The wheels on the bus go 'round and 'round...

Ah, transit. How we hate ye. But since we all have places to go and since cars are bad for the environment and our wallets, AND since they haven't yet invented those pods to zip you around places individually, (An actual conversation- "How would they know where to go?" "Oh, they'd have certain paths." "What if you ran into someone else in your individual vehicle?" "You could link up and follow other pods." "...Like a train?"), we must take public transit. 

Some gems this week: how about the guy who got on the train and searched for his seat about a second and a half too long for the guy behind him? When the first guy sat down the other guy sat directly across from him, huffing and sighing loudly at the nerve of the former. When his ire didn't appropriately register he proceeded to lean forward and glare at the man. Blocking the aisle. Huffing and sighing. Making people huff and sigh in his direction. (It's a vicious cycle, folks. Do the words 'let it begin with me' mean anything?) I had to exit at Sedgewick- they may still be there, blocking the aisle.

Also worthy of a flick in the head; the guy wearing the messenger bag that (presumably) had his CTA touch pass in a side pocket. Instead of turning the bag to hit the sensor (or even removing it from the bag!) he attempted to back into the turnstile and wiggle his butt in the general area of the sensor. When nothing happened (except for a bit of a line that had formed) he went on to rub his back and bottom on the sensor, much like a bear scratching himself on a tree. When you've reached the point where your Easy Pass is not easy and is, in fact, making you into a reviled human being, maybe it's time to take the pass from your bag, from your wallet, and from that plastic case you keep it in. At least during rush hour. Or, if you must persevere in the name of ease, please inform us of your poorly magnetized pass so we don't wonder about the skin rash you must be fighting.

And to the man who was tailgating my bike yesterday morning- if you find that you're driving down public alleys for longer than five blocks at a time, perhaps you'd care to try the convenience of the 35mph Addison Street? Clearly you are not taking a shortcut to the Brown Line. For you are in a car. 

I'm sure I'm no transit prize either ("Why is this girl staring at me while I'm giving this man the evil eye?" "Why won't this girl on the old green bike go faster in this ridiculously wide alley?") but at least I try. I bring some much needed levity to the situation. Not at the time, of course, but later- when all the involved parties have forgotten the incident and I wrack my brain for funny things that have happened in my day.

You are welcome.

I have enough people telling me what to do, Bob.

I'd like to proclaim a moratorium on all songs about how to enjoy music, if that's okay. To me, listening to a song is kinda personal and I'd like to keep implicit directions out of my experience. For example- The Lovin' Spoonful's 'Do You Believe in Magic.' The line "...don't bother to choose/ if it's jug band music or rhythm and blues/ just go and listen..." You mean, I can just select ANYTHING? And listen to it? Nice. (On a side note, I think that the Lovin' Spoonful's best work EVER was scoring Woody Allen's 'What's Up, Tiger Lily." It was so random and wonderful. Every time the camera would cut to them even THEY would look around like, "Why are we in this film?")

Also, Bob Seger's 'Rock and Roll Never Forgets;' "Go down to the concert or the local bar/ check the local newspapers, chances are you won't have to go too far." Do I really need to be reminded of how to go about finding a show? Really now, local listings? Get off my bum, Seger.

Thirdly, (and also firmly ensconced in the 'classic rock' genre- sorry, it's just what's on my mind and consistently on my radio) 'The Doctor' by the Doobie Brothers. (And for the record, the Doobie Brothers can be added to the short list of bands I truly thought were brothers, a la the Righteouses and the Everlys. Oh, those last ones really were? Okay.) So, 'The Doctor.' "Music is the doctor/makes you feel like you want to." How gloriously vague! How basic! That's like me writing a short story called Don't You Just Love the Written Word? (It really engages the eyes!)

Don't even get me started on songwriters singing about writing and singing songs. 'Turn the Page?' Please. (Sorry Seger- I love 'Hollywood Nights'.)

And now an apology. SiteMeter lets me check the intro and exiting page that people use for my page- also search queries, if any. To all of the people who Google "Patrick Swayze" with the hopes of finding info on one of my favorite actors, I am so sorry. I wrote one post. I love him, yes, but I do not know him personally, nor do I have anything else to add on his condition or new show (it'll be awesome). Oh man, does this mean I now have TWO posts about Patrick Swayze?

This is either a heartfelt apology gone awry or a clever marketing scheme to drive up blog hits. Okay, fine, it can be both.

(Starbucks, McDonalds, how to lose weight, puppies & kittens.)

Finishing this one up in time for Law & Order...(that should have been my major.)

Yesterday P.J. and I celebrated the all-too-important and far-too-uncelebrated three month anniversary. They always say the first three months of marriage are the hardest. (Okay, no one has ever said that. It's more along the lines of "If you don't adore the bejeebers out of each other now, you're toast in fifteen years.") So, to celebrate we saw that famed love story The Mummy 3. And it was exactly what it purported to be, so we liked it. A few things in particular that I dug:

-Yetis. I would LOVE a Yeti. They are so helpful and cute!

-That move where two people join hands and simultaneously leap and kick. It seems like you'd need to talk that one through but no one in the movie ever does. I'll let you know in personal trials.

-The fact that you can say "Well, it's a long, hard trip to Shangrila" and in the next breath (and frame) say, "Well, we made it!"

