Oh, fine, THIS makes me uncool?

I love Valentine's Day.

I LOVE Valentine's Day. Back in grade school, I used to love the holiday so much that it physically made me sick from excitement. I'd pick out my fanciest, sparkliest, flounciest skirt and/or whimsical animal top and spend possibly too much time choosing necklaces, bracelets and earrings (after second grade) that screamed hearts.

Okay, I still do.

Back then, I'd painstakingly craft Valentines for every member of my class, every teacher, librarian and Room Girl. (Did you guys ever have Room Girls or Boys? They were the fifth graders responsible for marching the younger kids down to the cafetorium every day at lunchtime. I later become one. It was an awesome and heady responsibility.)

I also spent the equivalent of a part-time job making my desk envelope AS WELL AS a bedroom door envelope. You know, for all of the Valentine overflow? My "workshop" was my bedroom closet, a narrow, 70s-style sliding plywood door number- I'd periodically remove everything from the floor (mainly on heavy work days- it was also a detective office when necessary) and pull on the chain light for optimum crafting conditions.

I signed every card with a personal message and a bold, glittery "Love, Keely," delivered them with seizure-inducing excitement and waited for the magic to happen. (In third grade, a kid I'll refer to simply as "Chris" brandished his in front of my face with a defiant wave. "Love? Love, Keely? You love me?" Buffoon.)

And the party? Oh, God, the party. The last hour of the school day was when we pushed our desks into, you know, party formation and got to open envelopes, deliver any last minute Valentines (I always tried to look extra deserving) and eat baked goods that have forever defined my image of the holiday. (Susen Andrews' Mom, Janet? God bless you and God bless those mammoth pink frosted heart cookies.)

Except here was the problem.

I'd get so crazy excited the night (heck, month) before, that I'd usually be running a low-grade temp the morning of the class party. My Mom, savvy to my enthusiastic and potentially self-damaging glee, would sometimes allow me to go to school for the morning and "See how you feel." (It wasn't the plague, after all, it was a self-induced pre-sugar high.)

I usually didn't make it to noon. Sometimes I even puked.

The car ride home always, always involved tears.

The teacher would have packaged my Valentine envelope and a few treats for me to take home- but it wasn't the same. Valentine's Day usually involved a late afternoon nap and dinner in my jammies.

BUT THE DINNER!

My parents were always darned festive, too, and Valentine's Day dinner was a shiny affair, complete with a "fancy" table, red cellophane-wrapped wondrousness and trinkets waiting at our place settings. (They probably only cost a few dollars, but red beads and velvet bows are the stuff from which memories are made- clearly.) We'd have a dinner of "favorites" complete with dessert- dessert was not always present for Flynn family dinners, but when it was it could be counted on to be epic- and, of course, opening of the bedroom door envelopes. I sometimes helped the twins open theirs. Heck, I usually helped them MAKE their envelopes. (They were allowed in the secret office- they were quite smallish and didn't take up much room.)

Now, I'm sure my folks had different ideas of what a "perfect" Valentine's Day would be- a quiet dinner, a non-animated flick, a full night's sleep without their secondborn ending up in bed with them- but for me? The memories of this one day have permanently shaped how I feel about the holiday.

This is why I do not get when people oppose a "Hallmark holiday". It's based on an actual saint who helped marry persecuted Christians- nothing Hallmark about that! But sure, now it's a Corporate Scheme and we're all inundated with ads for precious gifts and expensive bling.

You know what else is a Corporate, Spendy Holiday? July the 4th. You could choke on the ads for beer and grills and boats- BUT YOU DON'T SEE PEOPLE PICKETING THAT ONE, do you?

I spent the weekend with Peej and Nora, watching a trifecta of Batman Begins, Blade: Trinity ("Use it...") and Down With Love (which, crazily enough, ends happily IN love!), and they all strangely jived. Naps were taken with various, pink corduroy-clad gals and pajama pants-clad, coupon-happy men. Okay, one of each.

I cooked ZERO meals (while, funnily enough, P.J. prepared a handful of my favorite recipes on the face of the planet) and we exchanged gifts that totaled twenty bucks. Not exactly DeBeers, but you should totally ask P.J. to show you his travel mug with Nora's, well, mug on it. Awesome.

