Can I turn in this blog for class?

I've said it before but it apparently bears repeating- I apologize for the once-a-week bloggin'. I have no idea what's going on in my mind; the part that takes care of good ideas and sentence phrasing is drooling in the corner of my right brain. And lest you think it's just the fanciful and fun writing that's suffering- OH NO. The course at Chicago Dramatists that's costing roughly half a month's rent is being exposed to my lazybonesness as well. It's an advanced playwriting class geared towards, you know, finishing a play. And when they asked for my scene last night? I nervously shrugged and tried to change the subject, reminding me harshly of my third year in a row taking pre-Algebra. 

So there you go. And now, random bits of everything that have caught my eye:

I'm hardly an outspoken political activist by any means, but I couldn't resist repeating some of these gems from 'Parenting Magazine' (which I am currently reading from underneath a dining room table, having just swaddled every Sesame Street character in towels as patients in a baby hospital.) Now 'Parenting', not to be confused with some of the better child-rearing rags- such as 'Parents'- makes up for their lack of content by polling their readers on every other page. This month's Mom Debate- "Which candidate would you trust to watch your kids, Barack Obama or John McCain?" (When would this situation possibly arise? Way to ask the nation's vital questions, 'Parenting'.) Anyway. Two of my favorite McCain responses are as follows:

"He has the family values I look for in a caregiver."  (As in, he's white? I know you don't mean his rockstar marriages.)

"My kids love spending time with grandparents and grandparentlike people, probably because they let them do whatever they want." (Oh my. That's an uplifting thought for the country!)

And the best tip from this issue's section on easy fixes: too busy to treat yourself right during your (actual phrasing-->) "monthly misery?" A no hassle cure- acupuncture!

Thanks, "Parenting!" I'm too busy to pop an ibuprofen and heat an herbal neck wrap, but I can totally hop on the eL and find someone to pincushion me. (I believe we have different ideas on what "no hassle" means.)

And Kate gave me this amazing bit of actual news from a small paper in Boston: next to stories about muggings, car accidents and that ilk was a story about a forensic team that had to be brought into an office building. Apparently a bizarre white powder was found sprinkled on the desks and people, naturally, panicked. Upon further examination the powder was found to be a combination of ground pumpkin seeds and tree bark. Why? A co-worker wished to bring love, protection and good health to the office. Of course! (I'm kinda wondering why it was white. Maybe it was birch bark. Hey, have you ever had birch beer? Yums.) So, thanks Kate! The hard news can literally be found anywhere these days.

And happy birthday this past Monday to my favorite husband. We had an awesome time with his folks, a few friends, copious amounts of Turkish food and more than one man singing along with the stereo. At 3am. We are still awaiting the arrival of his birthday present in the mail- Rock Band for Wii with the guitar, the mic, and yes, the drum kit. (So the next 3am party will be even louder!) And happy birthday TODAY to Ajay! (Unless he's given up reading this blog in favor of ones that actually post items.) But on the assumption that he's still a loyal reader- HAPPY BIRTHDAY! 

All these October birthdays...lotsa people's folks must've been feeling snuggly in February. It is mighty cold.

And not to jinx it or anything, but we MAY have found a condo. That's all I'm saying. (Except for the fact that it's 2200 square feet of vintage detail, there's a maid's quarters which will be someone's office if she ever has anything to write, four bedrooms, three baths and a living room big enough in which to play tennis- Wii or otherwise.)

AND, if I were the 'saying too much' type, I'd mention that the address is 1227 (27 is P.J.'s lucky number) and he just turned 27. Plus, the storage unit locker number is 42. I won't insult you by explaining that one. 

Remember when I asked who'd come up to Jefferson Park? Well, uh...how do you all feel about Rogers Park? 

I've said too much.

And I haven't gotten a pumpkin yet, either.

Yes, it's true. I haven't posted in a long time. I hate that I've been blogging once a week- people hate once a week. Once a week makes people super unhappy. Thusly I'm sorry.

So here's a blog, even though I do not have much to report. (To put it at the basest and most extraordinarily trite level; I haven't even been able to update my Facebook statuses lately.) 