To follow up the movie we went to Kaze, my super favorite restaurant (I realize I say that a lot but I mean it this time. Truly.) We had a gift certificate. It's easier to have tons of favorites that way. I'm not going into crazy detail because I do not wish for everyone to go there. Can one be possessive of a sushi joint? Yes. I WILL tell you about the dessert, though, which was a sweetened asparagus pudding with strawberry, chocolate and vanilla swirled dipping sauces- I'm pretty sure we made fools of ourselves licking the plate.

I'll end on a completely superficial note, if that's cool. (Like the rest of this post has been a dissertation on something biochemical. I can't give an example...that's how bad things are.) I was pushing the double stroller (the double-wide) down Grace at Damen when I saw one of the female bartenders from Xippo come outside. She was superbly tall and leggy with perfectly long hair. You know what I mean. The kind of gal you glance at and think "No matter what on Earth I do, I will never even look like her cousin." As we passed, however, she stopped me. She looked down at the two year-olds and then back up at me.

"I'm so sorry, I have to ask...are they yours?"

I assured her that I was the nanny and she laughed.

"Oh my God, I was gonna say...I mean, look at you! You look incredible!"

Awesome. I don't care if she thinks I look good for having recently had twins or otherwise, I look INCREDIBLE. Which just proves that no woman is happy with how she looks and is always glancing at other females in envy.

And also...God bless Core Rhythms.

Aw, don't be such a wet blanket.

Yesterday P.J. and I went to the Cubs game. Always a good time. We were able to exchange the hat he had bought me a long time ago- really cool hat, however, the one he chose was for a child's noggin. I now am in possession of a blue cap with the vintage bear face on the front. In an actual adult size. The game was quite good, especially since I had never actually seen them win. It's true. I've been to a dozen games (especially since I used to live half a block from Wrigley) and I consistently witnessed them get crushed. Lots of my friends have seen sweeping games and victorious, um, victories, but not me. I once left early when it was clear the Cubs were losing (and I had a low grade fever)- I got a call not five minutes later telling me of the INCREDIBLE play I just missed. And the subsequent win.

But not yesterday! They beat Cincinnati (P.J. was prepared to high-five me either way) and it was fun to watch. It was also fun to eat a crazy big hot dog with twelve toppings and watch a middle aged woman try to nap on her husband's shoulder. I also liked seeing him obliviously wiggle about and bounce her head with his flailing arms. And then it was fun to poke P.J. each and every time he did that, leading to P.J. to point out key facts on the game in a subtle way.

But ooh, on the way there? Yup, bike accident. Involving the one-way (western) action of Cornelia Avenue, the wrong way (eastern) direction of the Schoenys and a car who decided to hook a left and immediately park. Keely veered left, P.J. veered right (and had to stop, obviously. There was a non-moving car.) P.J.'s tire backhanded Keely's tire and she fell to the right. Her ankle stayed firmly between the bikes. Oh, the blood. And the stoic holding back of tears.

The guy in the SUV got out to see if we were okay, spurred on (I'm sure) by the fact that when I was falling P.J. turned and glared at him. P.J. felt bad about this later on, as the whole thing was clearly our fault. He said it was a knee-jerk reaction, to turn and give a "see what you've done to my wife" look.

But it all worked out. At least until after the game and we headed home. Once there, I began to get ready to meet Kat (who was AMAZING enough to drive me to Elmhurst for my orthodontics. Really, this is getting out of hand.) This included finding my Invisalign braces container, check, getting my wallet, yup, little purse for later on, okay, keys, phone...where's my phone? DID I DROP MY PHONE AT WRIGLEY? P.J., rockstar that he is, took off on his bike to retrace our route. I tore the place apart, already in a cold sweat over the fact that I'd be unable to idly check my email, Facebook and blog with one thumb. Kat showed up and helped me look but eventually we had to take off. I felt like I was abandoning a child. (Truly, it's a sickness.) Called my Mom and sisters to inform them that if someone called from my phone they should tell the caller to return it. My Mom brought up the good question about whether or not people could get into my bank accounts and credit cards from my phone. And here I was worried about my Facebook status being changed to something unsavory.

HOWEVER. I called P.J. from Kat's phone (and also sent an "I love you" text, leading into a convo between Kat and I about how funny it would be if P.J. thought the text was from Kat, like now that I've lost all forms of communication she's safe to make her move. Oh, the laughter!) And guess what? He found the phone. Wrapped in a quilt at the bottom of the bed, presumably from when I was tossing things about like a madwoman. He sounded tense. I was pretty sure he'd be gone by the time I returned from Elmhurst. I sent one more "I love you" text from Kat's phone just be safe. I either fortified our relationship or added fodder to the budding one between he and Kat.

The ortho was fine (and Kat is a rockstar driver) and we decided to grab dinner at Volo, an unbelievable wine bar in Roscoe. Why haven't we all gone there multiple times? Exceptional. We got a sparkling wine flight (fancy) and split a few small plates; a spicy steak tartare, a crab and avocado and lemon salad so intensely flavorful I need to shut my eyes for a moment, and a bacon, mushroom and goat cheese pizza on crisped something or other. And then a sour cherry turnover and a cinnamon coffee float. I might tear up. I love you, Volo.

Met up with P.J. later on, who had been at a work party. The hullabaloo over the phone was a thing of the past! Hung out with a few (twenty) of his coworkers at Boss Bar, a place that I truly can say I don't need to visit again. It was fine, but kinda overpriced. And frankly, I'm not nuts about River North. Everything in that part of downtown closes up so early except for the corporate-hangout bars. Am I gonna get in trouble for saying this? I imagine it's like saying "Eh, SoHo? Eh." Without the arts scene, of course.

