This is for my sister.

It has recently come to my attention that my blog used to be "funnier" when it wasn't so much "journalling." My apologies. Although quite honestly, this was never intended to be a laugh-a-minute type thing. Sadly, the things that people find amusing are actual events, truthful musings and honest to gosh awkward scenarios that, were they kept inside, would but fester.

That said, here is my favorite joke.

A grasshopper walks into a bar and takes a seat at the stool. The bartender approaches him and says, "Wow, this is so cool. A real grasshopper. You know, we have a drink named after you!" The grasshopper, clearly touched, leans across the bar and eagerly asks, "You have a drink named STEVE?"

Phew. Humor. Check.

And now, if I may, I'd love to tell the fantastic story of my morning...(sorry, Em, the blog has to be about me a LITTLE bit. You know, kind of like a running log of things I want to remember. Like a web log. Or, you know, a blog.)

So, this a.m. started a tad roughly. I'm supposed to be out the door at 6:45am on Wednesdays and Fridays, harsh enough when I'm actually able to do it- but at 6:49 P.J. woke me and asked, "Don't you have somewhere to BE?" While I stood in place with my mouth agape, P.J. proceeded to fill my coffee mug, put my scripts (that he had printed out) into my bag for tonight, laid out my coat, mittens, hat and boots in a me-shaped position by the table, and gently inquired if he could do anything else. I think he was trying to encourage the putting-on of my pants. (Meanwhile, the laundry that each of us thought the other had put into the dryer last night...was sitting in the basement. Frozen. With allll of the socks in the known universe.)

So I ran. (And put on pants.) I missed a bus. Checked the bus tracker on my phone. 8 minutes. No good, CTA, no good at all. So I continued to run. And I ran and kept on running past Leavitt, Hoyne, Damen, and then at Wolcott (darn you, Wolcott!) I slipped on a patch of black ice and ran myself into a flying V (bags, coffee mug and me) and thudded into an unsuspecting man and subsequently a brick wall. And then my back made friends with the pavement. And my hip said 'howdy-do' to my travel mug, which cracked in angry protest. 

And I saw the train go by overhead.

I assured the crowd of gawking non-helper-uppers that I was fine and in fact ENJOYED wearing snow. Nonchalantly, I gingerly stepped the rest of the way to the Addison station and tapped my train pass against the turnstile. Nothing. Tapped it again. "Please retouch card," it implored me. I went to the next turnstile and did so. "SINGLE USE," it indignantly told me. "This IS my single use," I yelled at it. Another train was rumbling its approach. I frantically waved to the 'attendant,' now staring at me as if I were trying to make off with one of the turnstiles and not merely a dissatisfied commuter. 

"It's only one use," she mouthed, not realizing that the door to her kiosk was open.

"I know," I shouted back, quite possibly in a too-loud voice. "I just tapped it once."

"Did you already go through?"

I stared at her, down at my [snowy] belongings and then up the stairs where I could hear the train approaching. And hear it leave. I continued to stare, hopefully in a steely sort of way, but I think I only managed to do a sort of balefully pathetic face. 

Sighing the sigh of the long-suffering, the sigh of one forced to work to such a stressfully violent and decrepit locales as the stop at Addison and Lincoln (amidst dry cleaners, multi-million dollar condos and Turkish cafes), she let me through the turnstile with an 'I'm onto you,' kind of smirk.

"Pass is only single use."

THANK YOU. I did thank her.

Got upstairs to the platform, looked around- no train in sight. However, the bus- the one I couldn't bear to wait for- was pulling up at the station.

But other than a nagging 'back of the skull' headache and a sense that my heart is still perhaps beating a tad too fast- other than that- this day is proving better than I had hoped. 

And does anyone feel like seeing some theatre tonight? Chicago Dramatists, 8pm, featuring Yours Truly as a playwright and Miss Kat Daniels as my star. Blue line Chicago stop. 

If I'm late, check the turnstile. 

'Hewwo' indeed.

This year is really turning around. (Which is good. See: the past two weeks.)

A new president! Not to be all political- I'll leave that to Slate, Salon and Pinko mag- but I'm completely stoked about Barack, the closing of Gitmo (in a year, sure, okay) and the J. Crew wardrobes that the Obama gals were rocking. 

Also, this week brought the newest Schoeny member, Mr. James Boden Schoeny, 7lbs, 7oz. He may go by Boden, Bodie, or (my favorite) The Guy Who Brought My Niece/Nephew Tally to 8. Well played, sir! 

I did a revisiony/drafty/outliney-type thing for my new play (yes, the one that got shredded two weeks ago)...and it was thoroughly dug! Now, whether elements were praised because a) they were good, or b) they thought I'd cry without a bit of ego-strokin', no matter. Either is good. Both are better. 

Tonight is the 5th anniversary party of Dog & Pony Theatre, the company that brought us shows like (for example) As Told By the Vivian Girls. Which was recently voted one of the ten best shows of the year in Chi by Timeout Mag. And, you know, the one I worked on for six months.  The Hideout, 8pm, DJs, play readings, cheapo drinks, 10 bucks cover; do come. 