Spent the past few days calling, texting, emailing and Skyping loved ones to say just that, and received more than a few glittery cards in the mail. Which will be visible on my dining room table for a month. I love Valentine's Day.

And when Peej asked if I wanted to get a sitter and go out for a "grownup dinner" on the town? I passed on that one.

I have my own little gal now who gets unbelievably stoked with anticipation for a fancy holiday and for whom February 14th will always be an epic day.

I can just tell.

Reluctant parrots, Double bears & Nekkie wombats

Nora and I are currently on Day 4 of a four day work week. Granted, compared to my past schedules that used to total 50+ hours a week, it's positively relaxing- but we're used to the One Day On One Day Off workaday life. This kinda feels like bootcamp. (However, as I type this, 2-year old Lil is stirring in her bed for the day and Nora Jane is snoozing in her car seat, clutching Otto the otter like a flotation device. So, uh, wah wah, right? Yes.

I love my jobs. I love my families. My work options are so much cooler than I'd even hoped they'd be when I got pregnant. That said, yesterday I ran after a screaming miniature person WHILE breastfeeding Nora. (Is this a lot of info?) Turns out, she's extraordinarily portable and is kinda okay with meals-to-go. (Like a milkshake! Ew.)

It's been pretty exceptional to have every other morning with just Nora and have her smile peacefully at me- as opposed to the terrified wince toward flying objects, shrieking pitches and sudden immersion into the frigid Chicago air. Plus, whenever we go outside, I'm forced to layer the fleece car seat cover over her head for the quick trip into the car; 6:30am air in February feels like daggers on one's eyeballs. I'd like to give her eyeballs a chance. She doesn't care for the fleece-over-face action. I don't blame her. She's like a reluctant parrot, refusing to acknowledge the onset of dark. (Plus, I shove extra blankies, lovies, mittens and burp cloths into the car seat under her toes. So make that a reluctant CROWDED parrot.)

And it's been so cold and snowy that even when she doesn't have to endure the indignity of a blanket wrapped around her head, she does have to put up with the layering of hats under hoodies. Most articles of her clothing possess ears, leading us to dub such bundlings a Double Bear. She does not enjoy the Double Bear, either.

Thankfully, tomorrow morning she can be a Nekkie Wombat.

But because of the rushed mornings and crazytown days, I've acquired a list of Burning Questions that I can neither answer nor find time to Google. Help me, will you?

1) Why does a cut on your [my] pointer finger hurt worse than recovery from a c-section? And why does a bandaid refuse to stay put on such a wound? It's like a flap of skin that exposes the bone at this point. Do you know what gets in there and makes it even worse? EVERYTHING.

2) Why do Pampers have diaper stripes on them to indicate wetness? (Thanks, Michelle- I'd been wondering about this one, too!) I mean, it's kinda cute to be all, "Look, the stripe is BLUE, she must have PEED," but seriously. do you know how I tell when Nora needs to be changed? It's the trifecta called She's Very Heavy/What's That Smell/Why Is She Screaming? If all else fails, poke her bum. Sure, sure, babies' bums are squishy by nature, but they shouldn't feel like those Victoria's Secret water bras. (THAT is ANOTHER question...)

3) Why do I turn into Law Abiding Citizen whenever I pass a police cruiser in traffic? I'm no Johnny Rebel to begin with, but I find that I become extra "good," more attentive and polite, heck, even my posture improves. This is embarrassing. And on the topic of driving around town, have you ever noticed that the cars with the pro-Armed Forces bumper stickers also have flags that seem to defiantly wave in a frantic, patriotic manner? (Patrioticpatrioticpatriotic, they seem to yell.) Also- when one happens to speed through a yellow light, why is the customary reaction a high-pitched, singsongy "Soooooory!" Others outside of the car cannot hear your humorously self-effacing tone of acknowledgment, they just think you're a jerk.

4) Why is the hard Jello skin the worst feeling to ever feel in one's mouth? And why won't anyone eat the Jigglers in the fridge? (True story- the Chicago Dramatists' Network Playwright meeting was a couple of weeks ago and it was potluck. Outta luck- everything in the house had gone to pot. Except for two boxes of Jello. One was orange, the least-favored flavor ever. For anything. I actually failed to make Jello Jigglers. Yep, couldn't even get that done in time. So, I bought a bag of cookies and left the Jigglers in the fridge to, um, congeal. At press time, the congealed orange Jigglers were in no actual danger of being eaten.)