And there you have it. Thursday. So now it's Friday and I'm "worked from home," which means I cleaned, organized, wrote (a little) and watched one of the best movies from my youth- The Brave Little Toaster. This is epic. Early Disney at its finest. The animation actually wiggles on the screen, like some guy is holding a camcorder to each frame. I have no idea how animation works. And Jon Lovitz as the voice of the old timey radio? That would have meant nothing to me as a seven year old, but now I'm thoroughly entertained by the idea. My favorite is still the electric blankie who sounds like a sleepy toddler. I love when they clean the house to "Tutti Frutti" by Little Richard. Whom I used to think was Lionel Richard. (Maybe a cross between Lionel Richie and the animated lion King Richard in Robin Hood. That reminds me, do you know what the best name for a stuffed lion is? Lionel Roarchie. Kate and I have a whole master list if you ever want to hear the runners up, i.e. Pandy Gibb.)

Do you wonder why I never get any work done?

P.J. came home and we had a nice dinner in our superbly clean apartment, went for a walk to get gelato at Mario & Gino's (key lime pie and apple cinnamon somethingorother) and watched- wait for it- YouTube clips of the Chipmunk Adventure, also from 1987. This cannot be a coincidence. Somehow P.J. fell asleep on the couch so I spent the rest of the night skyping with Rachel, who had recently gotten back to Harvard.

And I have the whole weekend in front of me! (I realize it's a super late post, but I really wanted to have one for every day of this work week...proving, I don't know. I have a knack for documentation? Unchecked obsessive compulsiveness? A panache for procrastination?)

Yes. Happy Saturday!

And do you have any bendy straws?

I need answers. P.J. told me that there's a lake under the Great Pyramid that's being explored. Why is this the first I'm hearing of it? This is exactly the kind of thing that I can get behind. I mean, I knew that the Great Pyramid was built on the exact spot that's considered the center of all land masses on Earth. Who didn't? But a lake? What's down there? 

I think I know. It's Nessie. And I believe that Nessie, as most of my friends can attest, is a Brontosaurus. Or an Apatosaurus. (Name changes bother me. Don't even get me started on Pluto.) I won't bore you with all the technical and scientific details of my theory, but rest assured that there is a Loch Ness Monster, she is a dinosaur and now I know where she lives. Go on, prove me wrong.

Also, there's a tortoise who now has wheels. In Israel. Yup. This gives me great amounts of hope. I'm not sure why or how, but it's heartening to think that there are still people in the world who will see a lame tortoise and instead of giving up on her will say "Hey! If we strap on some wheels, she can lead a fairly normal life!" For a tortoise. With wheels.

News that does NOT make me happy: the commentary during the Olympics last night (which generally leaves me in a state of "Oh, hush up") explained that 16 year old Chinese high diver Wang Xin doesn't like to eat.  Oh, okay. An Olympic athlete weighing in at 65lbs doesn't need fuel to springboard herself into a three story fall? Meanwhile, most Americans are eating more protein and "supplements" than could ever be burned off in a year of running for the train and playing company softball. You don't enjoy taking in food? Yeah, well, I don't like peeing, but I hate jaundice even more. It's one of those annoying tradeoffs. 

I'm weary from all of the news. Quick, someone make me a peanut butter and honey sandwich. With bananas. Cut into four triangles. I'm in training, you see. 

Now I'm peckish.

I am concerned. There's this new(ish) sunscreen spray, it's by Neutrogena and it's a completely great product. It's also decidedly in an aerosol can. When did this become okay again? Regardless of how cooling a mist, is it not the same type of awful that brought about holes in the ozone layer and the demise of hair metal upon its departure? (Just a speculation. But really, the end of teased hair and the beginning of grungy, greasy tresses? It cannot be a coincidence.) And before you tell me that the US has stopped using ozone-depleting substances for aerosol products in the late 70s, rest assured that I know this. But I do not believe it. How else could you explain the mass swap to Suave pump hairspray in the Flynn household, circa 1993? Something bad must have been circulating in the media, perhaps something of which only the citizens of Pittsfield, Massachusetts must have been aware. Maybe it was like Beaver Fever. That was when all the beavers got sick in the county and peed in our city water. Then people got super sick. That's how it happened, right Mom? I have no idea what I'm talking about anymore.

Last night on the train I had the joy of standing next to three truly awful people. (I should start a blog about terrible people on the eL. I would have to post thrice daily.) Anyhow, these gals were drunk and loud and ornery; the trifecta of transit (which would be a good name for a band.) One of them managed to say the phrase "I made SO much pasta salad" no less than eight times. She repeated the same story and the words "pasta salad" so often that I feared she either had Turrets or was indeed Rain Man. The best part was when her friend (who had been leaning bodily on the plexiglass divider- ew ew EW) remembered that her pal was intolerant to gluten and asked, "So what did you do with all of the EXTRA PASTA IN YOUR HOUSE?" 'Oh," her friend nonchalantly replied. "I made a ton of pasta salad." And the third clued us in (by shouting into her cell) about the dude and his girlfriend that she "...almost slapped 'cause they were all like 'what." What? What were they like? Did they bring a side dish of their own? And they were all rather large members of society. Which is completely fine. Unless you also believe you're ridiculously hot and that somehow allows for your inability to speak in hushed tones. (And if you think about it, even the gals on The Hills- of which I can only distinguish from seeing magazine covers, truly, I may be thinking of the wrong show- aren't allowed that sort of activity without scathing repercussions. And they are tiny humans.) Even worse, they shoved and elbowed an elderly man and his wife! (The large trio, not the girls on The Hills. I don't keep tabs on them.) Sit your big pasta salad bum down, I felt like saying! But instead I wrote a post, which I really think is better for everyone in the long run. They were spared the public shame and I was able to keep my fear of confrontation under wraps.