In other news, I'm continuing on with Pilates awesomeness. (Truly, everyone wins in this scenario: Natalie gets to plow through her training hours, I'm getting in shape quite radly, and P.J. no longer has to listen to me complain about not fitting into jeans whilst eating Cinnamon Toast Crunch from a bowl the size of a stockpot.) Thanks to Natalie, I'm finally learning how to actually hold myself, tone my muscle(s), appear taller(!) and lose a bit o' weight. How much weight? About five pounds. And maybe an inch or two. 

That's enough of that. I promise not to continually write about 'la la la weight loss/my period/Lifetime movieish things. I leave that to iVillage/WE, and, you know, Lifetime.

And now, I must go eat a banana for sore muscles (actual advice), tire out the sleepless (and lovin' it) child Lil, finish up some laundry, get a jump start on Valentine-makin' for (and with) all of my kiddos, and maybe answer this ringing phone.

Or, as Lily calls it, "Kiki's hewwo." 

Irregardless...

...is my favorite made-up word. That said, I can go forward with my original thought. And so, irregardless of my junky past week and the debilitating illness (wherein I face a very real danger of tissuing myself to death) of this current one, I've managed to eke out a universal truth AND PAY IT HEED:

There is absolutely no situation in which a 28-year old (namely, myself) should either be encouraged or allowed to wear any tee shirt that is only mildly baggy ON A TWO YEAR OLD. 

On a completely irrelevant and non-incriminating side note; do you like Jack-Jack's new shirt? 

(He sure does.)

Oh...boy. It's, uh, January.

Wow! Have things changed in the past week or WHAT? I've been told to "stay positive," so, um, here goes.

Bad news: LOOKS LIKE WE'RE NOT SO MUCH BUYING A HOUSE. The seller is potentially a psychopath and an ex Chicago cop who isn't crazy digging the idea of giving us his mother's home anymore. Apparently we have offended him. (When an employee of the city of Chicago shows displeasure with you, I've learned it's best to walk away slowly with your hands in non-threatening positions.) Also, we may have to eat the better part of our initial costs: inspection, mortgage application, lawyer, therapy. 

Good news: No one has subletted our apartment yet so we are not homeless! And, uh, other positive things! Also on the bright side, I seem to have shaken this incredible need to bash my head into the floor like a tweaked-out toddler. And the tears are beginning to subside. But I'm optimistic that the deal could still work out!

Bad news: My new script outline got ripped a new one in our last Local 75 meeting.

Good news: The tears are beginning to subside! And, since I pretty much know who the murderer is and have a decent handle on the plot, I'm feeling confident that I can have a completely new, streamlined, utterly different story by next Friday if I quit my three jobs.

Bad news: My Blackberry, a source of utter goodness in my world, really, really doesn't want to allow any functions to, um, function. Since November 6th.

Good news: After calling T-Mobile for two straight months, dealing with incompetent Wicker Park salespeople and infuriating "customer care" representatives, I finally met a gem of an employee. After being transferred for two straight hours one evening and being told that since my warranty had expired there was nothing anyone could do, I reached this amazing lady we'll call Mother Theresa. Now Theresa was sympathetic- and a Blackberry owner!- and asked if she could transfer me ONE MORE TIME. I almost lost my marbles (and my sunny demeanor) but agreed. When the next person picked up, she informed me that SINCE I HAD EXTENDED WARRANTY COVERAGE (I do not), I WAS ELIGIBLE FOR A FREE REPLACEMENT. With free shipping. I can only assume that Theresa took pity on me and added the warranty to my account. I just received my new phone and am thoroughly enjoying scrolling from side to side, up and down, and being allowed to call people whose numbers I do not have memorized. 

Bad news: I have quite possibly gained ten pounds since this summer. When I mention this to people they inform me that, "yeah, it happens after 25 and it's impossible to bounce back the way you used to." This is not helpful. 

Good news: Part of my Christmas present from Peej was private Pilates lessons from our amazing pal Natalie (who is studying to become the Jack LaLanne of my universe- I almost typed 'Jack Palance.' That's weird.) Had the first session last night and I succeeded in not snapping my body in half on the Reformer. Seriously, I was in a sling. And another sling. And my back was sliding around on a cross between a rowboat and a rocketship. It was FANTASTIC. I already lost about twenty pounds. No, for real.

Bad news: It's January, twenty below (for non-Chicagoans, yes, that's with the Wind Chill), and dark at 4:30pm. 

Good news: I'm healthy, have a great husband who tolerates an astounding amount of emotional roller-coasting in a given day- who just asked if I'd like to extend our March Los Angeles trip up to Napa for a week (yes)- the kiddos I nanny for are nothing but fun (example: I was getting 4 year old Chance dressed this morning and asked if the underwear he had on were new, meaning clean, and he gave me a surprised look. "Of course they're new, Kiki- Mommy just got them from the Gap!") and my family and friends are all doing (or working towards) things they love. Not too shabby. 

(But if it's all the same to you, I'd like to skip ahead to spring.)