I did just get to [accidentally] throw a container of blueberries in the air and watch them scatter and smush themselves on the kitchen floor. Baby Lil tried to help me (read: she raced over when the sound of chaos reached her small but extremely alert ears) And if any of you have ever tried to play Are You Faster Than An 18 Month Old, you'll know that it's a game no one wins. At best, you have a fistful of oozy blueberries covered in cat hair.

In other news, children of all ages continue to Not Nap, Annie's in a hilariously awesome show called "Carpenter's Halloween" (as in Richard and Karen) at Mary's Attic and I'm eating a Greek salad that is predominantly feta. 

I had a lovely visit with New England and 3/4 of my family, saw my Dad rock one of his many guitars in a super cool benefit show and drank hot cider too quickly (and thus burned the roof of my mouth.) I am just reporting the facts, people.

Houses continue to be Horrific Places That Smell Like Old Food, homes we want to buy get taken OFF THE MARKET (yes, divorce is terrible, but deal with issues on your own time!) and I have yet to write two short stories and a scene about Tom's brush with animal husbandry. Actually, there's probably many short stories and scenes about brushes with animal husbandry that I have yet to write, but these three instances have specifically been put on a deadline. Also, the short stories are about something else entirely. Double also, wouldn't Tom's Brush With Animal Husbandry be a great band name or pop-up book?

Someone put me to bed. And send a muse. And could you play some Enya? The Celtic album. I love that one.

Thank you.

Jefferson Park. That sounds far.

On the way to work this morning (on Tealie Elizabasket, might I add) I passed a lot of construction sites, workers lounging and porta-potties. The best part? The "company name," as it were...is The Drop Zone. Okay. I can think of three really inappropriate things about naming your portolet company The Drop Zone. Anyone else? Go.

And speaking of poop (I really hope this doesn't turn into a post about poop, I honestly don't know how this happens) on our way along the Chicago Marathon race site we passed signs that read- Poop If Ya Gotta!

Okay!

And on the topic of the marathon and no more poop...we got to see a bit of the marathon (and a teense of Greektown) when we went to cheer on the marvelous Annie Gloyn in her second marathon! 26.2 miles is impressive anyhow, but Annie one-upped the challenge by racing during an 83 degree day! She is so hardcore. (As are Tom and Emma, who, from what I'm told, won the Boston half marathon. Together. Awesome.)

On our way back home on the blue line (a.k.a the Pee Pee Line- see, folks? Excrement is everywhere) we decided to ride to the Jefferon Park stop to check out (stalk) the home we're jonesing for and the surrounding 'hood. We hopped off and saw pretty much what you'd expect; a dingy, busy Chicago terminal with tons of productive people chilling on benches. We passed a McDonalds and a few rib joints (one of which is actually supposed to be really good.) We crossed under the Metra track (throw in a helicopter and a cab and you've got every way of actually getting to this neighborhood) and...we rubbed our eyes. Suddenly we were in Mayberry. Tree-lined streets, folks waving hello and sitting on porch swings. I'm sure the colorful leaves and the sunny day helped but we were blissing out on the 'burbiest part of the city. We walked past the house we're eyeing (twice) and marvelled at it's hugeness. It must be floorless, we told ourselves. That's just how our house luck runs these days.

So the next night we had an appointment to see the home at 6:15. Well, 6:15 came and went, as did 6:30, 6:45 and so on. The house was dark and no one was answering their phones. P.J. and I took advantage of this time to run around the backyard, jump on the porch and troll the gardens. The longer we were there without the owners the bolder we became in how we'd fix it up.

"This porch needs to be shored up. Maybe we should redo it in stone?"

"This side yard needs to be dug up and re-sod. Is that a word?"

"That carport? Tear it up!"

Regardless, we were still eager to see what the owners HAD done inside the house. We finally got a series of calls in which "the owner" told us that he was "on his way." While we waited we saw a black cat who happened to cross our paths. Three times. In fact, it was more of a circling motion. P.J. reminded me later that the cat also lunged at me and rubbed himself against my boot. Somehow I blocked this out. I think I was frantically trying to pray to the saint of undoing a black cat's bad luck. Am I mixing religions again?

Finally, at 7:15pm the front door opened and an eldery man stood silhouetted in the darkness. And he was shirtless. (Did I forget to mention this part, people I spoke to last night? He was totally shirtless. And old. But sans fried chicken so we were hopeful.)