And hi to Olivia! The way to a girl's heart is to post on her Facebook wall extolling the virtues of her blog. You already know that, of course, being so smart and all. (But we are totally evenly matched in Scramble, so don't get too comfy.)

Time to go rock the Spidey Slip n' Slide! Answering, of course, the age old question: What do you DO all day at work? (Probably the same as you, only damper.)

Why do I have grilled cheese in my hair?

An update: I've been persevering with the slightly irritating Core Rhythms program. I truly find it grating on the level of nails on a chalkboard or Rod Stewart songs, however, I've found a way to stomach the encouragement of the Spandex Twins (remember that episode of Saved By the Bell? I know you do.) I mute the media player and blast Girl Talk's new album. Not entirely kid-friendly...but since the majority of my "working out" gets done while the kiddos nap, no harm no foul. And it seems to be working. I will not (sorry Emma) show pictures of my midsection, but suffice to say I feel rather awesome. Even if I only do it once or twice a week. Maybe. I mean, I don't think anyone would ever mistake me for an abdominal model, but OH MY GOD, THE ORANGE CRAYON SEGMENT IS PLAYING ON SESAME STREET!

Sorry. That one is just so, so good.

I've just enrolled in a fall class at Chicago Dramatists for playwrights developing new works! Which is terrific, excepting the fact that I need to actually write more stuff to, you know, develop. I have a month. Any plot ideas? And yes, Kate, I already wrote that one down.

Started with a new gal today at work! She joined my dude Jack for a nanny share of sorts, which is both really fun and really exhausting. Two year old times two? Whee! Turns out, even the most mellow toddler will want something intensely once she sees her peer have it. That includes cheddar bunnies, blue cups, a green Croc and a diaper change. I was surprised at that last one, too. I called my Mom to thank her (for she had two year old twins at one point as well as a nine and ten year old), even though Emily insists she was a joy and so easy to take care of. Rachel makes no such claims, and Kate is probably rolling her eyes at this very moment. And me? I know I was a handful.

Just got my Hampshire College hoodie in the mail! It's been six years since I graduated, why not start having some alumnae pride? (45 bucks worth.) It's a very cool blueish gray color with straight up writing on the front. (No matter how much I understand that the Hampshire tree is a very intricate design with tons of meaning, it still looks like a pot leaf on the hoodie.) It's quite nice. It is also quite huge. I got the smallest adult size, what was I thinking? Should've gone with the largest kid size, even though it's a zipped hoodie with a hand-drawn flower and the phrase "It's okay to think outside the box." P.J. told me the hoodie looks cute anyhow, which was NOT what I was going for in college and is CERTAINLY not what I'm going for now. I've always tried for "devastating," although I'd settle for "fly."

Maybe I should show him some of my Core Rhythms moves.

You paid how much for a trash can? (or, Happy Monday, Ajay!)

The show opened! And closed! I love week-long shows. Opening night was incredible, especially since it was a Thursday and completely sold out. (And Kat was there, who has the best laugh ever. When she laughs I feel like I've reinvented comedy.) People seemed to dig the idea of P.J. and I as a married couple, which can only prove to be fortuitous. At least we're believable. I've just managed to get the last of the corn syrup blood out of my hair, which is how I like to close any show.

A bit of a recap. Friday, I was lucky enough to take as a personal day, as my Wednesday and Friday gals were taking a personal two weeks in Maine. I decided to spend the day writing since I have a ton of deadlines and potential projects for the fall. That, of course, means I woke up at 9am, cleaned the house for two and a half hours, celebrated my clean house by taking myself out to Victory's Banner for lunch (they're closing for their two week sabbatical- long story), convinced myself I was "working" because Kate and I exchanged witty story-idea emails, and then actually sat at my desk around 2pm. I worked on two projects for a solid hour and a half of writing...at which point I was so thoroughly alarmed by how much I COULD write when I chose to...that I fell asleep on the couch for an hour. Woke up at 5pm, made dinner for Peej and then got ready to leave for the theater. We rode our bikes over to Strawdog (2ish miles each way) and had a great Friday night show. My friend Alex had come to see it, so we hung out with him afterwards and rode our bikes home at midnight. Best. Day off. Ever.

Saturday was lovely because it felt like a Sunday with a whole 'nother day after it. After P.J. made breakfast (he seriously cooks the best bacon in the universe) he went off to do some projects and run some errands...while I showed him how well I could handle our joint accounts and personal expenses by checking in with my favorite thrift store. If you're curious about how much damage I can do during a 75 cent sale of name-brand clothing, the answer is 16.81. I don't understand the math, either.

Much later on we reconvened to watch a pivotal film- "Definitely, Maybe." We had it on as we got ready for the show, made and ate dinner, and hand-washed the blood out of our costumes. We were precisely 7 minutes late for our call time. (The ending was worth it, though.) And the crowd was super good. And the blood was extra sticky. A Hampshire pal had shown up and it was fun to hang out after the show. Rode our bikes home (and I felt bad about not working out so far this weekend!) and capped off a pretty wonderful Saturday.