5) Do jeans *sometimes* go in the dark laundry load and *sometimes* in the light? I've really never been able to wrap my head around this one. What about stonewash jeans? And are those actually washed with stones? And why haven't I seen them in awhile? Ripped jeans never went out of fashion, why the wash o' stone?

6) Why does 70 degrees out of doors feel like summer and make you wanna plant a tree or, I don't know, set up a profitable lemonade stand that also sells classy leaf rubbings...when 70 degrees INSIDE drafty old house feels like the Arctic Circle itself and make you want to yell at your [or anyone's] husband?

These are questions needing prompt answers. If I MUST wait until after work to deal with these, I'll probably search online. Or call my sisters so THEY can search online. Ooh, or maybe I'll wait and write in to Parade Magazine!

I feel a 'steak dinner' bet coming on.

Sigh.

Sundays are fabulous. Sunday mornings at my house are a study in perfection. Seriously. A glimpse, if you will:

7:45am: Nora rolls to her side and pokes me in the face until I wake up. (Yes, DCFS, she still sleeps with us in the mornings. Please do not remove her from our home- she has tons of things here.) When I do wake up, she gives me an appreciative grin that makes me wonder why I didn't wake up hours ago to anticipate this moment. It's that good. And I used to HATE waking up.

8am: Changed, cleaned up and semi-dressed (one of us, anyhow), Nora and I head into the living room with a cup of [cinnamon hazelnut] coffee and prepare to read The Paper. P.J. has already separated it into the most helpful of piles. His= the Target circular, the Jewel circular, the Cermak circular, Real Estate, and World stuff...and then he grabs from my pile. MY lofty pile= Parade Magazine (pronounced Pa-RAHD, the funners, the Trib Magazine and the Arts section. You must MUST must start with Parade as you're waking up. There is nothing better to get the neurons firing than inane celebrity questions and "health" articles. ("Secret weapon for 2010? Flu shots and leafy greens!" Thanks, Parade!) Don't even get me started on Ask Marilyn: "If I have eight friends and we want to divide a bill equally by fives and only pay in PENNIES, which way should we be facing?" Shut up. Also, I've wondered for YEARS who these morons are that actually take the time to mail in a question in the hopes that it'll be published- someday- on the inside cover. And why do they always have a 'steak dinner' riding on the answer? People make a bet, write to some "expert" in Parade...and then wait! My sister Kate called to inform me of a similar Dear Abby recently; "Dear Abby, My husband and I are having a dispute. He says you screw in a lightbulb clockwise. I disagree and say it's counter-clockwise. Which of us is correct?" Kate had two problems with this letter- a) Erica in Alabama decided to write to Abby instead of testing out an actual light bulb, and b) "Abby" decided to publish this burning question. (The answer is clockwise, by the way, the same as turning a lid on a jar. All part of the service here, folks.) And an actual question this week from Parade- "Do the 2010 Winter Olympics really have a sasquatch as a mascot?" One word. GOOGLE. Do not waste a steak dinner on this bet. Google this question on your BlackBerry and pretend you knew the answer the whole time. And pick up some Del Monico steaks at Jewel- P.J. can give you a coupon. (And the mascot's name is Quatchi.)

8:15am: P.J. hands me a breakfast sandwich on a heart-shaped plate. He makes exceptional weekend brekkies, with maple bacon the star of the show. He then turns on the stereo and we listen to one of three things: the classical station (Nora likes it), NPR, or Survivor's "Vital Signs" on vinyl. These are the only options. The third is still in constant rotation (and by 'rotation,' I mean it stays on the turntable for months at a time. We have a collection of hundreds. It doesn't matter. This album is SO good. And earnest!)And, if I may, I'd like to quickly piggyback (whee!) on the Embarrassing Music post: Enya. Why must I feel shame? I LOVE Enya. Sure, sometimes she takes liberties with rhymes that are positively Kanye West-ian, but good God can that woman EVOKE.