Turns out, this guy had been asleep in the attic the whole time, as evidenced by a rumpled bed and a blaring television set. (Sing it with me, folks...foreCLOOOOOSUUUUUUUREEEE. It's a song sung predominantly by white middle class folks who later feel terrible about themselves.)

HOWEVER. The house was beautiful. Truly. And not just 'cause I'm feeling guilty about the foreclosure comment. The woodwork was kinda stunning, the floors were gleaming, there was a staircase in the front and back of the house (we could play Benny Hill!) and there was tons of room. The kitchen was CLEAN and the bathrooms new. Sure, there was a double sink on the first floor bathroom but it was a NEW double sink! Upstairs were four really big bedrooms, closets and another full clean bathroom! Crazy. A foyer opened off the hallway to the attic staircase. Upstairs, aside from hosting a tired elderly person, the attic also featured two really big unfinished rooms without the scariness we've been used to. There was also a wide staircase down into the basement- no matter, as I will never never go down there (I hate basements) but it's a decent thing for P.J. to know about. Add to that a large yard and some cool neighbors we met during our HOUR wait...it may just work. If we can get money off for that leany porch. And, you know, ripping up the carport. And if they removed EVERYTHING currently in the house. (Seriously, there were like three entertainment units and four couches in the living room alone. And lots of children's things. As P.J. ominously whispered in his best Lifetime/horror movie/after school special voice, "Where are the children?")

And now that I think about it, why did they leave Grandpa in charge of showing the house? Sans shirt and sans English? Imagine who they removed...

So now I suppose the question remains (who am I kidding...there's a trillion questions) who's feelin' Jefferson Park? (And who's gonna bring me takeout from all the Roscoe restaurants I crave?)

And I hope you're all cool with handmade Christmas presents this year.

You made your bed, pal, now lie in it.

A fourth installment in the series of amazing photo frames has materialized! (At the Jewel, of course!) This may be the darkest of them all, as it's a wedding frame (and as a gal who's been married since May '08, lemme tell ya, there is some untapped potential for horror surrounding weddings and all the trappings.) It's called "Our Wedding Day." And etched into the side? "Good luck, Honey." Whether it's a gift from a spouse or a disapproving in-law, the sentiment is equally dark and forboding. I love it!

Speaking of "good luck, honey," we've begun to narrow down our list of potential homes in which to deposit all of savings. What, you say? This is a terrible time to put all of your metaphorical eggs in one basket? (Or literal, I imagine. Have you seen the rising cost of food? We're one step away from government rationed powder packets and astronaut food. Yum.) Regardless of what's happening on "Wall Street" or in the "banks," we've decided to look at condos and small, delapidated homes for the fun of it. And oh, is it fun.

The other day we walked up to a home with our realtor and saw that the lights were out. "Hmm, someone should be here," she said warily. "No matter!" said eager buyers Mr. and Mrs. Schoeny. We searched for a key. No key. I looked on the porch and could have sworn I saw movement in the curtained window. Then I saw a face. When I turned back to show the others, it was gone. Was this a Scooby Doo episode? Then suddenly another face appeared in the window that the others did see. Moments later the door opened. A grungy-looking guy held the door open and stared silently at us. "Hi, we're supposed to see this home," our realtor informed him. "Is now a bad time? We were told no one was here..."

"Nah," he said, opening the door further. "Now's okay. Uh, hold on." As we walked into the "foyer," we peered around into the living room where, (I swear to God) there was a queen size bed with no sheets or anything on it. What the bed DID sport was a rather large, rather elderly woman with a plate of fried chicken next to her. When we approached, the various people in the room (again, no joke) THREW A BLANKET OVER HER HEAD.

"Uh, you wanna see the kitchen?" In that moment, our minds were wiped blank and we nodded mutely. Since this is a family blog I will not go into further detail on what was featured on the walls and floors. But it was nasty. We did not stay for the full tour, sadly, especially since P.J.'s foot went through a stairstep and we were followed by a few people making fun of us in Spanish. Now THAT is how you sell a home, folks.

We all decided never to speak of it again (but we didn't mention blogging!) and agreed that perhaps the asking price was a tad too high, especially since it would take twice that amount to raze and fumigate the property.

Happy Monday, Honey.

My wardrobe is 4/5ths hoodies.