Sunday we rode our bikes (!) down to Wicker Park to have brunch at the Bongo Room, best desserty breakfast in the city. We were meeting up with P.J.'s high school pal, her mom and her two sisters. At the time it seemed like a good idea to ride there, until I took into account the fact that it was a three mile ride there, three miles back and the four and a half round trip for the theater that night. I began to protest half a block from our house. That said, the pineapple-rhubarb French toast with the candied ginger gelato and P.J.'s chocolate tower marscapone banana French toast made me happy to be alive. And glad I was getting some exercise.

Since we were already on North Avenue, we rode over to the Crate and Barrel store we had registered at for the wedding. For, you see, we had a gift card! And an item to return! And a 10% off coupon! (And we wanted a stainless steel trash can.)

Simple, no? No. For the "Simple Human" (hah) trashcan we registered for had been discontinued. In fact, since there was no record of it anywhere, it was like it had never even been. There was a number to call on our registry for how to order this vanished item; the gal at the shop called and was informed that you couldn't order those trashcans anymore. (Was that call necessary?) There was a new one, however, for forty bucks more. I'm not gonna tell you how much it was even originally, because my sister Em will read this and get an aneurysm. Long yuppie story short, we paid for the newer, bigger, more 'spensive one (after we had to add it to the registry to get the 10% off coupon for "finishing off the registry." Whatever.) And we made our trade in and decided we didn't get hosed too badly. And then they gave us a plastic bag which came up to the lid of the can, which we decided was not helpful. And then they asked us if we needed help to our car...which we still don't have. In fact, since we rode our bikes, and since P.J. had stated that he could carry it, no problem, I silently turned and raised a questioning eyebrow at him.

"I can carry it," he restated.

We walked outside and the combo of the plastic and the stainless steel (and the fact that it was a very large, very trashcan-like object) made it slip out of his arm mere feet from the store.

"We're taking the eL."

SO. We hopped on the red line at North and Clybourn and rode up to Belmont, hopped on a #77 bus and walked up Oakley to our home. (We stopped at an overpriced condo open house on the way, with the trash can, 'cause that's just fun.) Dropped off the trash can, walked back out the door, caught the #152 to the brown line, transferred back to the red line and walked back to get our bikes which were parked outside of the Container Store. I decided to look for some storage options while we were there, since this seemed to be the neighborhood in which I was destined to spend Sunday. (I realize it sounds like we have tons of money to burn. We do. And it's great.)

Twenty minutes later, laden with belt hangers and shoe boxes, we rode up Clybourn to our home. P.J. had to carry the large items, of course, as he has a much better sense of gravity and balance than I do (even without items in the arms.) Seriously, I think he's part superhero on a bike. Maybe it's a boy thing. I sometimes wonder if I should be wearing elbow pads.

Home again home again, jiggety jig for about 45 minutes before the show. P.J. decided to mow the lawn and take care of stuff around the house while I face-planted on the couch. (I am useless this weekend! I am barely functioning beyond eating and sleeping! And, you know, riding 30,000 miles on my bike. I don't think I've been on a bike this much since 1988 and my Huffy's name was Sweet Thunder.)

We barely made it to the theater at all. But of course, the show was terrific and had a great closing night energy (and someone told us that he loved seeing how comfy and believable P.J. and I were on stage. We explained that we had recently gotten married and I think it ruined a bit of the magic for him.) And Annie and Jared surprised us by attending! They also possess excellent theater laughs- there's something about friends in the audience that makes me want to direct every one-liner and slapstick moment right in their face and tailor it for their sense of humor. Which is bad for a show in general but excellent for stories.

We rode our bikes home again and I stayed up too late watching- get this- the Bob Saget roast. Not only that, but when it ended...I watched the first ten minutes again. I think my brain just gave up and my feet believed they were still pedaling. So somehow it's Monday and I only have to ride my bike a combined 12 blocks today. Totally doable.

And welcome to the world, Miss Mary Claire Schoeny! P.J.'s oldest bro and his wife have welcomed their second baby, joining big brother Nathan. Yay Schoeny babies! And yay impending trip to Raleigh!

(And yay naptime.)

1000 views!

Wow, this is so special. My li'l blog (read= writing exercise that's supposed to inspire the rest of my writing but instead has become an actual measure of my productivity) has 1000 hits on the counter! Well, let's just go to the SiteMeter website and see who the lucky reader was! Okay...Aug. 14th...that's today! 7:46:55am...ooh, early this morning...provider was RoadRunner...um, I think I know where this is going.

Pittsfield, Massachusetts. Hi Mom.

(Your grand prize is getting to clear the attic of all my dolls, trolls, ponies and journals! Which you were doing anyhow!)

On a completely unrelated note (that should be the new title- forget lollygag blog) I have a new ad on my Facebook page. I've enjoyed seeing the random ads matched up with random photos- for example, "Wanna be a model?" with a photograph of Natalie Portman. Um, okay. "Hot new diet- I lost 30 pounds!" with a picture of Paris Hilton. No she didn't. But my favorite is today's ad- the caption reads "Host a foreign student in your home!" The picture? Nick Jonas. (I think it was Nick Jonas. Whichever Jonas brother has the broody look and the curly hair. You know the one.) And what land is he representing?