8:30am: (Or thereabouts- I rarely have time to check the clock in the mornings because a) I don't want to, and b) Nora will let us know when it's time to do things.) Nora, for her part, has been chatting away in her bouncy seat with her pals Jacques the Peacock (from Auntie Annie!) and Starfish, the droll Starfish. Occasionally she will demand couch-time, only to squirm her way back to the bouncy seat. We read aloud from Mutts, Frazz, Non Sequitur, and, inexplicably, Pickles. We make a point of snubbing Dick Tracy, Brenda Starr and Raising Hector. (Ever wanna hear P.J. go on a tirade? Talk about this week's panel of Raising Hector. We haaaate Raising Hector.) Nothing, however, will ever top the despising of Zippy the Pinhead. Thankfully they do not publish such garbage in Chicago. But they have, errantly, discontinued Scary Gary. Why? It is the reason why the medium was invented. Bring it back, please.

8...45ish...: The Tribune Magazine is great. Excellent interviews, snapshots of far-flung Chicago neighborhoods, recipes I may actually use (not like that Parade drivel suggesting I cook eggs in the shape of a heart for Valentine's Day) and interior design stuff that inspires me to move the furniture around. Except THIS week, some over-eager guy on the printing team decided to slice the margins a full inch into the side of each paragraph. For shame, Trib Mag. Now I will have to GUESS how many teaspoons, cups or bunches of sage to put into my dish. I'll probably just go with a handful and that will most likely be WRONG.

Sometime around the vicinity of 9: A shower! An alone shower! My my, how the lofty goals have changed!

And then later on the morning (or the evening, if I take that class) brings Pilates at Flow Yoga (Natalie has saved my physique from becoming a sad warning and Janine is like a hug in yoga form) and I get to enjoy a solitary drive followed by an hour workout where no one needs ANYTHING that comes from or around my body followed by another drive. Sundays are boss!

The rest of the day can be filled with a rotating cast of pleasant activities: a nap with Nora starfished out on one's chest, Important Projects (P.J. finished the first floor bathroom and I made Valentines by hand- serious stuff) a movie or two (yesterday's was The Invention of Lying- cute, and a good choice for multiple pauses due to laundry, diaper-fails, etc.,) and meals that are chosen under the guidelines of I Don't Wish To Cook. Yesterday was Chinese food!

Last night's plans included the Super Bowl- not usually a big night on my calendar, but I do love a good party and new commercials are always pretty fun. We headed out to Niles to see some TUTA company members at the Artistic Director's house (side note- their current show, Bertolt Brecht's The Wedding, is getting ridiculously good reviews. You probably couldn't even get in to see it if you tried. But you SHOULD try.) Nora was a little on the exhausted side (we all went to a glorious dinner party the night before- Nora wore tights and held court) and decided to show her displeasure by yelling at us. Apologies to Jackie, Helen and Alice who held a crying baby and said she was cute anyhow. We didn't stay long, sadly. We DID, however, get to see some Super Bowl highlights. Namely, the commercials.

And I'll be among the first to say it. WHY, in the new Alice in Wonderland movie, does Johnny Depp look like Madonna? I've never cast her as the Mad Hatter in my mind before, but there she is! Wide, eye-shadowed lids and gap-toothed smile! I'm gonna put money on the idea that this was done purposefully.

Also- the Halftime extravaganza. What a light show! And that hot new group...The Who.

Our third quarter consisted of bundling an angry little cub into her car seat, then into a sleepsack (with cap and mittens), then singing her to sleep in our room with the cats helpfully laying on our feet, then half an hour of Mario Kart.

But for now, it's somehow Monday again. Nora and I must zip up our hoodies, grab our safari blankies and about thirty diapers...and head to work. Kids ain't gonna nanny themselves.

Even if I AM having a case of The Sundays.

And The Springtimes.

And The Wealthys. (Hey, it's MY fantasy.)

And The Leggy, Lithe, Size 2s.

Happy Chicago Winter Monday Sweatpants, everyone!

I suppose putting something like "Lost" spoilers...

...in the title would drive up page views as well. But that would be unethical.

I also draw the line at "Jersey Shore." Everyone should.

So, apparently there's a plethora of incredible shows currently on the air. Despite all of that, I have my own line-up. (Or 'My Programmes,' as they are referred to in our house.)

I don't know how this happened. I've always loved TV, sure, but I've never had a weekly schedule. Other than TV Guide. But I'm assuming everyone has access to that.

