happy Meal. And how evil it was. Because McDonald's lures kids in with the promise of- get this- a toy. And it's making our nation's kids fat. And, I dunno, commercial. I really don't see the problem. Okay, I take that back. I see the problem of gluttonous consumerism. Everyone does. But seriously. Let's break it down:

a) The kids ain't driving themselves to Mickey D's. Toys are the big draw? False. An easy meal for the parent is the draw. (And as a parent and a ridiculously lazy person myself, I do not condemn this practice. But let's not get all high and mighty about the toy thing- a dollar burger is a dollar burger is I Am Not Cooking Tonight. Heck- the other day we took Nora out to get a corndog. Healthy? Nope. But it was easy to procure and I wanted a bite of it.)

b) They have french fries? In the Happy Meal? Yup. But they also have apple dippers and white meat chicken and milk chugs. (Forgetting, for a moment, that the idea of "chugging" milk makes me retch.) They also have salads and wraps and yogurt parfaits and grilled stuff. But my kid won't eat that, a chorus of parents exclaim, baggies of Cheerios in hand. Well, that's not McD's fault. Again, the six year-old isn't waltzing up to the counter and placing an order. (Although that would be pretty special to see.)

c) The toy itself? The five cent marvel that is the instantly breakable piece of indeterminate plastic? Really? This is the thing causing all the fuss? Yeah, kids really crave that piece of ribbon attached to a piece of plastic [a current, AirBender-related toy choice]- so much, in fact, that it instantly ends up under the backseat of the car. Also, did you know that they offer crayons at Denny's? Yup. LURES THEM IN. Do we really want our kids to think it's okay to eat Moons Over My Hammy every single day? Uh, then why the crayons?

I totally dig why people are up in arms over this. It took this company waaay too long to offer healthier choices and come clean on nutritional listings. But somewhere along the line people need to take personal responsibility for individual items of food which they place in their individual mouths. Going to McDonald's was a special- and extremely rare- treat for us when we were kids. As Peej said to me this morning- it wasn't the toy so much as it was a chance to eat a burger in a place that made him feel like a big kid. And, of course, the Play Place didn't hurt. ('Cept when it did.) And let's not forget about the Hamburglar. (I really, really couldn't NOT mention him here.)

Heck, little kid P.J. was bribed with a Happy Meal to "be okay with" moving to his new house. As in, "If we take you, will you stop whining about the move?" Yup!

And what about Mayor McCheese? (That's all.)

In short, don't take your kids out to have fast food. Except when you want to. But don't do it more than every once in a while. Or- if you do- you lose the right to say things about fast food luring you in.

Now I am simply starving.

Media rant= ended. Back to hard-hitting issues like this or this or (takin' the Wayback Machine) to this.

Happy Thursday.

Be good to your cecum. (Eww...)

Turkish appetizers and Mexican helado- must be the 4th!

As I sit here typing, I can hear my daughter's rageful meows from the room directly above me. (Seriously, she sounds like the cats. I think they have a thing going on where they decided if they all sound alike, then we'll come running all the time. I don't quite get this logic, but then again- I'm neither an 8 month old human nor a 6 year old cat.)

She had decided she was too tired to even hold up her head during breakfast- resulting in a Greek yogurt and plum facial- and scattered pieces of croissant and random Cheerios to the wind as we freed her from her highchair. Maybe we looked bored. Perhaps the idea of us sitting with mugs in chairs depressed her- there are no toys, no bits of food on our faces, we aren't even singing. So here, she says. Here's something to pick up. And a finger's worth of yogurt for your nostril.

Do you know what would happen if someone made me Greek yogurt with any kind of fruit in it? (Keeping in mind that this yogurt was purchased without a coupon. WITHOUT.) And a warmed croissant? Why, I'd sit there and eat it. Happily. And when someone placed me in a cool, darkened room with several of my favorite items scattered about- I'd sleep for about three weeks.

Then again, if you placed me on a folding chair- in broad daylight- smack dab in the center of Michigan Avenue...I'd sleep for about three weeks.

So. Nora Jane, you'll just hafta deal with this sudden burst of Vaudeville-like energy that causes you to dance around your crib for your One Woman [Two Otter/One Frog] Show...because, sister, it's Monday morning. And your Mama blogs on Monday mornings. While you nap. So- you need to nap because no one is gonna- oh. And...your Dad just went and got you. God bless holidays.

Last night was a slight deviation from the norm, to say the very least. People in my neighborhood love loud things. And explosives. And holidays- Albany Park digs a good holiday. And- it being the Fourth and all- our street was the most explosively loud [and festive!] I'd ever seen it. All of the nearby parks had their own fireworks displays. Pyrotechnic amateurs were setting things off in the streets and alleys as early as 4pm- on Friday. So we expected last night to be Crazyville LeShadduptown.

And it was.

We took Nora out into the backyard after her extremely patriotic dinner of hummus, Spinach pies, lamajoon (and, oddly enough, peas) to see some of the neighborhood displays. A few bright lights made it over the tops of the Walgreens wall [for those of you whom have not seen my current abode, the entire block from Kedzie to Cullom is the back of a mammoth Walgreens. It's a gigantic, nondescript, tan wall that- if one squints hard enough- one can pretend it walls in one's villa] and the copper dome of Our Lady of Mercy, respectively. Nora was impressed, but way more stoked to be in the backyard at dusk.

We decided to put her to bed. [Hah! Yes. Here, Nora, in your young life you've never known it to be louder than it currently is, but...sleep tight.] However, when we got upstairs, we realized that her bedroom had an unobstructed view of at least four fireworks shows. OVER the Walgreens wall! (All this, Nora...all this will someday be yours...)