I'm totally gonna call. I could give him a good home...and I'll write about it on this very blog! I'll show him a thing or two about the American Dream. (Oh, that sounds threatening.) I didn't mean that, Nick Jonas, I just meant that I'd take you to DQ or something. Please be our foreign baby!

More on this as it develops.

Keely's third cup of coffee, and I don't care.

Last night we had our first tech rehearsal for Rules of Infection, a delightfully dark comedy in which my honest-to-gosh husband and I play less than divinely happy married people. Turns out, when we ran the show in the upstairs theatre at Strawdog (and not in the front window of a vintage 2-flat on a neighborhoody street) we were able to, you know, ACT, and not live in fear of the cops being called. And since we've recently added in huge amounts of stage blood this is a very real threat. It opens Thursday and runs through the weekend, in case anyone wants to come. It should be quite fun.

On our way home (on bikes, naturally, for this is our summer of being eight year olds) we stopped at Dairy Queen. We never go there. However, P.J. had a coupon- that is mighty strong enticement, as anyone who has seen P.J. "Super Saver" Schoeny in action well knows. He got a turtle blizzard and I chose a chocolate strawberry waffle bowl sundae. We at them at the outside tables and listened to various dog owners chide their dogs for not being more like others' dogs. Truly. It was a sea of small dogs on long leashes being dragged around by hyperactive owners forcing relations with other canines.

THEN- we rode all the way home and parked our bikes in the backyard, for the meteor shower was just beginning! (Well, I think it had been going on for some time. It just happened to be getting really dark in the Midwest.) We brought sleeping bags outside and parked ourselves facing north/northeast (we read up on this kind of thing) to enjoy the show. It took our eyes a little bit to adjust as our next door neighbors had their porch lights on and the upstairs neighbor was actually using the back of the apartment. SO. After a few of the clouds drifted away and it became sufficiently dark...I saw a gorgeous shooting star across the ladle of the big dipper! I turned in excitement to P.J.- who had fallen asleep.

"Dude, wake up."
"I am up."
"Your eyes are closed."
"I'm enjoying the meteor shower."
"You're on your side."
"I'm seeing the ones over here."

And so forth. I watched the sky intently for the next hour while P.J. napped "until the clouds fully went away." Around 12:30 I unzipped my sleeping bag and prepared to trek inside only to be asked by P.J., "Are we going in? You're having such a good time!"

Maybe people further from city lights and cloudy clouds had better viewing...but it was still lovely to see.

And I will leave you with this point to ponder- why do small children sing "Jimmy Crack Corn?" Jack and I are listening to a Wee Sing something or other CD and at least ten high-pitched children are singing about Jimmy Crack Corn and Not Caring. This is most certainly a slave song (I'm sure the lyrics have been modified over the years, but let's call a spade a spade) no matter how benign it may sound. Did you know that a Cingular ad had to be pulled because of the song's usage? (It's the one where the guy is asking a girl's father's blessing and the call gets dropped in the middle of his awkward monologue- "...okay there JIM...Jimbo...Jimmy Crack Corn," etc.) This proves two things; one, that people get upset about the darndest things and two, maybe we shouldn't be including this song on a CD between songs about sharing and a teddy bear's picnic. Thoughts? Feelings? Mp3s to email in order to get this song out of my head?

Nothin' but the issues, folks.

Does Humana cover that?

Wow, it's Friday. When did I become Sally NeverPost? And what brought on this inability to differentiate days? It's concerning. A few posts ago I was worried about scurvy, now I'm downright determined to stave off dementia. I hear word games help.

The She & Him concert the other night was great, as we knew it would be. What a mixed bag the crowd was, though. The guy sitting next to us was lounging with his [shabby-khaki-shorts-covered] legs stretched out on the bench and kept ordering miniature shots of bourbon. Actually, maybe he was just ordering bourbon- perhaps they only came in children's Tylenol-sized shot glasses. (And is today Hyphen Day around here? Just wondering.) And his date kept maneuvering away from his death grip around her waist. He was, after all, stretching out his legs, making it really awkward to snuggle on a bench if your date is perpendicularly placed. And truly, the only reason I REALLY noticed them (aside from the copious bourbon cups) was that the gal was wearing a floral scrunchie in her hair. Remember the episode of Sex & the City where Carrie is telling Berger how his novel lacks truth because his heroine wears a scrunchie, and no self-respecting woman wears a scrunchie except for washing her face at night? Well, this woman had a long black dress and decent heels but also sported a white and blueish floral scrunchie that tied her hair into a messy bun. I didn't get it, but perhaps not everything has to make crystal clear sense to me personally.

ANYWAY, other highlights included the frat boy who kept punching his fist in the air and raising his bottle of Bud Light at guitar solos, especially juxtaposed with the be-tatted girl standing next to him and ducking out of the way of his wayward high fives. And the opening gal, Becky Stark, was adorable and funny. (She's the backup singer for Zooey and M. Ward!) Her set included bringing members of the band out for certain songs, with one number even being backed by Miss Deschanel herself and punctuated with riffs from M. Ward! (How did that conversation go? "Yeah, I'm opening for you, but seriously....can you play an A chord?") And it goes with saying that She & Him were fantastic and had us dancing. Even the bourbon dude. And all the girls with tattoos! P.J. tried to get Zooey's attention between songs, so much so that it led me to inquire about his apparent crush. Turns out, there's no attraction, just a deep need to let her know how cool he thinks she is. And that's totally fine and within the parameters of our vows.