When we were little, we had shows we'd watch here and there (Sesame Street, random stuff on Nickelodeon- WELL before the days of "Nick Jr." Even before 'SNICK.' Tell me you remember 'SNICK.') Later on we had Kids Incorporated (you know, at the 'Place?' 'Cause the 'a' had burned out of 'Palace?' Clever) and The New Mickey Mouse Club a.k.a. MMC (I had my letter read on the air, no big deal, just kinda made me a minor local celebrity. The letter was about liverwurst. I won a tee shirt) and anything, anything that's a Disney Sunday movie. But I'm fairly certain that, had I told my mother I had a show for every night of week, this would not have flown. (Does that phrase still hold power when used in the past tense? 'This will not fly.' 'Will not have flown.' No, I guess not. Sorry.)

And I don't even know how this happened. Apart from certain obvious television series that will alwaysalwaysalways be allowed to play on my screen (Quantum Leap, Law & Order- any of them- I know some of you have a problem with Vincent D'Onofrio's rather autistic Detective Goren, but I find him simply brilliant) I've never really had weekly "shows" that "aired." I have the misfortune of being the kiss of death for any series I truly love. The latest casualty is Pushing Daisies. No. I cannot discuss it. It is too soon.

SO.

Here is my line-up.

Monday- Men Of a Certain Age. Sure, I'm not their "target demographic." I'm neither male nor of a specific age range. No matter. Scott Bakula plays a studmuffin in this one, and as we all know, I'd tune in to watch him file his taxes.

Tuesday- Lost. Okay, technically, I don't watch this one. In fact, I kinda hate it. HOWEVER. P.J. is obsessed with it, which cuts into my after-work Ghost Whisperer reruns. It deserves a mention. (And before everyone starts harping about the brilliance, the Others, the disappearing island, the morphing character faces and panicked females gasping "Jack!"- I've seen enough promos- I'm just going to go ahead and say there was never any chance of me liking this one. I have a Lord of the Flies phobia. A big one. And sure, it's not the same thing AT ALL, but it's an island after a plane crash. Close. Enough.)

Wednesday- Psych. I may be the only person watching this one! Doesn't matter in the least! A psychic detective agency with exceptional banter and incredibly witty references? This show is my reward for Wednesdays being Wednesdays.

Thursday- The Office. AND- Important Things with Demetri Martin. That's right, a full hour of TV on Thursdays. Or, rather, a half hour followed by a snack followed by a half hour. As most of you know, I became a wee bit too obsessed with Jim & Pam and Dwight& the beet farm while Nora was brand new and eating every 12 minutes. I'm pretty sure she still has a Pavlovian response whenever she hears the opening theme. She may be sick of The Office by now. ("False.") And Demetri Martin? Waaay back in February, about a month before Nora was even a glimmer on the horizon, I watched this show. And one sickly afternoon, fevered outta my gourd and praying for the plague to end, I fell asleep while viewing this show On Demand. The wacky dream and hallucinations that ensued not only starred Demetri Martin, but guaranteed that I would develop a near-psychotic loyalty to his show. (And I'm pretty sure we're dating in a dream universe somewhere.)

Friday- Ghost Whisperer and The Soup. Fear not, there's an hour in between in which to care for the baby. I found the first on accident one Friday night (you mean they make new ones, too?) and the second has been a long-standing Date Night show for Peej and I. We do not WATCH any of the reality TV skewered by The Soup. This does not affect our viewing in the least. If nothing else, it's given us inside jokes about a show that makes fun of actual shows. Post-post-modernity? We giggle.

Saturday...is movie night. Sorry. (We used to go out, really we did. But these days, having to justify a sitter, the transit, the meal, the drinks- God, were drinks always eighty bucks at "nice" places?- and the utter, bone-crushing exhaustion the next morning...well, 'Nick & Nora' is always free. And P.J. makes the best popcorn in town.)

And Sunday? Well, everything we do on Sunday is merely a placeholder for the return of True Blood. June? Seriously?

But by then it'll be nice outside and perhaps we'll have finished the backyard and the patio area. I can just see it now: the flowering pear tree in bloom, the strawberries popping up along the faded brick, Nora and I playing on a blanket and P.J. flipping burgers on the grill...

...Our laptops logged into Netflix's Watch Instantly queue...

***

Confidential to CSG: Happy 2nd birthday to my favorite blond nephew! You can watch any show you want today- tell your Mom I said so.