So we watched. From the relatively insulated safety of her nursery, she could really enjoy the bright colors without all those nasty sonic booms. Peej and I were high-fiving. Seriously. Next year? Come watch the 'works from Nora's room.

That said, bedtime was pushed back- oh, about four hours- until we lamely realized that it was a) too hot and b) too loud for normal bedtime-goin'. We all slept downstairs. Nora looked at us like we were crazy for putting her in her Pack n' Play but slept through the night nonetheless.

Happy Fourth.

And tonight we're extremely excited to be going to the wedding of two darling friends. P.J. is actually performing the ceremony- and he and I both helped to edit the vows- and it promises to be a lovely affair with, among other things, decadent cake. (I've seen pictures.)

*

One last obnoxious plug for self-promotion- I promise I won't be flooding your blogosphere with any more of this for, oh, about four months. Today at roughly 2:15pm the site for Top Mommy Blogs is having a GINORMOUS RESET. That means that allll of those folks with 8 million votes are coming back down to ZERO. And me? Well, I hope to skyrocket up to crazy fame and acclaim and a stickball game.

Here's how you can help. Go here anytime after 2ish today. (If you still see people with zillions of votes on the front page, it's too early. No worries. You can either come back later or tomorrow or whenever you have that thought of "Oh my goodness, I just love her. How can I let her know?" ) All it takes is one click to get there, one click to vote. No email, no sign-ups, no pressure to call me later in the week.

Why, you may ask? Well, here's the thing. As cool as the "ads" thing is, I've been turning down a few lately from various companies. As funny as it is, I just cannot pepper this blog with reviews for products that- do things...to various body parts. Cannot. (Sure, I can post about the Schick Trimstyle to my heart's content- but as I'm not getting even the slightest bit of compensation from them...I don't feel dirty. Overmuch.) That said, if I made it into the top handful of blogs on the TMB site- who knows what could happen? A broader audience, for one. Legitimate advertising, for two. And from there? Perhaps a book deal, a national tour, six figure salary- or, at the very least, coupons for a free Frosty.

I'll share.

I'm not above bribing my readers.

Which may lower that ol' six figure salary to about five.

Plus a free Frosty.

Declan, meet Media.

The Flynn/Grant/Schoeny clans have been abuzz with their newest addition: Mr. Declan Seamus Grant, born June 30th at 3:06pm, 9lbs and 4oz, 21in long. (Are you hearing this, Nora Jane? I guarantee you guys will be wearing the same hoodie at the Cape.) He joins big bros Quinn Sawyer and Cole Sebastian- and of course my big sis Kate and her 'Let's Have A Lacrosse Team' husband Tom.

We are so stoked to meet our newest little guy- Nora's first "little" cousin- and that's why Nora and I are flying out to meet him in less than four weeks! (Alone. Like, 'one baby, one checked bag, is that a complimentary bottle of Stoli?' alone.) I cannot wait to [pretend to] eat his cheeks.

It's moments like these that make me think about my life. How crazy our schedule has been lately, what with Nora being sick, swapping work days, pretending to be a writer (that takes up more energy that you'd initially suspect) and all the [albeit great] events. I feel like I've been losing sight of something superbly important, something that defines me as an artist and an American:

There have been so many ridiculously great advertising campaigns lately, and they have gone virtually unnoticed.

-L'Oreal Paris has a new "spherical" mascara wand. It's a "telescopic explosion!" It's a ball on a stick. Sure, I bet the coverage is great. How could it not be? You are wiping ink on your face with a snow cone.

-Sargento cheese cube snacks. Now, not to snark on my people (huzzah, Armenia!), but really. How time-consuming was it- honestly- to take a brick of cheese and, you know, cube it? I would like someone- perhaps someone with better "math skills" that they can "do in their head" to gimme a nice li'l cost analysis. I'm gonna wager that, price per ounce, it's still going to be a ton cheaper to whip out the old knife yourself. I could be wrong. (And, if I am wrong, I'll be first in line at the Jewel tonight. My hands are KILLING me from all of this cubing.)

-Okay, I realize that this is a very real issue, but those Life Alert commercials need to stop. I CANNOT take them seriously. Yes, she fell. Thankfully her daughter was there to, you know, cradle her head and wrap a shower curtain around her. But I may drown in all of the Earnest. (And if I'm doing the Ugly Cry from too much high-pitched laughter? Perhaps your ad campaign is not coming across as the hard-hitting drama it so clearly dreams of being.)

-All right. Okay. This is a family blog, so, uh, let's see how gracefully I can address this one. The Schick Trimstyle for women? It's a razor. It's a- ahem- personal groomer. It also shape-shifts nearby shrubberies to vaguely- and extraordinarily uncomfortable- pubic dimensions. (I say "vaguely" because, um, that rectangular tower? Huh?) Also, it helps if the shrubbery is in the vicinity of an actual shower. Or tub. Or pool. Whatever. 'Cause nothing says "personal grooming" like a shared, chlorinated body of water.

And is it bad that the last one solely made me think of all the exterior work we still need to do on this house?

Lost. Cause. Flynn.

I miss the days of good, ol' fashioned, heavily veiled, wink wink nudge nudge advertising, the kind of pure ad that didn't make everyone in the room immediately and intensely uncomfortable.

You know, like this Feel Good bit of...I'm not sure what they're selling.

Sweaters? Lower back rides? Those were the days, back when you could ride your capri'd pal's hipbones with wild abandon. Ah, youth.

Back to the day, I s'pose. Off to shower and put on my face. But first, I'll grab a handful of my favorite cheese product. No worries. I'm covered. See this medical necklace?

I have the perfect outfit picked out for the day.

And I've just figured out my mode of transpo.

Giddyup!

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.