Last night I trekked out to Villa Park again to go to my dentist. Originally, it started out with my being dragged to Nat's dentist as my fear was too all-consuming. Almost six years later it's just a simple case of loyalty. I left work at 4pm to take the Milwaukee bus down to Ogilvie Center to buy a round trip ticket (and some Taco Bell!) Got on the wrong [express] train, but as it was remedied before anyone actually left the station it doesn't warrant too much discussion. My awesome pal Eddie shuttled me from the Metra station to the dentist and back (he lives in Oakhurst- woo!) in time to make the 8:08pm back to the city. Caught the Milwaukee bus back up to Western, took the Western bus to Cornelia and then did some walkin', bringing me back to the homestead at 9:45pm. Yup, round trip was almost six hours.

What was truly interesting, however, was the convo that my dentist and I had while I was prone in the chair. I have a couple of cavities that need "further discussion and inspection." He assured me that while I take stellar care of my teeth I'm not as young as I once was. Huh? Isn't that kinda the point? Of life? But he said it in this slightly sheepish manner, as if he was afraid to bring up the fact that I'm no longer 22. (Only slightly.)

I find it so funny that people mention aging (and specifically the nearing of 3-0) in the same hushed tones as a conversation about incontinence. Like I shouldn't be proud to have survived this long! What, with learning to look the other way when crossing the street in London, finding out about certain pivotal allergies early on (latex, chili powder, etc.), and being sidelined from various sporting events along the way I am DARN PROUD to not be dead yet. I think the scariest thing for some people is not the aging itself, but the defining of a new era (of which the number 30 is definitely a cut off point.) It's the age of the ingenue, the waif, the wunderkind, in short- the little girl. I'm finding I'm more and more okay with this; I've so rarely been the ingenue (I'm more of a quirky best friend type, frankly) and even on my best days I could never be called waifish. I've embraced the Little Girl thing long enough as many, many people around me could attest. But you know what? Big Girls can do some pretty neat things too; throw a mean dinner party while saying things like, "Nothing beats a good Chilean red," for example. Or get renter's insurance for some awfully sweet registry gifts. Or my personal favorite- telling people that I'm a playwright and having them agree. (So much so that they workshop and produce my shows. That's really fun.) And frankly, even though (it's lookin' like) I'll never be a child prodigy, I'll settle for plain ol' success. I read something way back about how the ubiquitous Barbie needed to grow up and become a Barbara. I'm ready to become a Barbara of the world.

Even if it means I have to pay for three new fillings.

There's no place like home.

How on earth is it Tuesday? I know for a fact that just a moment ago it was Saturday morning and I was getting ready for rehearsal. Then it was absolutely Saturday around noonish and a very humid rehearsal definitely took place in my apartment. (Side note- waving a fake gun at a very real husband during a first floor rehearsal on a street fest day holds me back as an actress. That's just a personal hangup. "Should we call the cops?" "No, I'm sure it's just a run-through of a very dark comedy.")

Then it was the afternoon in the backyard, trying to fit three months of failed weeding and gardening into two hours. We rescued an errant watermelon vine from the neighbor's yard where it had actually sprouted fruit through the fence. (We were told that it spreads like crazy and that's why people don't plant them in backyards. I DIDN'T KNOW THAT.) I pulled out actual plants and kept weeds because I thought they were pretty. I was reminded that this was not helpful. I made a nice path around the rosebush (formerly covered in hosta leaves- I think hosta is short for hostile. It's an unforgiving plant in the summer, especially if you'd like to have other plants in your garden as well.) During this time I pricked my fingers something fierce and took a thirty minute break in the grass to recover. Somehow at the end of my time "gardening," all seven of the tomato plants were weeded and upright, the lilies were free to be themselves and the herbs lost their afros. Plus, the pretty weeds were no more and the ugly "useful" plants were still mostly in attendance. I think P.J. helped.

Then, I met Kat and Bethany for some Que Rico awesomeness. Actually, it's Que Rico!, but that looks awkward in print. We couldn't decide which type of margarita to get (Mango? Strawberry? Raspberry? Original?) so we got a pitcher of each. We got food, too. And turns out, the outdoor patio was right there at the back of the stage for the Retro on Roscoe. We were in prime position for when HAIRBANGER'S BALL started their set. Oh my God. So, after dinner (and after P.J. joined us for one final pitcher) we walked behind the fence to see the [free for us] concert. We danced to Pat Benatar, GnR, Poison and Ratt. Heck, after that much tequila we would have rocked out to Barry Manilow. (I'm a fanilow, after all.) We finished up the night in the (newly weeded) backyard to enjoy the gorgeous weather on blankets...and, you guessed it, another drink. The night ended wonderfully.

The next morning, not so much. However, I rallied and made it back over (a block away) to the Roscoe fest again. Met P.J. (who had already been at a two-hour theater meeting, God bless him) and Annie and Jared for some street fest food (Turquoise! Possibly the best restaurant in Roscoe Village!) and pining over jewelery and sundresses. Okay, that last part was just Annie and me.

After that came quite possibly the lowest-energy rehearsal ever. Our extraordinarily tolerant director Lucinda patted us on the head and told us to have a nice evening. So we did! I made pesto from the non-flowery basil in the garden and it was really quite good. Despite the [GROSS ALERT] mealworms we found in some of the pasta boxes- I'm told this is normal and nothing that I'm failing to do as a housewife, but I don't know if I truly believe it- we still went on to have a great dinner. I only ate half of my normal portion. Coincidence? I may have hit on a weight-loss aid greater than even Core Rhythms. Disgust! We watched "Primal Fear" and the ending made me a little miffed. So miffed, in fact, that I face-planted on the bed and slept for almost seven and a half hours.