It was 47 degrees today in Roscoe Village, that is, at 5:55am. (I need every spare moment in the morning, but love hitting snooze. Hence, a totally random time. If I set it for six and hit snooze for ten minutes I'll be half an hour late. I can't explain it either.) In fact, it was a double hoodie morning. You do that too, right? The hoodie for your outfit and then the hoodie for under your jacket? A commutie. Okie doke.

That said, it'll be 20 below in a matter of weeks and the number of hoodies will increase exponentially. You see if they don't.

And now, for your reading pleasure, A Slice of Life at the Schoeny Household On a Night Where Nothing Is Overdue. Keely comes home from work with groceries, excited that Nothing Is Overdue and she can cook an actual dinner. P.J. calls to say he's finishing up stuff at work and will be late, no biggie. Keely starts an alfredo sauce, pours a vodka and ginger beer and watches the last 20 minutes of a Law & Order episode from the early 90s. (Uncle Jerry!)

P.J. calls and says for real real he's leaving now, when he called before and said he was leaving he was just kidding. Keely could care less about dinner and quiet evenings, now that she's gotten an email about a play that she THOUGHT was due next Wednesday in rough form, and is in fact supposed to be a finished second draft. And emailed a.s.a.p. So she calls P.J. and panics, simultaneously sauteing chicken for the sauce, which is thickening nicely. P.J. talks her down, but is therefore delayed an extra half an hour as Keely had called him on his work phone.

Keely puts on a second hoodie (see? It's not just for traveling!) as it's freezing in the house and a new Law & Order has started that she'd like to see. P.J. gets home just as the pasta and peas are done (Keely has been cooking during the commercials, you see) and P.J. asks where they should eat dinner; dining room or couch?

Keely chooses the couch, for P.J. has a habit of falling asleep during movies and she KNOWS he wants to watch a movie. But since it's early enough (7:40pm) she thinks he'll pull through. They watch The Fall, a lovely though slightly disturbing fairytale starring Lee Pace. Keely joneses for Pushing Daisies the whole time. The dinner is fabulous. The movie is trotting along. Halfway through, P.J. looks sleepy. Keely offers to make tea or something slightly caffeinated. P.J. accepts and mentions a coffee drink he has in the fridge. Keely happens to let slip that the coffee grinder doesn't seem to be working. P.J. is ON IT.

The next thing Keely knows the movie is indefinitely paused, P.J. has dismembered the coffee grinder and he's asking her to look up the manual online. He calls out the product code from the other room. (Keely wonders where he's gettin' the product code from and hence doesn't pay attention to her typing. Her fingers are cold, too.) She gets it wrong. He repeats. The manual comes up and they discover that the grinder isn't intended for flavored coffee beans. (Attention KitchenAid: If you're telling me that I can't have freshly ground cinnamon hazelnut coffee each day then I don't wish to live in your America.)

P.J. informs Keely that the grinder is broken. Should they go finish the movie? But at this point Keely has let the guilt and fear of an unfinished (heck, let's be honest- UNSTARTED) new play get the best of her. What can P.J. do to make her feel better, he wonders? Keely suggests popcorn. P.J. drags out the ancient popcorn popper and Keely warms herself on the burning hot gusts of heat shooting out of the machine. Keely briefly wonders if this is a fire hazard but dismisses it. This is the first time she's been room temperature all evening.

The movie proceeds. Keely is cold again. She reaches for the blanket on the couch. P.J. points out that poor kitten Bean is sleeping on it. She moves him. P.J. consoles Bean. (He was sleeping ON it, not WRAPPED in it. I'm not a monster, people.) The popcorn is great, the movie finishes...and P.J. is beginning to doze off. Success!

As Keely falls asleep she tells P.J. something that she believes is the bastion of romance. It is her tiredness talking. (I can't recall what it is now, it was like 2am at that point.) P.J. responds with hysterical laughter, which is his tiredness talking. Keely huffily exclaims that when she was a little girl, this was JUST how she imagined she'd be told goodnight by her husband. "No one told me it was this wonderful to be married!" She inflammatorily informs him.

"No one told me it was this funny to be married!" P.J.'s exhausted laughter is contagious and Keely also laughs like a loon.

They drift off to sleep until Bean walks on P.J.'s radio, turning on NPR at volumes not usually heard at 3am. Keely puts on another hoodie, for now it's REALLY cold.

The End.