SO. Then it was somehow Monday and I felt like a pioneer getting to work, what with the completely black skies and the sideways wind and rain. It was a bit of an indoor day with Jack, but we didn't let that slow us down. We did Core Rhythms together. We watched a good episode of Sesame street (okay, it was the one with the dancing flowers again.) We ate part of a Fruit Flowers gift basket. We napped with wild abandon and when we woke up, drew train tracks for Thomas and Percy to travel upon.

And THEN P.J. and I went to see some homes with a realtor! Turns out, when a home's listing says "gorgeous Victorian on a highly desirable street," it means that the rugs are covered in 50+ years of cat pee and cigarette smoke and the back staircase slopes at an acute angle. Move right in! And there's nothing quite like hearing about how a homeowner's husband passed away three months earlier while she's showing you the powder room. It rather quashes the dual goal of a low ball offer and self-respect. And having the listing agent corner you in the attic to inform you that the sellers are extremely motivated and will take into account the extreme renovations that will have to be done (all you need to do it tear down the interior walls, rip the carpets and fortify the floorboards in the kitchen, bathroom and sun porch!) is sometimes the only impetus one needs to plop down 20%.

Maybe we'll rent for a little while longer, we decided as we made our way home to the lovely three bedroom Roscoe Village apartment. But that was before the crazy thunderstorms started...with TWO tornados touching down in the city proper! And it was around this time that we realized that renter's insurance doesn't cover acts of God. And the winds and rain battering our windows were absolutely acts of some angry being. The tornado sirens went off and that always makes me feel like a lost three-year old. The thunder was truly the room-shaking kind and also the kind that lasted until 4am.

Oh...so that's how it got to be Tuesday. That makes more sense now.

We're seeing "She & Him" tonight at the Park West! I do love me some Zooey Deschanel. The last time I went to the Park West I was recovering from ovarian surgery (four days previously, in fact) and the bass felt a little brutal. Due to the fact that this has not happened recently it should prove to be loads better!

Okay, it's nap time now. Phew.

Who couldn't use some hot club moves?

It struck me this morning that I owe it to my friends and family to review "Core Rhythms," the aforementioned "borrowed" workout files. It promises to help you lose four inches in SIX DAYS. Impressive, but is it fun? (Trying to lift a cast iron stove for six days will burn pounds too, but it's a one-way ticket to a herniated disc. I don't even know what that means, I just heard Kat say it once. The disc part, I mean. I know what a cast iron stove means. Or does.)

Jaana and Julia, Latin and ballroom dance champs with a gazillion titles between them, have created these DVDs to help people "get a dancer's body." Inspiring, though less than realistic. I'm 5'4 and will never carry the mantle of "legginess." Why am putting everything in quotes today? I've already done it four times and am showing no signs of slowing.

I think these ladies look like Sims. The technicolor outfits with grommeted belts aren't helping. (Also- why grommets? That seems unsafe to me in a workout setting.)

Let's begin. I'll try to jot down things as they occur, giving me a nice break from actually "working out."

Okay, I realize that Jaana is supposed to look kinda "street" with her b-ball bouncing hands...but truly, it's coming off a bit Henson. As in Grover and Bert. (Remember when Bert danced to "Doin' the Pigeon?" Like that.)

I've just now realized that the huge torso on the screen behind them is, in fact, not in real time. But not only is it prerecorded, it's also a half second off. I am trying to follow an inaccurate torso! And wait...that's Julia's sports bra on the screen. But...but...the belly button has a ring! Julia doesn't have a belly ring...but JAANA DOES. Oh my God, are you guys sharing workout clothes?

Oh, now we're drumming in the air. To the side! To the other side! Oh no, we're drumming low and around. This feels like a drum circle. I hate drum circles. I am reminded strongly of hall parties at Hampshire College and I am not enjoying this at all.

Julia just let out the highest-pitched squeal I've ever heard, due to, you know, the intensity of the hip flicks. It unnerved me a little (I don't like yelling in public places- I have a fear of confrontation) but not as much as the LOOK that just passed between Jaana and Julia. Jaana just sent the most indulgent smile Julia's way and they totally just had a look of...something. (Are you guys lovers? You can totally tell me.) It's like when you find out that two teachers at your high school are dating. It's not outside the realm of your comprehension that they CAN date, it's just not something you'd ever think about.

Now we're doing Julia's favorite move- I'm gonna go ahead and call it the Electrocuted Starfish. "Do you see why it's my favorite move?" Not really. I think I just snapped my shoulder blade. Am I toned yet?

Now's a good time for a break.

No way...I just measured my waist and hips (weird to do at the workplace, but the bitsy baby is sleeping so it's not AS weird as it could be.) I started the DVDs on Monday, did the full workout that day and Tuesday, did a 15-minute whatever bloggy workout just now...and I've lost an inch on both waist AND hips. Uh, is this witchcraft? I've literally exuded no effort greater than running to the train. I'm so sorry, Jaana! Forgive me, Julia! You are truly great!

I'm sold. (On my free software.) I'm gonna do this AT LEAST once a week. Maybe. Who's with me? Now, if we can only get a better soundtrack. I can't jive to canned mambo/techno-lite muzak. Maybe some Boston? That'd get me up to a solid twice a week. Maybe.